by Val McDermid
Karen couldn’t think of any twenty-first-century response to that. ‘Did you ever take the car down to Edinburgh?’
Louise’s eyes widened. If Karen had asked whether she’d participated in the Paris–Dakar rally, the woman couldn’t have looked more shocked. ‘Good heavens, no! I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s bad enough trying to navigate round Inverness without attempting Edinburgh. Not to mention the price of parking. If you can even find a parking space. Oh no. When I go to Edinburgh, which I don’t do very often, to be honest, especially now Inverness is so good for shopping, I take the train. Much less stressful. I don’t know how you can bear it, battling the city traffic day after day.’
Karen shrugged. ‘I walk whenever I can. Or take the bus. So in May 1986, there is no possibility that you drove your car to Edinburgh?’
‘None whatsoever, I can assure you.’ Louise sounded affronted at the very idea.
‘Did anybody else ever drive the car?’
‘Oh no. I’m very particular about that sort of thing. I don’t even like it when the garage mechanics drive it round to the service bay, even when they put those polythene covers on the seats.’ She shook her head in despair at the trials of her life.
‘Not even a colleague, perhaps? Maybe their car was in the garage and they needed to borrow yours?’
A firm shake of the head. ‘Oh no. If their own car was off the road, they’d have had to make their own arrangements. I never even let Fidelma borrow it, and if I trusted anybody to look after it, it would have been her.’
This was the deadest of dead ends, Karen thought. But at least her trip hadn’t been a waste of time. She could cross Louise Macfarlane’s name off her list, which was more than Gerry McCartney had been able to do in Portpatrick. He’d driven all the way down there only to discover that, according to a neighbour, his target was sunning himself by the pool of the apartment complex in Spain where he and his wife spent half of their time. McCartney had however discovered they were due back at the weekend for a family wedding.
‘You’ll be there to meet them when they get home, then,’ she’d said crisply. She was fairly sure she’d heard a muttered, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ but she didn’t care. When they were chasing a solid lead, weekends didn’t matter. There were plenty of slack weeks when they could catch up with time off in lieu. Some officers thought there was no rush about cold cases, that you could dawdle through the work at a leisurely pace. Karen thought differently. Every day that she could whittle off a family’s wait for answers about the fate of their loved one was worth saving. Jason shared that mindset these days. The only person who would suffer if McCartney couldn’t learn to like it would be the sergeant himself. Better to submit than to live in a state of constant chafing.
Karen put her notebook back in her shoulder bag and was about to thank Louise Macfarlane for her time when her mobile rang. A quick glance told her she couldn’t ignore this call. She held up a finger to signal she needed a moment, then answered. ‘Hi there. What’s up?’
From the other side of the Highlands, River’s voice was a clear as if she were standing in the room. ‘Are you still in Elgin?’
‘I am. Why?’
‘I need you over here. This body that’s supposed to have been in the ground for seventy-four years? He’s wearing a pair of Nikes. By my reckoning that makes him one of yours.’
14
2018 – Wester Ross
‘That’ll teach you to up your sartorial game,’ Karen muttered under her breath as she walked back to her car. Ann Markie’s accession to the boss’s chair had provoked Karen into hitting the sales at John Lewis and refreshing her wardrobe with three much-needed new suits. The weight that grief had stripped from her bones meant that most of her clothes hung where once they’d clung but it had taken the sting of the Dog Biscuit’s perfect grooming to push her into action. Anything to stop being put on the back foot before a word was uttered.
Which was all well and good if you weren’t planning on spending your day ploutering around in a peat bog.
At least these days, the advantage of vast out-of-town supermarkets meant she could fix the problem without too much of a detour. When she crossed the Kessock Bridge heading north from Inverness, Karen was dressed in jeans, T-shirt, fleece-lined hoodie and two pairs of thick socks, and all for less than twenty-five quid. Add the kagoule and the wellies that had already been in the boot and she almost looked like she’d been planning a field trip.
Once she’d turned off the A9 and the traffic became less fraught, she called River. ‘Sorry I couldn’t say much before,’ she said. ‘I was with a witness.’
‘No worries. Trust me, I’ve got plenty to be going on with here.’
‘So what can you tell me that makes sense of a supposed seventy-odd-year-old burial that turns out to be well within my frame of reference?’
‘Obviously you’ll be getting the full SP from the happy band who carried out the excavation. The one-minute version goes like this. Alice’s granddad was involved in stealing and caching two valuable motorbikes at the end of the war. He never went back to get them. When he died, Alice found the map among his things and decided to collect on her inheritance. She enlisted the crofter who owns the land. They dug up the first bike no trouble, but when they went for the second one, the crate had been disturbed and then they uncovered an arm. Sudden collapse of stout parties.’ River drew in breath theatrically after her gallop through the back story.
‘But it’s a whole body, yeah? Not just an arm and a Nike?’
‘A beautifully preserved bog body.’ River tutted. ‘Of course, the local tackety boot boys couldn’t wait for somebody who knew what they were doing and cleared all the peat away from the body so they could get a better look. God knows what we’ve lost as a result.’
Karen could picture her friend’s pugnacious expression. Redheads always looked fiercer than everybody else when they were riled. ‘But presumably what we’ve gained is the realisation that it’s not been in the ground for all those years?’
‘That’s the one positive I can find in what they did.’ Karen could tell it killed River to admit that much. ‘Our cadaver is wearing a pair of Nikes. So unless he’s a time traveller, he’s not been there since the end of the Second World War.’
‘What kind of Nikes?’
River snorted. ‘Cut to the chase, why don’t you? Some kind of Air Nikes. I’ve taken pics and sent them off to grumpy John Iverson. You remember him? The weirdo who catalogues trainers?’
Karen remembered him. A man who knew all there was to know about trainers and who pretty much despised anybody who didn’t. Rather than evangelise the ignorant, he preferred to castigate them for their failures. ‘Well, if anybody can ID the shoes, it’s probably him. I’ll let you handle that side of things. What else can you tell me?’
A pause. ‘I can tell you that this is definitely one for you. Our man has what looks like a small-calibre bullet wound in his neck. And maybe a second one in his chest. But that’s harder to be sure of while he’s still dressed. Either way, I’d say the chances are this was not a natural death.’
Karen let that sink in. ‘What’s he wearing?’
‘Denim jeans. A leather belt. The buckle has quite a distinctive Celtic knot design. Sports socks and the Nike trainers. He was bare-chested, so chances are he didn’t go in the ground in the dead of winter.’
‘Have you checked his pockets?’
‘There’s a key on a plastic fob but there’s no indication of what it might open. It doesn’t appear to have any markings on it. It’s probably a copy that’s been cut from the original. But that’s all. No ID, no wallet, no loose change. They also found a completely undistinguished clasp knife with a wooden riveted handle.’
‘And the bike’s still there?’
‘It is. He was partly trapped underneath it.’ She tutted again. ‘The tackety boot boys shifted it off him. At least they took pics before they fucked up the scene completely.’
‘So wha
tever was going on, it wasn’t about stealing the bikes.’ Karen spoke slowly, turning the thought over in her mind. It made no sense. Yet.
‘Apparently not.’
‘Anything else strike you?’
‘Hang on … ’ The sound altered, as if a hand was covering the phone. Karen heard an indistinguishable exchange, then River was back. ‘Sorry, need to get back to work. One other thing I should mention – he’s really huge, our boy. He’s well over six feet and thanks to the preservative qualities of the peat, I can tell you he’s very heavily muscled. Like a weight-lifter. Gotta go, see you later.’
The line died. Karen considered what River had told her and what she knew about those preservative powers of peat. Bodies survived for thousands of years in bogs if the conditions were right. On that scale, this body had barely taken up residence. There was every chance that most of the soft tissue would still be intact; they should be able to come up with a photoshopped pic that wouldn’t frighten the horses. It also sounded as if the dead man’s appearance was distinctive. That should make it easier to identify him. If he was as bulked up as River had suggested, he’d almost certainly have worked out in a gym and that meant there were probably still people out there who’d recognise him.
As soon as she’d explained to the local big cheese why they needed to let her run the case, she’d have to get those actions under way. In fairness, most officers were delighted to hand over cold cases without a protest. They understood how time-consuming they were and how seldom they produced the headline-grabbing results that the public now believed should be routine.
However it turned out, she couldn’t conduct a case on this scale single-handed. She didn’t want to abandon the red Rover inquiries, but equally she needed another pair of hands up here. She was pretty sure the Dog Biscuit would want her to draft in Gerry McCartney. In Karen’s head, that was reason enough not to do it. She didn’t trust Markie looking over her shoulder, not even at one remove. But she knew she could also make a good operational case for it. It was better to leave the more experienced officer in charge of the red Rover inquiry and allow Jason to continue his education in the field. And in practical terms, McCartney was a good five or six hours drive away. Whereas, if the Mint was pursuing his witnesses in the order he’d committed to, he’d already be on the road to Stonehaven. He could be with her early in the afternoon. She wouldn’t put it past him to stick his magnetic flasher on the roof and cross the country like a mobile disco in his eagerness to be of use.
Karen called him. ‘Morning, boss,’ he shouted. He was the only person under fifty she knew who still thought you had to yell into a mobile.
‘Morning, Jason. Where are you?’
A long moment. ‘Between Forfar and Kirriemuir. I think.’
‘OK. I need you to forget the red Rover for now and reset your satnav for a place called Clashstronach.’
‘What?’ Panic infused the single syllable.
‘Just do “Ullapool” for now. I’ll text you the details.’
‘OK, boss. What’s happened? Did you find the driver?’
‘No. This is a new case. A body in a peat bog in Wester Ross. The lads who found it assumed it was from the Second World War but as soon as River took a look at it, she knew it was one for us.’
‘She’s amazing, Dr Wilde. The things she can tell just by looking at a body.’
Karen chuckled. ‘I think even we could have worked this one out, Jason. The body’s wearing a pair of Air Nikes.’
A moment of silence. Then light dawned. ‘They didnae have them back in the war, right?’
‘Right. So, I’ll text you the directions and I’ll see you there soon as you like. And when you get a minute, ping the two outstanding red Rover witnesses over to Sergeant McCartney.’ Karen ended the call. That had been the easy one. She allowed herself five minutes of enjoying the grey and green grandeur around her before she tackled the more demanding conversation.
‘Sergeant,’ she began breezily. ‘How are you doing this fine morning?’
‘It’s raining in Gourock. But apart from that, not bad. I’ve knocked off another witness this morning. Our guy’s been registered disabled since 1982. He had his Rover converted to hand controls because he could hardly get in and out of the car. The wife backs him up.’
‘You happy with that?’
‘I’ll check with his doctor. Trust but verify, that’s what ACC Markie always says.’
Not exactly an original sentiment. ‘Good idea. You’re making good progress with your witnesses. And I’m afraid I’m going to be adding to your burden. Jason’s got a couple of outstanding inquiries on his witnesses and I’m going to need you to take them over.’
McCartney gave a snide little laugh. ‘The Mint not up to nailing them? No surprises there.’
‘Quite the opposite. Something else has come up and I need Jason with me.’
‘Really? What kind of something?’
It was insolent but Karen decided to keep her powder dry. ‘A body’s turned up in Wester Ross. Looks like a murder.’
‘A murrdurr?’ He rolled the ‘r’s for full dramatic effect. ‘How come it’s HCU from the off and not N Division’s CID?’
‘Because the body’s been in a peat bog. It’s historic.’
‘I could come up and lend a hand.’
‘That’s good of you, Sergeant. But I don’t want to abandon the red Rover inquiries. And you’re a safe pair of hands, with all your experience in MIT. You’d be wasted up here on all these routine inquiries. Give me a ring tonight, let me know how you’re getting on.’ She cut the call off before he could protest further. She was sure she’d done the right thing, even if it was for the wrong reasons. Somehow, she didn’t think Gerry McCartney would see it that way.
Tough.
15
2018 – Wester Ross
Karen parked at the tail of the line of vehicles beside the track, hoping the verge wasn’t as soft as it looked. She’d barely cut the engine when a uniformed constable with a hi-vis jacket and a clipboard loomed alongside. She opened the door, forcing him to step back awkwardly. ‘Are you DCI Pirie?’ he asked, consulting his clipboard.
‘That’s right. Inspector Wilson’s expecting me.’
The constable nodded. ‘He told me to ask you to wait here. I’ve to go and get him.’
Karen frowned. Did Wilson think she didn’t know how to behave in a crime scene? That was rich, coming from a man whose officers had, according to River, comprehensively corrupted the body disposal site. ‘Better go and do what you’ve been told then, Constable.’
He headed off across the bog at an unhurried pace. That’s what she got for setting off on River’s say-so, Karen thought. Wilson had called her about half an hour out from the croft, firmly standing on his dignity. He couldn’t dispute Karen’s claim to the case, but he made it clear that he thought River should have gone through him.
‘In normal circumstances, that’s exactly what she’d have done,’ Karen had said in her best placatory tone. ‘But Dr Wilde knew I was in Elgin on another case and she was only trying to avoid me driving halfway down the A9 only to have to turn round and head back north.’ For a spur-ofthe-moment improvisation it wasn’t bad. Hopefully it would be enough to soothe Wilson’s amour propre. Huffy she could handle; hostile screwed things up.
‘All the same, there’s no excuse for not following protocol. Things are the way they are for a reason,’ he’d grumbled.
‘Well, there’s no harm done. And I’ll be with you in no time at all. Maybe you can bring me up to speed when I arrive?’
Gracelessly, he conceded that would be possible. And now he was flexing his muscles by keeping her hanging around on the fringes of what was still technically his crime scene. Karen blew out a frustrated puff of breath and walked round to the boot to change into her wellies. When she slammed the lid shut, she was startled to find a man standing next to her car who was very definitely neither a cop nor a crime scene tech. His overalls were dark g
reen, the occasional oil stain and mud spatter revealing they were functional rather than fashionable. And the wavy dark hair that fell to his shoulders was about as far from a standard police cut as it was possible to get. The full beard wouldn’t have met with approval in the labs either.
When he smiled, laughter lines creased his eyes and dimpled his cheeks. That was a look that didn’t happen by accident, she thought. Before she could speak, he seized the initiative. ‘I’m Hamish Mackenzie,’ he said. The voice matched the look. ‘This is my croft. Are you with the police?’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Karen Pirie of the Historic Cases Unit. Very soon this will be my case,’ she said, toes curling at her pomposity.
He seemed not to have noticed. ‘Have you driven far?’
‘I’m based in Edinburgh, but I was in Elgin last night on another matter, so it wasn’t too bad a drive.’
‘I bet you’d like a coffee,’ he said.
‘Are you trying to torture me?’ Karen spread her arms, encompassing the wild and empty peat bog, the distant hill and the sky.
He laughed. ‘Far from it. I brought a couple of flasks up for the workers ten minutes ago. There’s still some left. Do you take milk?’
‘Please. You may have saved my life.’
‘I understand that feeling. I’ll be right back.’ He walked back up the track, disappearing behind a white van, leaving Karen to wonder whether she’d imagined the improbable encounter.
Much less improbable was the middle-aged man rounding the back of the white van on the bog side of the road. He’d pushed back the hood of his well-filled Tyvek suit and his white hair stood out in a halo like a red-faced Albert Einstein. ‘DCI Pirie, I presume?’ he demanded, thrusting his head forward like a farmyard rooster staking out his hens.