by Val McDermid
Liam’s eyes widened. He looked shocked. ‘You’d really let that happen?’
‘It would be a kindness. And watching you twist in the wind would be a bonus.’
There was a long silence. ‘Please,’ he said finally. ‘Please, don’t destroy my future. And Jason’s too.’ He turned his head and stared at the floor. ‘I’ve been a cunt.’
‘Don’t use that word as an insult. It offends me.’
He bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry.’
Karen decided she was enjoying this too much. Her righteous rage had subsided, leaving her in the bully’s chair. Time to recover her own sense of decency. ‘You’re going to write a letter to Jason detailing all the times you ratted him out to the media. A full list. You’re going to apologise for what you did. You’re going to enclose a receipt from a charity for the donation you’re going to make tonight equivalent to the cash you got for this latest Tina McDonald story. If Jason doesn’t get that letter delivered to the Gayfield Square police station by the day after tomorrow I’m coming back here to arrest you again. And this time, there’ll be no backing down.’
The wretched relief in his face was pathetic. ‘I didn’t mean to cause trouble.’
‘Save it for Jason, he might believe you.’ She gave him a final push in the chest then backed out of the flat and clattered down the stairs. It was still raining when she hit the street, but it was only a few minutes’ walk to the bus stop and she had a deep and abiding sense of satisfaction to keep her warm.
38
Dr River Wilde hated Mondays. Not for the usual reasons. She loved her chosen calling, so work was never a hardship. It was the choices she’d made in pursuit of work that chafed. Until recently, she’d plied her trade as an anatomist and forensic anthropologist at the University of the North of England in Carlisle. But the department was small and, apart from her, undistinguished, and populated by senior academics on the gentle downward slope towards retirement. Waiting for dead men’s shoes had little appeal for her and her appetite for change had been sharpened by the work she’d been doing for Police Scotland. Karen Pirie had been her initial contact north of the border, but increasingly she’d been approached by other SIOs who found themselves confronted with human remains that weren’t immediately identifiable.
It made things easier all round if River did the work in a Scottish facility. She’d found herself regularly begging a spare desk at the University of Dundee, where they had infinitely better facilities than she had in Carlisle. Eventually, the prof at Dundee had bitten the bullet and offered her a permanent job at the university. Professionally, it was a no-brainer.
But personally? That was a different story. River lived in Keswick in the heart of the Lake District with her partner, Detective Chief Inspector Ewan Rigston. Even if his job had been as portable as hers, he was a Cumbrian born and bred and seriously doubted whether the air outside the Lakes was actually breathable for more than a couple of days at a time. There was no question of Ewan relocating to Dundee. Even with a view of water.
So now on Monday evenings, River said goodbye to the Lakes and took the train to Dundee, where she remained until Thursday night. She worked three long days in the mortuary and the lab, then wrote up her research on Mondays and Fridays. She loved the leap forward she’d made in terms of her achievements at work, but she hated leaving Ewan behind.
Sometimes she stopped off in Edinburgh for a couple of hours. There was a Vietnamese restaurant near Haymarket station where she and Karen would meet for a meal. But this week, there had been no arrangement in place and Karen’s text suggesting a meeting had come out of the blue.
No can do, she’d texted back. Tickets already bought, specific trains. Next week?
But Karen had been insistent. And so they were meeting on Haymarket station in the brief gap between trains. River had no idea what was so urgent, but she knew Karen was no time-waster. Whatever it was she needed, there would be significance and weight to it. Together, they’d resolved cases that might have slipped through the cracks in the hands of a less determined operator. And along the way, they’d become friends.
Neither found closeness easy. Both of them had struggled to find common ground with professional colleagues. From choice, neither had kids. They both regarded shopping as a necessary evil rather than a leisure activity. They were smart enough to recognise fools at a hundred paces and neither was good at suffering their stupidity, although Karen had learned from working with Jason that other qualities were equally valuable. They had drifted into friendship warily at first, but now their bond was solid. When Phil had died, the only person Karen had shown the depth of her grief had been River. And River thought she’d never regretted it, which wasn’t always how those things worked.
The train slowed as it passed the Murrayfield stadium and approached her destination. The rain that had lashed the train all the way from Carlisle suddenly stopped as if a switch had been flicked somewhere above. River stepped from the train into air heavy with its moist aftermath and caught sight at once of Karen waving damply from further down the platform.
They hurried towards each other and hugged, exchanging the easy pleasantries that required no particular response. ‘So what’s the big deal that won’t wait till next week?’ River demanded as they commandeered a couple of seats on the open platform.
Karen pulled a face. ‘I’m in the bad books,’ she said.
‘So, nothing new there, then.’ River patted her arm. ‘Tell me.’
‘Ha. It’s kind of complicated. The five-second version is that there was a death last week that they were swithering over but it’s easier to go with suicide rather than a difficult murder. The complication is that the victim’s mother was murdered twenty-two years ago. Officially unsolved, but nobody looked too hard because they thought it was the IRA.’
‘So you decided that made it officially yours?’
Karen wrinkled her nose. ‘Kind of. Only, once I started digging, I managed to tread on a few toes and now the Macaroon is desperate to give me a good kicking.’
‘And of course, you thought, who can I share this monstrously good kicking with? I know, I’ll drag in my old friend River and spread the load.’
Karen grinned. ‘You know me so well.’
‘So what is it you need?’
Karen fished in her bag and took out a paper bag. It looked as if it contained something cylindrical, maybe ten centimetres long. ‘It’s a glass,’ she said. ‘I need DNA.’
River sighed. ‘And you need it yesterday?’
‘It’s not quite as urgent as that. I’ve still got to get my hands on the profiles I want it compared with.’
‘Profiles, plural?’
Karen sighed. ‘Just for the sake of dotting i’s and crossing t’s. I’ve got a funny feeling about this one. I keep running up against those wee moments that make me go, “eh?” The kind of things that, when you try to explain them, sound stupid and trivial. So I don’t even want to talk about them to myself, never mind to anyone else. Not till I’ve got some evidence.’
‘And if there is no evidence?’
Karen shrugged. ‘I’ll look like a numpty. And not for the first time.’
‘Fair enough. You know we don’t have a DNA facility? That this will have to go to Gartcosh? Which makes it official, which means you might as well put it through yourself?’
Karen looked shifty. ‘I was thinking, maybe the vet school?’
‘The vet school.’ River’s voice was flat, disbelieving.
‘They’ve got DNA analysis facilities. I remember from when there was that case in Perth about the fake pedigree dogs a couple of years back. It’s the same process, right?’
River was momentarily aghast, then reason kicked in. DNA was DNA and the analysis would be the same whether it was carried out in the veterinary department of the university or the Scottish Police Authority at Gartcosh. But that d
idn’t mean it wasn’t problematic. ‘You’ll struggle with that in court. I can already hear the incredulity from the defence: “You took this illicitly obtained sample to the vet school for analysis? Alongside the sheep and the goats?”’
Karen laughed in spite of herself. ‘That would be a problem if I was looking for evidentiary value. But right now, all I’m after is intel. If the horse whisperers come up with a match, I can use it investigatively. And off the back of that, valid opportunities will arise to take a formal DNA sample. Right now, all I want to know is whether I’m barking up the right tree.’
River couldn’t help admiring Karen’s ingenuity. She was no stranger herself to coming at things from an unorthodox direction. ‘Are we putting this through the books? Or am I going to be begging some postgrad to run it as an exercise?’
‘I haven’t got a budget as such because it’s not officially mine.’ She made a noncommittal noise. ‘On the other hand, it is technically not closed and it is definitely historic. And I have told the Macaroon I’m looking.’ She came to a decision. ‘Fuck it. Charge it to the HCU. I’ll give you a case number as soon as I get one.’
River opened her backpack and carefully stowed the paper bag. ‘Good luck with that. I’ll get it done in a quiet corner of somebody’s day. We’ll put it through as Joe the dog.’ She caught Karen’s momentary look of triumph. ‘But you knew that’s what would happen.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re a cheeky bastard, Pirie.’
‘Somebody’s got to be, in this wicked world. And make it Frank the dog, would you? For my own personal satisfaction.’
The cyclops light of a train appeared in the tunnel at the end of the platform. ‘You’ll have to explain Frank the dog to me another time. This is me,’ River said. ‘The light at the start of the tunnel.’ She stood up, pulling Karen into a hug then holding her at arm’s length. ‘Are you OK?’
Karen nodded. ‘I’m more OK than I was last week, and probably less OK than I’ll be next week. Let’s meet up next week, yeah? I’ll come up to Dundee if need be.’
‘Yeah.’ River headed for the train.
As she was boarding, Karen called after her: ‘And thank Sunny for her help the other day. If you need somebody to blame, lay it on her. She gave me enough straw to start making bricks.’
River turned and waved, grinning. Bloody vet school. Her world was full of bolshie women, and she loved it.
39
Getting out of bed on Tuesday morning stretched Karen’s resolve to the limit. Her trip to London had been exhausting enough to make sleep seem like a distinct possibility, but she knew guilt would niggle at her till she’d managed to get contact details for the Syrians so Craig Grassie could get to work on their problem.
And so, instead of going home, luxuriating in a fragrant bath then falling into bed, Karen had forced herself to keep going. She’d caught a train for the short hop back to Waverley then stopped for a curry at the top of Leith Walk. The restaurant had been crowded and noisy; ideal for people-watching to accompany the assortment of starters she’d settled on. By the time she’d eaten and caught a bus back to the flat, it was after eleven. She’d stripped off the suit she’d been wearing since Friday, wondering if she’d get another wear out of it before it went to the dry cleaner. Maybe if she hung it up in the bathroom the creases would drop out and it would stop smelling of London.
She slipped into the comfort of her night-walking clothes and watched the latest episode of a TV drama she’d been following over the past few weeks. And then it was time to go out into the night.
Karen found them under the bridge, exactly where she expected them to be. Miran and Tarek were both there, which she’d thought might make matters easier. Tonight, there were seven of them, huddled round the brazier, smoking sweet-smelling cigarettes that reminded her of her grandfather’s pipe.
As she approached, Miran stepped back to make room for her. He nodded courteously as she joined them. ‘Good evening,’ he said. There was a low murmur from the other men, even the two who normally glared at her.
‘Good evening to you too,’ Karen said. She slipped from her pocket a package of fresh dates she’d bought at the M&S food store at Haymarket earlier. ‘I brought you these.’ She handed the packet to Miran, who held it close to the flames to see it more clearly, then slit it open with his thumbnail and passed the dates around.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That is kind.’
She wasn’t quite sure how to bring up the subject of a putative café, so she settled for her usual approach of head-on. ‘I’ve been in London,’ she said. ‘I had work to do there. But while I was there, I went to see the Member of Parliament for this part of Edinburgh. I suppose he’s your MP now too. And I spoke to him about you.’
Tarek looked alarmed. ‘We are harming no one here,’ he said. ‘We find our own wood. We do not steal it.’
Miran put a hand on his arm. ‘She knows this, I think.’
‘I told him about your problem. That you don’t have anywhere proper to go. Any place where you can all meet, with your families or on your own. We talked about helping you to find an empty shop or café. Somewhere you can turn into a place for Syrians to go. A café. Somewhere you can serve coffee, maybe some food.’
‘But we are not permitted to work,’ Miran said.
Karen spread her hands. ‘There is a way around it. You would work with a charity. You wouldn’t be able to earn money. You’d be volunteers. But you’d be working for your own community. Your wives, your children, your parents. The MP, he thinks it would be possible. He’s willing to help you make it happen.’
One of the men who had never spoken before leaned forward. ‘Why do you do this?’ He sounded suspicious.
‘Because you’re here now. In our country. And you need help.’
Animated conversation in a language she didn’t understand. But she didn’t need the words to pick up the sense of what was being said. Most of the men were intrigued and positive. A couple glowered and shook their heads, frowning. It was always the way. You needed the dissenters to make sure everything was properly tested before you went ahead with things.
Eventually, Tarek spoke to her. ‘We think you mean to help us and we thank you. How do we make this thing happen that you say we can do?’
‘I don’t know the details. This is way outside what I know about. What I can do to help you is connect you with the MP. His name is Craig Grassie.’ She held up a finger. ‘I wrote down his details.’ She took a piece of paper from her pocket and gave it to Miran. ‘His mobile number and his email. Can you tell me how he can get in touch with you? You have a mobile number? Or an email?’
More lively exchanges of views. Whatever the issue, Miran was arguing one side against the majority. At last he threw his hands in the air and turned to her with a sharp sigh. ‘Some of us are not comfortable about giving you information because you are police.’ He waved the piece of paper. ‘Now we can go directly to this man ourselves and explain you have sent us. I am sorry, this sounds not polite. But we are grateful to you.’
Karen shook her head. ‘I want you to have a better life here. That’s all. I hope Craig Grassie can help you to get a café. Good luck with that.’ She held out a hand. Miran hesitated for a moment, then he shook it. Tarek followed suit and before she knew it, all the men were shaking her hand, even the ones who seemed to think they might catch something.
It was time to go. With luck, she’d set something running that would make life better for people who’d seen too many of the worst things humans can do to each other. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
And when she got home, she slept. Her sleep was full of rich and complicated dreams that disappeared from her memory within minutes of waking. They left her heavy-eyed and heavier-limbed, making the effort of getting up almost more than she could manage. But she couldn’t hang about today. She had things to do and she needed to get the Macaroon
off her back so she could get on with them.
Karen tried to cast off her feeling of dread with a hot shower, a black pudding sandwich and a double shot of caffeine. None of it did the trick, and even though her new favourite suit had been revivified by the bathroom steam, she still felt unimpressive and unprepared. She stood looking out over the sea, sparkling with blue brilliants in the morning light, finishing her coffee. In her head, she could hear Phil saying, ‘Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke, lassie.’
Even before eight there were plenty of cars parked outside Fettes. Everybody knew cuts were coming and there were plenty of officers who didn’t want to be culled. So they made themselves visible and apparently indispensable from early doors till closing time. Karen parked near the exit, ready for a quick getaway, and walked into the ugly box that was the former HQ of Lothian and Borders Police but was now nothing more than another element of the estate of Police Scotland. She wondered how long they’d hang on to it. It wasn’t a proper police station, more of an admin centre, so it lacked useful things like cells and interview rooms. It could as well have been a bank or an insurance company HQ.
Karen made it to the Macaroon’s office ahead of him. She parked herself in the alcove by his door on an uncomfortable wee sofa upholstered in knobbly tweed. When he appeared in the corridor, talking over his shoulder to a couple of uniforms behind him, she got to her feet, ready for the ambush. Lees literally jumped when he caught sight of her. ‘Good morning,’ she said brightly.
‘I wasn’t expecting you this early,’ he said, sidestepping her and unlocking his office door.
‘You said we needed to speak face-to-face.’ She was at his shoulder as he opened the door. The only way to shake her off would have been to make an issue of it, and since he had an audience in the form of two superintendents on their way to other offices, she reckoned he wouldn’t go for it. So she followed him in, practically treading on his heels.