The Skeleton Road

by Val McDermid

  Late morning and Macanespie was on his fourth cup of coffee. At times like this, he wished he still smoked. He’d quit when they’d banned it in the office, mostly because he couldn’t be arsed going all the way outside to stand in a huddle of sad fuckers a dozen times a day. But sometimes he yearned for a valid excuse to go and stand outside the office and look at the sky. Anything other than Proctor’s miserable gob.

  For the dozenth time that morning he checked his Twitter feed. Nothing new of any interest except a link to a voucher for a free cappuccino at his local coffee shop. What was the point of a plastic loyalty card that you had to swipe every time if it didn’t register the fact that you only ever drank Americano with milk? While he was busy doing nothing, he thought he might as well check his email. Again.

  But this time there was something new in his inbox. A message from an unfamiliar name but a domain name he recognised. He clicked it open and read, ‘Hi Alan. I’m the sucker who agreed to let my software take a look at your girl. Interesting job, thanks for putting it my way. First off, it’s definitely a woman. Secondly, it’s the same woman. And thirdly, the range of options the software came up with was surprisingly narrow, which suggests to me we might actually have a decent likeness. I’ve attached the range of five estimates. Let me know how it turns out. We’re always trying to justify increased funding for the work…’

  Macanespie swallowed hard. He almost didn’t want to open the attachment. It was a Schrödinger’s Cat moment; until he opened it, it could be a solution or it could be a fresh conundrum. Either result posed its own problems. But he couldn’t sit staring at it indefinitely. He had to go for it.

  And so he opened the file. At first glance, he thought there must be some mistake. That some real photographs had been mixed in with the e-fit somehow. Three of the five were similar to the person in the other two, but not so similar that you’d mistake them for each other.

  As far as the other two were concerned, there was no doubt in Alan Macanespie’s mind. He knew that face. He’d known that face for years. She hadn’t made the final cut for a possible mole for two reasons; firstly, she wasn’t staff, only working on an ad hoc basis; and secondly, she’d been working on other projects at least some of the time. He licked his suddenly dry lips and looked across at Theo Proctor. ‘It’s Tessa Minogue.’

  Proctor frowned. ‘What? Tessa’s sent you an email? Why? What’s she got to say for herself?’

  ‘No, you’re not getting it. I’ve not got an email from her. I’ve got the analysis of the CCTV stills back. Come and see for yourself. It’s Tessa Minogue. No mistaking her.’

  Proctor’s chair shot out behind him as he rushed round the desk to check it out. When he saw the screen, he gasped. ‘Oh. My. God.’ He clapped his hand to his mouth. ‘Tessa Minogue. Bang to rights.’ And then he turned to Macanespie and grinned. ‘Are we heroes, or what?’

  46

  Karen ran up the stairs to the entrance then had a moment of confusion, made worse by entering a dim interior from bright sunlight. She glanced around hastily, then spotted a curved staircase leading upwards. She hurried up the stairs, dodging past the occasional student. When she emerged in the spectacular space of the Upper Reading Room, she had no eyes for its splendour. All her senses were tuned towards spotting either Maggie Blake or Tessa Minogue trying to make a getaway.

  She ran along the gallery, checking every one of the rows of desks aligned like spokes on a wheel from the central hub where the library staff looked at her in appalled astonishment. Before anyone could accost her, Karen started on the next flight of steps. All at once, Maggie Blake practically ran into her arms. She jerked backwards at the sight of Karen, shock apparent on her face. ‘There’s been a terrible accident,’ she blurted out. ‘Tessa —’

  Karen put a hand out to steady her. ‘I know. We need to talk.’ She glanced down the stairs, where a librarian was making his determined way towards them. She flashed her ID at him, and said, ‘Police business, sir. If you could make sure nobody goes up on the roof?’ Then she took Maggie firmly by the arm and led her downstairs.

  ‘I don’t understand. What are you doing here? Why are you in Oxford at all, never mind here?’

  ‘All in good time.’ Karen kept up their brisk progress till they were back out in the sunshine of Radcliffe Square. Without letting go of Maggie’s arm, she walked round the side of the building opposite the crumpled body. A police car was already at the scene. It would soon be time to hand Maggie Blake over to the local officers investigating Tessa’s death. But Karen wanted her chance first.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Maggie kept saying. ‘One minute we were admiring the view, the next…’

  Karen could see some café tables and chairs outside the big church at the far end of the square and she steered Maggie towards them. She waited till Maggie was seated and sent Jason a quick text. Over by church w Prof Blake. Then she sat opposite her, placing her phone on the table between them. She was about to speak when she had a moment of panic. She knew exactly what to say when she was about to interview someone under caution back home, but what was the English caution? She’d have to rely on her memories of TV crime dramas, which was almost laughable. She cleared her throat and set her phone to record. ‘I’m going to record this conversation,’ she said. ‘It’s what’s called an interview under caution.’ She mentally crossed her fingers and went for it. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand that?’

  Maggie frowned. ‘I understand the words, obviously. But I don’t understand why you’re saying them. I’ve just seen my best friend have the most terrible accident and you’re talking to me as if I’m a criminal. I don’t even know how she is, for God’s sake.’

  ‘That is the first expression of concern I’ve heard from you, Professor Blake. We’ve come all the way from the upper floor of the library down here to the café terrace at the church and it’s taken you till now to ask after your friend.’ Karen’s tone was dry and crisp.

  ‘I’m in a state of shock, for crying out loud. Like I said, I’ve just witnessed the most horrible accident. And my best friend could be lying there dead and you won’t let me go to her.’ The catch in her voice sounded genuine. It would certainly play well in front of a jury, if this ever got that far.

  ‘What were you doing up there with Ms Minogue?’

  ‘How did you know where we were? Why are you here?’

  ‘I know it’s a terrible cliché, but right now, I’m asking the questions. Why were you and Ms Minogue on top of the building?’

  Maggie tutted and made an impatient gesture with one hand. ‘I have a DPhil student who wanted to see the skyline as part of her research. I managed to borrow a key and I thought I’d give Tess the chance to see one of the most spectacular and private views the city has to offer. We went to look at the view, Karen. Why the hell else would we be up there?’

  ‘Because it’s a high building with a relatively low parapet. The perfect place for a murder that looks like an accident. Especially when it’s payback for a murder that happened on top of a high building with a relatively low parapet.’

  Maggie gasped. Karen thought she was laying it on for effect. She considered that the professor’s first involuntary response to her words had been a quick flicker of wariness. ‘That’s a vile thing to say.’

  ‘It’s a pretty vile thing to do,’ Karen said coolly. She noticed over Maggie’s shoulder that an ambulance had arrived along with two more police vehicles. She hoped Jason was holding his own. ‘You asked how I knew you were here. I’ve just come from talking to Dr Simpson. She had some very interesting things to say.’

  ‘Dorothea? Why on earth have you been talking to Dorothea again? What has she got to do with this?’

  ‘Do you remember a few days ago in Croatia when I showed you a list of names? They were the people who were registere
d in the same wee hotel in Edinburgh as your late husband on the night we presume he was murdered. You remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’ Maggie’s face had assumed a guarded expression, as if she knew it was time to stop hiding behind the appearance of grief and shock. ‘And I told you then I didn’t recognise any of the names on it.’

  ‘And I didn’t believe you. I thought you reacted at one point. I just didn’t know whose name had provoked the reaction. So I thought I’d try the list on somebody who knew you and the general pretty well. Somebody whose house you were tenants in. Presumably Dr Simpson was well placed to know who your friends were, who came to the house. That sort of thing. So I ran through the list with her. Can you guess what she told me?’

  This time, the shock was real. ‘I have no idea,’ Maggie said, definitely wary now.

  ‘She told me that your husband’s nickname for Tessa Minogue was Ripley, after Ellen Ripley, the character Sigourney Weaver plays in the Alien movies. Apparently he called her Ripley because she was so implacable in her fight against war criminals. And the Ellen Ripley on our list gave a fake address. Nostromo Court. Nostromo’s the name of the ship in Alien, unless I’ve misremembered.’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘I never heard him call her that. Dorothea’s made a mistake. She’s old. She gets things confused. You can’t rely on anything she says.’

  ‘Really? I thought she was pretty sharp. And I liked it because it made sense of the bits and pieces of information I’ve been tripping over in the past few days. The strange woman who turned up in Podruvec because she’d been tipped off about a massacre. The fact that whoever killed those other war criminals – and so, probably the general – had access to information from the tribunal in The Hague. The climbing aspect – I’d already heard that the three of you went hillwalking together. And she kept you very close. So close you’d never have suspected her till I handed you Ellen Ripley. And you knew nobody would ever be able to prove what she’d done. So you became her. You took her to a high place and threw her off.’

  Maggie shook her head again. ‘You’re making it up as you go along. You haven’t a shred of evidence for anything you’ve said. And shall I tell you why you don’t have a shred of evidence? Because it didn’t happen. Because people like me don’t resolve our problems by throwing our friends off tall buildings.’

  ‘You’re nothing special, Maggie. You’re just like the rest of us when it comes down to basic human instinct. And you’d be amazed what turns up in the way of evidence once we start looking. Take a look around you, Maggie. This place is hoatching with tourists. Every one of them has a camera phone at the very least. What do you think are the chances of you not being caught on somebody’s camera?’

  Maggie gave her a scornful look. ‘I’m a smart woman, Karen. You think if I had done something as disgusting as you’re suggesting that I wouldn’t have made sure there were no cameras pointing at me? This is a fantasy. You’re stuck with a cold case you can’t solve and you’re making something up just so you can close the file. Well, that’s fine. Close your file. Blame my friend Tessa for killing my husband if that keeps your track record nice and neat. Do what you like. But don’t try taking me on. I won’t be your scapegoat.’

  ‘You did it, Maggie. It doesn’t end here.’

  Maggie sighed and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Even if any of it was true, in a moral universe, how could you possibly justify prosecuting me? There’s no moral equivalence in any of this sorry story, is there? It reads like a terrible chain letter written in blood and tears. I’m sorry if that sounds melodramatic, but that’s how it feels. The sort of cautionary myth we invent to try and persuade people to behave better. But we never do.’

  Karen looked past her to the crime scene. Except it wouldn’t be a crime scene, she suspected. Maggie would be convincing. There would be nothing to gainsay her account except possibly the curious insistence by an elderly woman on a dead lawyer’s nickname. It wasn’t the stuff of successful prosecutions. Maggie Blake was going to get away with it. And as she herself had indicated, who was to say that was a bad thing? Karen stood up, suddenly weary, and gestured with her head towards the bustle of emergency service personnel doing their jobs. ‘It’s not my call anyway. You need to come with me and give the locals your version of events.’ She picked up her phone and ostentatiously switched off recording mode.

  As she ushered Maggie ahead of her out of the café terrace, she leaned in close and said quietly, ‘You never get away with murder. Now you’ll find out what Mitja lived with every day of your life together. Welcome to hell, Professor.’

  Maggie gave her a startled look. ‘You say that like I had a choice,’ she said, her voice bitter and cold.

  They walked across the square in the incongruous sunshine, two clever women who might have been friends in a different set of circumstances. Karen saw Jason detach himself from the knot of figures inside the crime-scene tape, phone to his ear. He looked around frantically, clearly trying to spot her. She waved to catch his attention. He was hunched oddly over his phone. Then he staggered, as if he’d lost his footing on the cobbles. Easy done, she thought. She’d slipped herself earlier.

  Now they were closer and his eyes were fixed on her, pleading. His face was stretched in a grimace. And now he was crying, sobbing like a bereft child. With half her mind, Karen was processing what she was seeing. The other half already knew what it meant. She stopped a couple of feet away from him, oblivious to everything around her. ‘He’s dead,’ she said, knowing it with utter certainty.

  Jason gulped. ‘He took – he took a heart attack,’ he howled.

  His words came at her from a distance, a gulf she couldn’t cross. She turned away, the centre of a kaleidoscope of colour and a wash of noise. In that moment of catastrophic loss, she comprehended everything. Mitja, Tessa, Maggie. The things we do for love. The things we lose in the process. The foolishness of thinking we can keep the darkness at bay.

  With her eyes fixed on the blue sky and the golden stone, Karen Pirie turned her back on all of it and started walking.

  Acknowledgements

  This book has its roots in the achievements of two very different but equally remarkable and genuinely iconoclastic women – the late Dr Kathy Wilkes, Philosophy Fellow at St Hilda’s College, Oxford, and Professor Sue Black, head of the Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification at the University of Dundee.

  Kathy was a passionate exponent of the clandestine teaching of philosophy behind the Iron Curtain in the dying years of the Soviet regime. She was caught up in the siege of Dubrovnik and her tireless work on behalf of the city and its inhabitants was recognised with honours from the city and the state of Croatia. There is a square in Dubrovnik that now bears her name. What I have written about the siege and the city relies heavily on Kathy’s own writings and our late-night conversations in the aftermath of the 1991–92 Croatian War. She was an extraordinary woman – an inspirational teacher, a challenging intellect and a generous friend.

  Sue was the lead forensic anthropologist to the British Forensic Team in Kosovo, deployed by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office on behalf of the United Nations to shine a light on the atrocities committed during the conflict in the 1990s. The integrity and humanity of her leadership is remarkable, and I owe a great deal to the searing honesty of her accounts of her time in Kosovo. I also remain profoundly grateful for her friendship.

  Their stories were the starting point for mine – which is entirely fictitious – and I had more help from many other sources. I owe a huge debt to the generosity of Linda McDowell, Professor of Geography at Oxford University; Dr Janet Howarth, Dr Anita Avramides, Maria Croghan and Bronwyn Travers of St Hilda’s College, Oxford; Dr Olivia Stevenson of Glasgow University; Angus Marshall, Consultant in Digital Forensics; Mary Miller of Dundee Women’s Aid; and Jo Sharp, Professor of Geography at Glasgow, who told me interesting things, fed me delicious meals, continued the quest for the perfect cup of coffee, made me laugh and,
along with the indefatigable Leslie Hills, kept the renovation squad at bay. Thanks also to my backroom crew who provide endless support and never let me feel the fear – David Shelley and the Little, Brown team; Anne O’Brien, Jedi copy-editor; Jane Gregory and her girls (and Terry!); Liz Sich and Rachael Young, for making sure the train runs on time; and most of all, the Kid and the Bidie-in.