Authors: Val McDermid
She never erased a number from her phone. Shirley Grassie’s mobile number was there on her list and Karen dialled it quickly, not giving herself time to think twice. It rang so long she expected to be shunted off to voicemail, but then the ringtone cut off and she heard a breathless voice. ‘Hello? Hello? Is there anybody there?’
‘Mrs Grassie? This is DCI Karen Pirie. From the—’
‘Yes, yes, I remember you, Chief Inspector. Hello there. How are you?’ Cheery, direct. Would that everyone was like that, Karen thought, yearning.
‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to get in touch with your husband and this is the only number I’ve got for either of you.’ Apologetic never hurt.
‘No bother, really. He’s just in the other room, let me get him for you.’
Karen could hear footsteps on tiles, then a muffled shout of, ‘Craig, it’s that lovely detective from the cold case team,
Karen Pirie.’ A low mumble. ‘I don’t know, it’s you she’s after.’ Rustling and fumbling.
Then Craig Grassie’s voice. ‘Detective,’ he said. ‘This is a nice surprise. At least, I hope it is.’ Rueful twist to his voice.
‘It’s not official business,’ she said. ‘But I wondered if you could spare me half an hour when you’re up in Edinburgh?’
‘I’m not going to be back now till Friday, I’m afraid. We’re down in London this weekend.’
Karen almost punched the air. ‘Actually, I’m in London myself. I don’t suppose …’
A moment. Then Grassie said, ‘Do you like coffee?’
‘I do.’
‘OK. We’ll be in the TAP coffee shop on Wardour Street about half past two. It’s a bit of a Sunday ritual for us. Does that work for you?’
Karen glanced at her watch. Plenty time to walk it. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘Do you want to tell me what it’s about?’
She gave a dry laugh. ‘I think I’d better wait. I don’t want you sneaking off to Costa instead.’
Jeremy Frye was in his den at the top of the house, gazing out of the small window through the trees to the mirror-image buildings on the other side of the enclosed gardens. Between his eyebrows, a pair of parallel frown lines. Felicity was asleep, worn out by her morning performance for the detective. She’d put on a magnificent show but he’d known as he watched her that she’d be wrung out for the rest of the day.
His right hand floated over his phone again then shifted away as if repelled by an opposite magnetic pole. He found himself in a quandary. He’d been deeply unsettled by what the detective had to say. All that awkward business raked up again after over twenty years. He’d listened to Felicity making
light of it, appalled at the ease with which she’d given away Caroline and Ellie’s secrets. Those girls had made such a fetish of discretion and it had held fast all those years. And now Felicity had broken those confidences, all for the sake of her own misguided conscience. It grieved him to think it, but misguided she was. It wasn’t right to shrive herself at the expense of others.
Not only that, she’d gone off on a wild conjecture about Gabriel Abbott’s paternity. She’d dragged Frank Sinclair’s name into it, like trailing a cloak in the dust. Something swanky to spread out in front of the detective, who was far too shrewd to be dazzled by it. Nothing good could come of this. Had Felicity forgotten the cold rage that lived inside Frank Sinclair?
Jeremy sighed. He ran his hands through his leonine hair then let his hand fall back to his phone. He ought not to let this drift past. It wasn’t right for these matters to be probed without the knowledge of the people directly concerned; it offended his sense of fair play. Someone had to be told what was stirring in the depths. But calling Frank was out of the question. There was no way of dressing this up that would avoid his fury. ‘My wife has just told the police she thought you’d fathered Caroline Abbott’s bastard.’ Impossible to lay that out in a positive light.
Deception might have been possible for a different man, but it wouldn’t play for Jeremy. ‘I hear Gabriel Abbott has died and there’s a rumour that the police have earmarked you as his father.’ He tried the words out but they stuck in his mouth like dry pebbles. No, Frank Sinclair was not the way to go with this.
But he couldn’t let it lie. Lives were going to be, at the very least, disrupted by what Felicity had revealed that morning. He had a duty, surely, to deliver a warning?
A decision finally arrived at, Jeremy lifted the phone.
T
AP
had hung on to the old-fashioned Soho shop frontage, its only concession to hip modernity being the matt black paintwork and the spartan smokers’ bench outside. Karen peered through the window before she ventured inside. She approved of the clean lines, the simple wooden tables. She was less sure about the benches. She liked a back to her chair when she was relaxing over a coffee. Not everyone wanted to be doing pilates all the time.
The coffee shop was busy and its long skinny layout made it hard to see whether the Grassies had already arrived. She was going to have to go in to be sure. And if they weren’t there, she could try to snag a table, though from here that looked easier said than done.
But Karen was spared that problem for, as she neared the coffee counter, she could see Craig and Shirley. They looked exactly the same as when she’d last seen them. Anonymous casual clothing you’d forget the minute you were out of their company. Craig with his lugubrious long face like a depressed Shetland pony, big luminous eyes beaming out like headlamps from under his untidy fringe. Shirley the former nurse,
who had never quite shed the expression of professional concern from a face that always made Karen think of a currant bun. Which wasn’t fair, because there was nothing mean or tight about Shirley.
They were obviously looking out for her and both waved as they caught sight of her. She wove through knots of chattering people and slipped as elegantly as she could manage on to the bench. ‘Wow, this place is jumping,’ she said.
‘The coffee’s lovely,’ Shirley said. ‘When we grew up we thought Gold Blend was the height of sophistication. But it’s like gay rights. We’ve come an amazing distance in the last ten or fifteen years.’
‘I don’t think those two things are actually connected,’ Craig said, reminding Karen that his routine delivery was so deadpan she could never be quite certain when he was serious. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Detective.’
‘Please, call me Karen. This is completely unofficial, I don’t want you to think I’m pulling rank or anything.’
Shirley smiled. ‘Either way, it’s nice to see you again. Now, what will you drink?’
They negotiated the complexities of the coffee menu then Karen took a deep breath and dived in. ‘I suffer from insomnia and I walk around the city a lot at night,’ she began. As succinctly as she could, she described her encounters with the Syrian men and explained the particular problem she’d discovered. ‘All they want is somewhere they can sit around and talk. Relax, like we’re doing right now, right here. We’ve got countless places we can go and really, they’ve got nowhere.’
Craig and Shirley had both been nodding supportively throughout. Now Craig stirred his half-empty cup pensively and said, ‘I’m assuming you have a suggestion? That you’re not just bending my ear because you want to get it off your chest?’
‘I wouldn’t waste your time like that.’
‘We
know that,’ Shirley said. ‘But he’s an MP, sometimes he has to speak to hear the sound of his own voice.’ They shared a conspiratorial smile. It was clearly not the first time she had teased him with this.
‘There’s a lot of boarded-up shops and cafés in that part of town,’ Karen said. ‘Some of them have been standing empty for years. It must be obvious to the landlords – and the council too – that the economic upswing isn’t happening. At least not in Restalrig and the top end of Leith, away from your Michelin-starred restaurants and the royal yacht. Why not give the Syrians a place rent-free so they can set up a wee café? A social enterprise. Any profits get ploughed back into the business. Like the Goths we used to have in Fife.’
‘Goths? In Fife?’ Shirley was from Cumbernauld, in the west. Karen forgave her for knowing no better.
But Craig knew what she was talking about. ‘Pubs, Shirley. Run on what was called the Gothenburg system. They were owned by the community and any profits went back to the community for welfare and improvements to the environment. Quite a few of the mining villages had them. They took matters into their own hands because they refused to be gouged by the breweries and the landlords and their employers. So, Karen, you envisage a café run by the Syrians like a Goth?’
‘By them but not only for them,’ she said. ‘Anyone could go in. Like Punjabi Junction on Leith Walk. I often get my lunch there. But primarily it would be a place they could meet and talk. Break their isolation. Get out the house, especially the women. These people have got the skills, no question. One of the guys I’ve met, Miran, he used to run a café back in Homs. And I’m sure the women can cook too.’
‘As an idea, it has a lot to commend it.’ The politician’s answer. But Craig seemed willing to go beyond that. ‘So what are you wanting from me?’
‘They
don’t know where to start to go about sorting something like this. And frankly, neither do I. I’m a polis, not a social worker. I don’t know the highways and byways of bureaucracy. They just need a start, a push in the right direction.’ She paused. ‘I wouldn’t like to see them having to resort to squatting somewhere, if you take my meaning?’
Craig grinned. ‘I take your meaning, Karen. Obviously, that would be something you couldn’t connive at, you being an upstanding upholder of the law. But it would be unfortunate if that was the route they had to go down.’
‘And a real shame,’ Shirley chipped in. ‘Those boarded-up shopfronts are a shocking eyesore. They must really put off potential residents and business people. It’s not pleasant to walk down some of those streets. It’s got to be better to have some sort of enterprise going on there, to make the place look like there’s a bit of life about it. It’s in everybody’s interest, Craig.’
‘I can see that, Shirley. In many ways, it’s a no-brainer. The quicker we embed the refugees in civic society, the better the long-term outlook for them. There are good reasons why they’re not allowed to work until they’re formally settled here, but that shouldn’t stop them being able to use their skills for the benefit of their community.’ He caught himself and had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Sorry, that was a politician’s answer. Look, Karen, I think this is a bloody good idea. I know very little more than you do about the mechanics of sorting out something like this, but we’ve got people in the party that should know how we go about it. If you give me the contact details for your guys, I’ll see what I can do to get the ball rolling.’
Karen gave a wry chuckle. ‘I don’t have their contact details. I don’t think “under the bridge on the Restalrig Railway Path after midnight” counts. But I’ll get them and pass them on. Thanks, Craig.’
He
shook his head. ‘Wait till I’ve done something. Then thank me.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Karen said.
‘We both will, Karen,’ Shirley said. ‘Now, tell me how you’re getting on.’ Karen’s heart sank. Was the price of help going to be talking yet again about what it felt like to lose the man you loved to a murderer? But she realised almost immediately that she’d misjudged Shirley. ‘How are things settling down at Police Scotland? Are you all getting used to the new set-up?’ she continued.
Karen could have kissed her. They must have known about Phil, but they had no desire to watch her pick the scab. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s got its pluses and minuses.’ Craig Grassie wasn’t the only one who could give a politician’s answer.
D
etective
Inspector Alan Noble read the pathologist’s report one last time, trying to look at it with the critical eye of a reader committed to finding fault with the conclusions. It was true that there was some room for doubt about the circumstances of Gabriel Abbott’s death. But suicide was physically possible. The amount of gunshot residue on his hand wasn’t conclusive, but it wasn’t inconsistent with him having fired the shot. And the burn marks on his temple indicated that the gun barrel had been pressed against his head. So if it had been murder, his killer had been up close and personal. Either someone had crept up on him unawares or he’d known his killer. In the dark, all things were possible.
Noble wasn’t the most assiduous of investigators but he knew better than to rely on a pathologist coming down on one side of a fifty-fifty call. He’d already been back through the reports from his detectives and the uniforms he’d corralled into doing the nuts-and-bolts interviews. According to the barman and a handful of other regulars in the pub where Gabriel Abbott drank, there had been nothing out of the ordinary that evening. Abbott had had two or possibly
three pints. He’d been sitting at the bar in his usual seat, blethering to another one of the locals about some political stooshie in South East Asia. Apparently that was par for the course with him. He was obsessed with it in the way that some men were obsessed with a particular football team. The conversation had moved on to Donald Trump, then Abbott had left on his own.
The pub car park had CCTV footage. Just after 10 p.m., it was possible to make out Abbott emerging from the side door. He crossed the car park, paused on the street for a couple of minutes, then turned on to Kirkgate. There was no sign of anyone following him either by car or on foot. And there were no further cameras that might have picked him up before he turned on to the Loch Leven Heritage Trail path towards home. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t been followed at a discreet distance by someone who was familiar with his habits. But there was no evidence of it.
The crime scene itself was also innocent of anything that pointed to a third party having attacked Abbott. It was a viewpoint bench on a public trail. Of course there were traces of other people’s presence – a few cigarette butts, sweet wrappers, a discarded coffee carton. But there was nothing to connect them specifically to the dead man. There were no signs of a struggle, no handy footprints or torn fabric snagged on a loose nail on the bench. Nothing remotely Sherlockian. Absent any other evidence, the logical way to go was to assume this was what it looked like – a suicide made slightly more complicated by a man who had, by all accounts, been more or less perpetually off-kilter.