Broken Ground (Karen Pirie Book 5)

by Val McDermid

  River leaned across and traced the outline with a finger. ‘The line of the blade is more or less horizontal. The blow was probably struck by someone roughly the same height as the victim. Or standing at the same level. For example, if they’d been on a flight of stairs, the height difference would be distorted.’

  ‘But they were standing on a flat kitchen floor. And Logan Henderson’s about nine or ten inches taller than Dandy Muir. Whereas Willow Henderson is almost the same height.’ Her voice was dull, conclusive in its tone.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got an answer, then.’ River took a generous pull of her drink. ‘You were right.’

  ‘I should feel pleased about that. But I really didn’t want to be right. I didn’t want to have to confront the idea that a woman would treat her best friend as acceptable collateral damage in a war she had nothing to do with. Willow Henderson’s fight was with her husband. She wanted him out of the picture so she could move back into the big house with her kids. Because she felt entitled to that. And she was willing to pay for that with Dandy Muir’s life.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re my best friend, River. If you wanted Ewan out of your life, would you think my death was a price worth paying?’

  ‘Of course not. And neither would anybody who wasn’t a psychopath. Or desperate. And from all you’ve told me, Willow Henderson wasn’t desperate. She’s one of the exceptions, Karen. The ones you can’t bargain for because they’re not like the rest of us.’

  Karen ran a hand through her hair. ‘If he’d let her have the fucking house, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘You can’t go down that road.’

  ‘What? All we can do is mop up afterwards?’

  River sighed. ‘With people like her? Probably. At least she will pay a price for what she’s done. When Jimmy Hutton reads Vaseem’s report, he’ll have a genuine pressure point to lean on.’

  Karen’s smile was weary and unconvincing. ‘Let’s hope it’s enough.’ She drained her glass. ‘And now I’m off to catch a train.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘A small dot in Northumberland called Warkworth. Nearest station’s Alnmouth, an hour down the line. I’ve got a wild goose to chase and with a bit of luck I’ll be back before bedtime.’

  48

  2018 – Northumberland

  The River Coquet wound its way through the charming village of Warkworth on its way to the sea, and the tiny stone cottage where Kenny Pascoe had lived and died had been staring out at the estuary for the best part of three hundred years, overlooked by the arresting ruin of a medieval castle. ‘It was already ancient when Shakespeare wrote about it,’ Karen’s taxi driver had told her as they’d swung round the corner of the main street to come face to face with its tall towers and battlements.

  Karen had no idea whether the present inhabitants of Percy Cottage would know anything about Evlyn Pascoe, but she was determined to do what she could to tie up the loose end of Kenny Pascoe’s map. The taxi driver was content to wait.

  She rang the bell and almost immediately the door was opened by a short middle-aged man in a tweed jacket, Fleet Foxes T-shirt and jeans. He looked startled. ‘You’re not Eliza,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m DCI Karen Pirie from the Historic Cases Unit.’

  His surprise grew visibly, his round gold-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. ‘I don’t understand. I was expecting a Northumbrian piper. What’s happened to Eliza?’

  ‘I’m nothing to do with Eliza, Mr … ?’

  ‘Hall. Tobias Hall. So why are you here?’

  ‘I’m looking for a woman who used to live here. Ms Evlyn Pascoe.’

  He chuckled. ‘I don’t think anybody’s ever called Evlyn “Ms” before. Why are you looking for Evlyn?’

  ‘I’d like to ask her a few questions.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very intriguing. I’ve never thought of Evlyn in a criminal context before. Well, as you said, she doesn’t live here any more. The house got too much for her three years ago. She’s eighty-eight, you know.’

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘She’s in a care home up the road in Lesbury. Friary View, it’s called. She’s got a nice room, lovely view of the oxbow on the River Aln. They’re really good with the oldies there. We go up often and do a little concert for them. I’m a musician. Oh, and here comes Eliza.’

  Karen turned to see a large young woman striding down the lane carrying a small leather valise. ‘I’ll let you get on,’ she said, backing away from the door. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  The care home was a modern stone building, solidly built on the hillside near the station where Karen had arrived earlier. ‘No need for me to wait,’ the taxi driver said. ‘You can walk to the station from here.’ She settled up and walked into Friary View.

  It smelled of lilies and furniture polish, which wasn’t what she expected. A young man in a white jacket sat behind a gleaming wooden desk tapping at a keyboard. He looked up and smiled. ‘Hi. How can I help you?’

  Karen showed her ID and asked to see Evlyn Pascoe. He frowned. ‘I’ll need to ask Mrs Leatham. She’s the manager. If you’ll give me a minute?’ He gestured towards a pair of low armchairs in the corner.

  He disappeared down a corridor and returned a few minutes later with a thirty-something woman of two halves. Her shapely legs were encased in black leggings and her top half was swathed in a massive terracotta fisherman’s smock. She looked as if she was about to take part in a dancing satsumas routine. Karen repeated what she’d already told the young man. Mrs Leatham seemed uncertain. ‘Is this going to be upsetting for her?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Karen said. ‘It’s about her brother. He died over seventy years ago.’

  ‘Would it be all right if I sit in with you? It’s just that she’s a bit frail, you know? I mean, mentally she’s all there, but she doesn’t do well with stress.’ Mrs Leatham gave a worried smile.

  ‘I’ve got no objection to that,’ Karen said.

  The other woman thought for a moment then said decisively, ‘Let’s go then.’

  Karen followed her down a carpeted hallway. Evlyn’s room was the last door and they walked in to find her sitting by the window. Tobias Hall had been right, she did have a lovely view. Evlyn was small and shrunken, like most women of her age that Karen had encountered. Her hair was a halo of white frizz, and her face was a crumple of lines and age spots. Her cardigan was buttoned to the neck in spite of the cloying warmth of the room, and her lap was covered with a tartan rug. But her expression was curious and her deep blue eyes bright.

  ‘Evlyn, you’ve got a visitor,’ Mrs Leatham said brightly. ‘But it’s somebody a bit out of the ordinary. This lady’s a police officer and she wants to talk to you about something that happened a long time ago.’

  ‘A police officer? Come for me?’ Her voice was high and thin, her accent unmistakably local.

  Time to take over. ‘My name’s Karen Pirie, and I investigate cold cases.’

  ‘Like Trevor Eve on Waking the Dead? I bet you get that all the time.’ Evlyn twinkled.

  ‘I’m nicer than him,’ Karen said.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ she cackled. Karen thought she’d never actually heard a laugh that deserved that name before.

  Karen sat down on a stool opposite Evlyn. ‘I need to ask you some questions about your brother Kenny.’

  ‘Is this about the war?’

  ‘I’m more interested in the period after the war.’

  Evlyn shook her head. ‘He never did anything criminal after the war. When he came back from the Highlands, he already had the TB that killed him. He was no good for anything in the time he had left.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting he did anything criminal at any time.’ Little white lies, but who was to know? ‘Did he ever talk to you about a couple of American motorbikes that he and his friend Austin had to do with?’

  ‘Motorbikes? I know they rode around on motorbikes up in the Highlands but I never thought they were American ones. Wha
t is it you think he’s done?’

  ‘Austin told his family that he and Kenny hid a couple of American bikes at the end of the war. They were supposed to destroy them, but they couldn’t bear the idea. They each had a map of where they’d put the bikes. They were planning to go back after the war and collect them but then Kenny died and Austin didn’t have the heart to go back. Did Kenny ever talk about it?’

  Evlyn gave a reminiscent smile. ‘That’s just like him. He could never see good things going to waste.’

  ‘After he died, did you find a map? A hand-drawn one?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Evlyn said. ‘Some photos, a few letters and postcards, that’s all.’ Her face scrunched up in pain. ‘He left very little behind, pet. He didn’t leave much of a trace on this earth.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She sighed. ‘He was a happy lad. Until the TB cut him down.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you about when he died? I know it’s touching on things that must be painful for you to remember …’

  ‘It’s too long ago, pet. I can think about Kenny without the sadness now, maybe because I’m coming to the end of my own time.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Evlyn. You’ve years in you yet,’ Mrs Leatham said, bracing tones too loud for the room.

  ‘I bloody hope not. I’m tired, pet. Tired right through to the bone. So what did you want to know?’

  ‘I wondered if there was anything unusual that happened around the time he died? Did he get any unexpected letters? Visitors?’

  Evlyn gripped the arm of her chair. ‘No letters. There was an American came to see him, though. A couple of days before he died.’

  ‘An American?’ Was this the connection to Shirley O’Shaughnessy? Had her long shot paid off?

  ‘Aye. He said he knew Kenny from the war. I knew they had all sorts up there in Scotland where he was doing the training, but Kenny never told tales of who he worked with and what they’d done. So I didn’t think anything of it. Only, Kenny wasn’t at home. I told him, I said, “Kenny’s got a hospital appointment.” He was up at the cottage hospital in Alnwick. I asked the Yank if he wanted to leave a message, but he said not to bother, he’d try and call again.’

  ‘And did he? Call again?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I was at work the next day – I had a part-time job in the baker’s shop – but Kenny never said anything about him coming back. And the next day, Kenny died. I came home from work and there he was, lying on the living room floor like he’d been trying to get up out of the chair.’ She gave a regretful shake of the head. ‘It’s a shame he never got a last chance to talk about his time in the war.’

  ‘Was it the TB that killed Kenny?’ Karen knew the answer but she was hoping for more detail. Maybe even a suggestion that it hadn’t been as straightforward as it seemed?

  ‘That’s what the doctor said. They’d seen him at the hospital two days before, like I said. I knew one of the nurses there – she lived in the village, her mum had been the postie during the war. She said nobody was surprised. She said it was maybe sooner than they expected, but they all knew it was only a matter of time.’

  An American, a missing map and a death that had come too soon. You didn’t have to be much of a detective to have a gut reaction to that combination, Karen thought. Her job was like trying to put a jigsaw together without a picture on the box. She couldn’t help feeling she’d completed a big chunk of sky.

  49

  1946 – Northumberland

  All that way, and still he hadn’t found what he was looking for. Arnie had taken the train from Southampton to London, from London to Newcastle and from Newcastle to Warkworth. Then he’d walked the mile and a half into the town and asked directions to Percy Cottage. And when he knocked, it wasn’t Kenny Pascoe who answered the door but a slip of a girl who barely looked old enough to be out of school.

  Arnie smiled and raised his hat. ‘Hi, I’m looking for Sergeant Pascoe. We served together in the war.’

  ‘He’s not in. He’s at the hospital. I’m his sister, Evlyn,’ she replied. At least, that’s what he thought she’d said. The accent was almost impenetrable to his ears.

  ‘The hospital? Has he had an accident?’ Please God, no. Not now.

  ‘No, he’s got the TB. He’s proper poorly with it. He has to gan there for his treatment twice a week.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘I divn’t kna. Can you come back the morrow? Or maybe the day after would be better, he’s always knackered after the hospital.’

  Arnie raised his hat again. ‘Of course. What time is good?’

  ‘Any time, really. I get back from work about two. I work in the bakery, in the main street. I could maybe bring some scones back. But Kenny’ll be home all day.’

  He walked to the station and caught a train back to Newcastle. He didn’t want to stay locally; he didn’t want to be quizzed about the purpose of his visit, or to be remembered. He found a cheap and cheerless boarding house near the station and passed the time lying on his bed reading a Dashiell Hammett novel and sleeping. If he’d learned one thing from his wartime exploits, it was how to wait.

  He knocked on Kenny Pascoe’s door a couple of minutes before ten on the appointed day. It took Pascoe a moment to place him, but as soon as he did, he broke into a smile and invited him in. Arnie followed. He’d hardly have recognised this shrunken husk as the man who had showed him how to disappear into the Scottish wilderness. Somebody once wrote something about the skull beneath the skin, and Kenny Pascoe was the living embodiment of that. His breath wheezed like a grim concertina and he looked twenty years older than he was.

  In the tiny overheated living room, he fell into an armchair and signalled to Arnie to sit opposite. Arnie stayed on his feet. ‘I’m not going to waste your time, Kenny. From the look of you, you don’t have much left. What did you do with the bikes, Kenny?’

  Pascoe’s cheeks flushed a hectic red against the paper-pale skin of his face. ‘I thought you’d come to see me.’

  ‘I don’t give a flying fuck about you, Kenny. I’m here for the bikes. And I mean to find out what you and your buddy did with them.’ He took a step closer, looming over the sick man.

  Pascoe shook his head. ‘You’re threatening a sick man over a pair of motorbikes?’ His voice trembled. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘Just answer me, Kenny.’ Arnie’s voice dropped to ominous darkness.

  ‘We buried them,’ he whispered. Then he was shaken by a bout of coughing. Arnie stepped back quickly, disgust and fear possessing him. When he recovered himself, Kenny spoke feebly. ‘We sealed them in tarpaulins and crated them up. We were going to go back after the war and get them.’ He coughed again. ‘Divn’t think I’ll be doing that.’ He gave a terrible skeletal smile.

  ‘Where did you bury them?’

  ‘In a bog.’

  ‘Where?’ Arnie almost howled.

  ‘We drew a map so we could find it again. We’ve each got a copy. You’re welcome to mine. It’s no use to me now.’ He pointed to a small Victorian writing desk. ‘It’s in the bureau.’ Arnie turned. He took a step towards it. ‘You didn’t have to shout at me, you know. I’d have given you the map anyway. But you Yanks never had any manners, did you?’

  Arnie swung back to face him. ‘No, all we did was put our lives on the line to save your asses.’

  Pascoe wheezed a laugh. ‘The Russians would have done it for us if you hadn’t turned up.’

  Outraged, Arnie grabbed him by his lapels and hauled him to his feet. ‘You ungrateful little fuck. We saved your skin and how did you repay us? You stole our shit.’

  Suddenly Pascoe’s whole body shook in an uncontrollable spasm. He jerked and twitched, his face darkening as he fought for breath that wouldn’t come. He grunted and wheezed and the thin sharp smell of urine rose between them. Arnie let go then, horrified not at what he’d done but at the thought of carrying the dying man’s taint on himself.

  For he kn
ew Pascoe was dying. He’d seen enough death to recognise its imminence. This hadn’t been what he’d planned. But there was no need to let it derail him from his purpose. Arnie took a step backwards and whirled round to face the bureau. He knew how to search without leaving a trace. And he knew he had plenty of time before Pascoe’s sister came back from the bakery so no need to rush.

  It took more than an hour of careful exploration and even then, he almost missed it. The map was tucked into an envelope containing a 1942 letter to Pascoe from Evlyn, writing to tell him their father had died from kidney failure following an infection. It was exactly the sort of letter you’d keep. Most people wouldn’t look any further. But Arnie Burke wasn’t most people.

  He unfolded the fragile square of airmail paper. It was a basic outline of a handful of landscape features and a few rough squares with triangles above, which he took to be buildings. And towards the top right-hand corner, an X. No names, no indications of where precisely it might be. He checked the envelope again, then noticed there were faint numbers in pencil on the back of the second page. There were ten rows, each with seven numbers. It meant nothing to him. He wasn’t even certain whether it was anything to do with the map.

  Still, better safe than sorry. He stuck the map and the letter back into the envelope and put it in his inside pocket. A quick reconnaissance revealed the cottage had a back door leading to a tiny yard which in turn gave on to a narrow lane that led back towards the river. Far less chance of being spotted than if he went out the front door. In less than a minute, he was walking along the bank of the Coquet, a man with nothing more on his mind than a riverside stroll on a pleasant morning. Nobody would have guessed how bitter was his disappointment.

  50

  2018 – Edinburgh

  There was a busy bar in Stockbridge where nobody knew Karen or Jimmy Hutton. Nobody to wonder why they were huddled over a small table in the back room. Nobody to grass them up to Ann Markie. Jimmy had texted Karen on her way back from Warkworth. Now she nursed a Diet Coke, Jimmy an Irn Bru. This was a night for clear heads. And besides, Jimmy was still working.