by Val McDermid
She cackled. ‘Right enough. I’ll be keeping an eye out for you, mind.’
So he’d left the house that morning at the same time as his bloody annoying teenage daughters, whining and demanding a lift to school even though he was going in the opposite direction. McCartney’s life was plagued with women, he thought. Always nagging, always pushing, always bitching about something or other that he was supposed magically to do something to fix. What had happened to the man’s world his da had grown up in? Somebody had pulled the rug out from under men’s feet, leaving them staggering about trying to stand up for themselves. And yet, he still cared what they thought of him, still needed to feel like they looked up to him, like he really could fix the world.
The long drive down the Ayrshire coast had only served to annoy him further. Pensioners, ditherers and tractors had all conspired to turn what should have been a two and a half hour drive into more like four hours. He had no eyes for the beauty of the countryside or the drama of the coast. He had the radio tuned to Radio Scotland for the pure pleasure of release that shouting at the presenter and her guests gave him.
Bloody Portpatrick. Why would anybody choose to live there? It was the end of the world. Stuck on the outside edge of a hammerhead peninsula that looked like it had been tacked on to the coastline as an afterthought. Sure, it was pretty enough if you liked picture postcard Scottish harbours with painted houses and gift shops and the inevitable golf course. Pleasant enough on a summer day, but mostly it was exposed to whatever the westerlies blew in from the North Channel. McCartney reckoned it would have the kind of winter weather that made the Costa del Sol a dream destination.
He parked a couple of doors down from the Chalmers’ house, hoping he’d escape Sandie Shaw’s curtain-twitching. The woman who opened the door to him didn’t look well. In spite of the tanned wrinkles that made her skin look like a distressed leather jacket, she seemed somehow pale, the bags under her listless eyes a dark grey. Her hair was lifeless and looked as if she hadn’t touched it with a brush since she’d crawled out of bed. McCartney seldom paid much attention to what women were wearing once they’d left their twenties, but even he registered the clash between purple tartan trews and a black-and-white striped blouse.
‘Mrs Chalmers?’
She nodded, her mouth fidgeting as if she’d forgotten what to do with her lips.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Gerry McCartney. I wondered if I might have a word?’
She didn’t look surprised. He assumed Sandie Shaw had wasted no time in passing on the information that she was wanted by the police.
But he was well wide of the mark. ‘Is this about the … the arrangements?’ Sheila Chalmers stumbled over the words.
‘The arrangements? I’m not sure I—’
‘To bring Gordy home. They said I’d have to contact a local undertaker but they never said anything about the police.’ Her eyes filled up and she blinked repeatedly to stop them spilling over.
Fuck. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chalmers. Has something happened to your husband?’ It took all his willpower not to back away down the drive.
She cocked her head, as if she was convinced she’d misheard. ‘Are you not here about Gordy?’
‘Mrs Chalmers, I’m really sorry. I’ve no idea what you’re referring to. I’m with the Historic Cases Unit.’ Words that almost choked him after years of proudly claiming membership of the Major Incident Team. ‘I wanted to talk to you and your husband about the car you drove in the 1980s.’
She was mystified. ‘That makes no sense. I understand the words but they don’t make any sense. My man’s dead and you’re talking about cars?’
‘I’m very sorry. I had no idea about your husband’s death. I don’t have to do this right now, I can come back another time.’
She gripped her head with both hands, rubbing at her scalp, revealing traces of white at the roots of her hair. ‘I feel like I’m going mad. Look, come away in. I can’t settle to anything. It’s too soon. I might as well talk to you about whatever nonsense it is you’re here about.’
It was the last thing he wanted. But he couldn’t think of an evasive tactic quickly enough. So he followed her down the hall and into a conservatory at the back of the house that had a view over one end of the harbour and the cliffs that protected it. ‘I’ll make tea,’ she said. ‘I can still manage that.’
As he waited, McCartney comforted himself with the thought that this would make a great anecdote for the pub. He’d edit out the awkwardness and leave in the weirdness. It’d be worth a couple of free drinks, at least.
Sheila Chalmers returned with two small porcelain mugs on a tray with a teapot, milk and sugar. ‘I’ve no biscuits, I’m sorry. I only got back late last night. And the milk’s UHT, I hope you don’t mind?’
‘I don’t take milk, so that’s no bother to me.’ He heaped in two spoons of sugar. ‘As I said, I’m very sorry to hear about your husband. Do you mind me asking what happened?’
She tipped milk into her tea and sipped it with ladylike delicacy. ‘It was his heart. We’ve got a lovely pool in the apartment complex where we stay in Spain. Gordy loved swimming in it. Anyway, he dived in last Friday morning. Like every other morning. When he hit the water, it was like he jack-knifed under the surface. His arms were wrapped around himself. I had no idea what was going on. There’s no lifeguard so early in the morning, but a couple of other residents jumped in and dragged him out. But he was already gone. I could see right away. The water was streaming off him and his eyes were wide open and his chest wasn’t moving at all.’ She shivered and the surface of her tea rippled as if someone had thrown a pebble in it.
‘That must have been an awful shock.’
‘I couldn’t believe it. Even though I knew it in my heart.’ She bit her bottom lip so hard it left teeth marks when she stopped. ‘They had to do a post-mortem. I hate the idea of that. Cutting him open like that. I know my Gordy isn’t there any more, but still. It feels like a terrible insult.’
He dredged his mind for something sympathetic to say. ‘An awful thing to have to go through on your own. At least you’re back among your own now.’
‘Aye. I suppose.’ She put her cup down and physically straightened her posture, squaring her shoulders and breathing in deeply through her nose. ‘But this isn’t what you came here for. I need to get used to carrying on. You said something about a car? And historic cases? Is that right?’
McCartney set his own cup down and mirrored her posture. He’d done all the training courses and even though he thought most of the body language stuff was bollocks, there was no harm in giving it a whirl. ‘It’s something and nothing, Mrs Chalmers. We’re looking at a series of crimes that were committed in the mid-1980s. For obvious reasons, I can’t go into the details. But we’ve recently had a witness come forward and describe a car she saw at the scene of one of the crimes.’
The woman shook her head, taken aback. ‘What? After thirty years she remembers something? That’s hard to believe.’
‘There are reasons, believe me,’ McCartney said. ‘Anyway, we’re looking for the driver of a red Rover 214 with the initial letter B on the number plate. We need to exclude everybody who drove one of those so we can narrow our search parameters.’ Meaningless tosh but it was amazing how often people fell for it. ‘Now am I right in thinking you and Mr Chalmers had a red Rover 214 back then?’
‘Well, it was Gordy’s car,’ she said. ‘I never learned to drive. I never had any call for it.’
‘I have to ask this. And I’m sorry if it sounds really heartless, but it would let me cross another name off my list if I could eliminate Gordy.’ Eliminate. Bloody hell.
‘Of course. How can I help? I mean, he’s not here to tell you himself.’
‘The gold standard of forensic evidence is still DNA,’ McCartney said, an apologetic smile failing to soften the blow. ‘Would you have Gordy’s toothbrush or electric razor, by any chance?’
Grief had rendered her docile. ‘We’
ve got electric toothbrushes in the bathroom. I can give you the head off his?’
McCartney stood up. ‘That would be perfect. If you could maybe show me?’
He followed her through a bedroom strewn with the contents of a pair of suitcases, Gordon Chalmers’ clothes scattered among hers. The bathroom smelled stale, presumably because it had been unused for weeks. Sheila pointed to the electric toothbrush. ‘It’s the one on the left.’
McCartney tore off a sheet of toilet paper and picked up the well-used head, dropping it in a paper evidence bag. ‘That’s a great help.’ As she led him back through the bedroom, he asked whether her husband had ever driven to Edinburgh.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘We led a very quiet life. We’d only ever go to Glasgow when we were flying to Spain. What would Gordy be doing in Edinburgh?’
‘Maybe something to do with his work?’
‘How? He worked on the ferry from Stranraer to Larne. He was the chief steward, you know. Forty-five years, man and boy, across the North Channel to Northern Ireland and back again. And you know what he loved most of all? You’ll maybe laugh, it’s such a daft thing.’
McCartney had what he needed; he wanted to be gone. But still. The woman had just lost her man. ‘Tell me.’
‘He loved the sight of the gannets plunging into the sea. They come down like dive bombers, he’d say. Like a streak of white lightning with a yellow tip exploding into the sea.’ Now the tears were more than her eyes could contain. They spilled down her cheeks and dripped from her jaw on to her blouse. She didn’t bother trying to wipe them away. ‘He’ll never see the gannets again.’
‘But when you see them, you’ll think of him,’ McCartney said, surprising himself with a twitch of empathy. Then he remembered there was one last question he needed to ask. With the stress of dealing with Sheila Chalmers’ grief, he’d almost forgotten, and how Karen Pirie would have enjoyed that. ‘Before I go, there’s one more thing. Did anybody else ever have the use of the car?’
Sheila wiped her nose with the back of her hand. He had the feeling it was a gesture she’d normally have despised. ‘Katie and Roddy were too wee to be driving back then.’
He was halfway to the front door when she spoke. ‘He gave Barry driving lessons, though.’
‘Barry?’ McCartney swung back to face her.
‘My nephew, Barry. Barry Plummer. His parents were divorced. He hardly ever saw his useless workshy dad. So when he turned seventeen, he had nobody to teach him how to drive. Gordy offered, he was like that with family. Nothing was too much trouble – you should have seen him with my mother.’
‘And Barry used the car after he passed his test?’
Sheila frowned. ‘I don’t remember. But you could ask him yourself. He lives up in Motherwell. You could give him a phone.’
He walked back to his car feeling like the day had maybe turned a corner. He seriously doubted whether Gordy Chalmers had had a double life. By McCartney’s reckoning, he’d barely had a single one. But at least now he had a lead of his own to chase up, which was infinitely preferable to the ginger ninja’s leftovers. With a bit of luck, he could make tracking down Barry Plummer last a couple of days. A couple of days without Pirie or Markie breathing down his neck looked pretty close to paradise.
He had a vague recollection of a quiet wee pub in Stranraer that did a braw steak pie and a range of decent beers. At least one of them had his name on it. Now that was a real result.
27
2018 – Wester Ross
Karen’s habitual disregard for protocol had already put Walter Wilson’s nose out of joint in this investigation. She didn’t want to have to trail down to Ullapool for a press conference when the press were already here, all two of them camped in their cars on the track staring glumly at the white crime scene tent. Maybe Muhammad would come to the mountain if she asked him nicely enough.
She walked away from Hamish’s croft house, determined not to pick apart their encounter and make something of it. He was the kind of guy who had natural charm and couldn’t help exercising it. That was all. She’d been watching too many late-night episodes of Outlander. Tutting at herself, she took out her phone and sent Callum Phelan’s reconstruction to Wilson. She counted to seventy-three before her phone rang.
‘That’s quite the picture.’ No happy greetings from Wilson today.
‘He’s quite distinctive,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve got a feeling we’re going to get lucky with this one. How do you want to play this? There’s a couple of journalists up here already so it would make sense to talk to them at the same time as we release it via the press office. Do you want to come up here and join me?’
‘I’ve got a meeting in Poolewe in an hour.’ He spoke slowly, considering. ‘I tell you what, it’s your case now. You might as well do the press release and talk to these boys since they’re on the doorstep.’
It was quite a change of heart from the previous day’s huffiness, but Karen would settle for it. She reckoned Wilson had realised overnight the advantages in handing off an awkward case that might never be resolved. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’ She walked down the track to the reporters’ cars. She stopped at the first one and tapped on the window. It slid down, wafting stale smoke and fried onions in her direction. A craggy middle-aged face peered out at her. ‘I’m DCI Karen Pirie, Historic Cases Unit. There’s a yurt over the hill. If you come down in an hour, I’ll have something for you. Tell your pal.’ She walked off briskly, waving to Jason to join her.
‘We’re doing a wee press conference in an hour,’ she told him when he arrived, out of breath and a shade of pink that clashed badly with his freckles. ‘So you can occupy the time by checking back on mispers from the mid-1990s while I write the release for the press office.’
Karen imported the photograph to a Word document and started writing the text: The body of a man has been found in a peat bog on a croft at Clashstronach, Wester Ross. She referred to the details River had sent her after the photograph:
He was between six feet and six feet two inches tall and in extremely good physical condition, being heavily muscled. His age is estimated between twenty-five and thirty-five. He had a tattoo on his right forearm. He had dark hair and probably blue eyes. He was wearing Levi 501 jeans, Calvin Klein boxer briefs, a brown leather belt with a buckle in the shape of a Celtic knot and Air Nike 95 trainers. We believe he was buried no earlier than 1995. If you recognise this man [insert direct contact details. HCU dealing.]
She saved it then turned it round so Jason could read it. He took his time, then said, ‘Should it not be metric? His height?’
‘Probably,’ Karen said, annoyed with herself for not picking that up. ‘I’m going to leave the feet and inches in as well, though, because twenty years ago, most people still thought in imperial.’ She made the change, then sent the release off to the central press office, marked for release to coincide with when she was seeing the reporters. She yawned and stretched.
Jason caught the move. ‘Are we going back tonight?’ He sounded eager.
‘Maybe. Have you got plans?’ Her inquiry had been casual. Sometimes he played five-a-side football, sometimes he went through to Kirkcaldy for a night out with his mates from schooldays. But he blushed the deepest plum she’d ever seen him go.
‘I’m maybe going to see a film,’ he said.
‘Any film in particular?’ She knew he couldn’t stand up to her teasing him, but she wasn’t going to be mean.
‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t get the tickets.’
‘Bloody hell, Jason, that’s a result. Not only did you get a date, you got her to spring for the tickets.’
‘I’m getting the dinner,’ he said.
‘Lucky lassie.’ Karen meant it. He was, she thought, a decent if limited man. His mother had done a good job, Phil had mentored him towards manhood and Karen was sanding off the last of the rough edges. ‘Anybody we know?’
His ears actually turned purple, as if he’d bee
n munching hot chillis. ‘I don’t want to tell you. In case it all goes to shit and you decide it’s her fault.’
Karen burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Jason, you crack me up sometimes.’
‘Phil used to say you were like a tiger when it came to defending your team. And I remember how you sorted out that dickhead I used to share the flat with.’
It was true. She had sorted out the dickhead to such a comprehensive extent that she suspected he’d stay sorted well into the next decade. ‘You may be right. Well, don’t hold your breath for getting back tonight. Better warn her now rather than drop it on her toes at the last minute.’
Crestfallen, he nodded and went back to his screen. While he searched the records, Karen stared at the image of the dead man, trying to think of a scenario that made sense of what they knew so far. But by the time the journalists pitched up at the door of the yurt, she was no further forward.
Jason ushered them in. The man Karen had briefly spoken to was short and stocky, wearing creased grey trousers and a black anorak over a pale blue shirt whose buttons were battling the bulge of his stomach. A band of stubble circled his head below the bald crown. The acrid stink of cheap cigarettes hovered around him. ‘Duncan McNab, West Highland Free Press,’ he announced, plonking himself down on a chair.
The woman who came in behind him was dressed for the landscape in walking shoes, windproof trousers and a padded jacket over a lightweight knitted undershirt. A red fleece band circled her short blonde hair. ‘And I’m Cathy Locke. Freelance, but I do a lot of work for the BBC and the nationals.’ She put her backpack on one of the worktops and took out her recording equipment. In a miracle of miniaturisation, the mic was bigger than the recorder.
Karen introduced herself and Jason but before she could say more, McNab chipped in. ‘Is it not unusual for Historic Cases to be on the ground as soon as a body’s discovered?’ He had the soft ‘s’ sounds of the islands, but that didn’t camouflage the hard edge to the question.