Authors: Val McDermid
Suicide, then. No further action needed on his part, not unless something changed dramatically. He’d wait a couple of hours before he signed off on it. There was no need to be too bloody eager on a Monday morning. A quick look round the room told him there were plenty of warm bodies to hold
the fort. He’d nip out and get himself a second breakfast at Kitty’s Kitchen while nobody was looking. Black pudding, square sliced sausage, baked beans and two fried eggs. All the things the second Mrs Noble forbade.
He’d got one arm in his jacket when his phone rang. ‘Detective Inspector Noble,’ he said, giving every syllable due weight.
‘This is Will Abbott.’ The voice was clipped and tense.
Noble rolled his eyes and fell back into his chair. Bloody relatives. Always something. ‘Good morning, Mr Abbott. I was just looking at your brother’s file.’ Make them feel important, whether it was the truth or not. ‘How can I help you?’
‘You told me you were almost done with your investigation into my brother’s death.’
‘We are.’
‘And you told me you thought suicide was the most likely cause of death.’ The accusatory note in his voice was rising.
‘That’s right. This morning I can go further. Our investigations show nothing that contradicts the view that your brother took his own life.’ Noble dropped his voice to show sympathy. You had to make the effort.
‘So why have you had a detective down here in London asking questions about my brother? And our mother? You do know our mother was murdered twenty-two years ago, right? What the fuck does that have to do with my brother killing himself?’ Will Abbott was almost stuttering with anger.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Noble cut across the words tumbling into his ear. He needed to defuse this and fast. ‘None of my team is in London. And we certainly haven’t sought assistance from the Metropolitan Police.’
‘She’s not from the Met. She’s from Police Scotland. Are you seriously trying to tell me you know nothing about this? One of your cops is waltzing around London asking questions
about my family and you don’t know anything about it? You might get away with that kind of bullshit with your local lowlife criminals, but you’re not getting it past me. What the
fuck
is going on?’
Noble was starting to feel decidedly uneasy. The combination of a female officer and an ancient case was pointing in a very particular direction. One that might spell trouble. ‘What exactly has happened, sir?’ Play for time, slow it down, take it off the heat.
‘I told you. One of your officers is going round stirring up my family’s history. My mother’s murder. Do you have any idea how upsetting this is? I’ve lost my brother. I’m grieving. And you’ve sent someone down here to stir things up about my mother’s death? A case that was closed all those years ago. Have you no understanding of what it means to lose your family?’
‘I appreciate that you’re upset, Mr Abbott. But can you give me some details?’
Noble heard the sound of a sharply indrawn breath. ‘What? You don’t know what your own people are doing?’
‘As I said, this is not one of my officers. Let’s try to get to the bottom of this, eh? Maybe you can tell me what you know?’
‘Yesterday, this officer turned up at the house of a family friend. You’ve probably heard of her – Felicity Frye, the actress?’
Noble had heard of her. His heart sank a little further because he remembered the second Mrs Noble pointing the actress out on breakfast TV a few weeks before, revealing that she had terminal cancer. What in the name of God was Karen Pirie – because it had to be Karen Pirie – doing, harassing a dying woman over a more or less open-and-shut suicide that had nothing to do with her? ‘I know the name, yes,’ he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
‘And
did you also know that she’s only got months to live? She’s got pancreatic cancer and she’s dying. And your colleague’ – he made it sound like a swear word – ‘interrogated her about my brother’s death and used that as an excuse to dig up all sorts of gossip about my mother. What the hell business is it of hers?’ Anger had reduced Abbott to a squeak.
‘Do you know this officer’s name?’
The rustle of paper. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Karen Pirie,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve had Felicity Frye’s husband on the phone complaining about this. As if it’s my responsibility. As if somehow I’ve brought this shocking aggravation to his door. This is an outrage.’
‘I understand you’re very unhappy, Mr Abbott. Like I said, DCI Pirie isn’t on my team. She runs the Historic Cases Unit. She must be taking an interest in your mother’s murder. Nobody was ever charged with that, were they?’
Abbott made an angry sound. ‘It’s not like it was a mystery. Everybody knew it was the IRA or another one of those mad Irish Republican terrorist groups. It wasn’t exactly rocket science to work that out. So why the
fuck
is this woman harassing a sick woman about something that we all know the answer to? How dare she?’ He ran out of breath, dragging in air as if he was suffocating.
‘I’m sorry,’ Noble said, not entirely meaning it. ‘If you’d like, I’ll bring it to the attention of DCI Pirie’s senior officer? And perhaps I can have him give you a call?’
‘That would be fine if it was just me that was affected by this. But poor, dear Felicity … She’s not well. And perhaps her judgement isn’t quite what it should be.’ There was a pause. Noble stayed quiet, waiting. He was rewarded at a level he couldn’t have imagined. A deep breath at the other end of the phone, then Abbott said, ‘The thing is, Felicity dragged someone else into the picture. Somebody who’s got nothing to do with anything. But he’s the sort of
person that, if his name got out, it would cause an absolute shitstorm.’
‘I’m not really following you,’ Noble said. ‘You’re going to have to be a wee bit less opaque.’
‘Oh, Christ. Look, my mother lied about the identity of Gabe’s father. My father, Tom Abbott, was already dead when she became pregnant with Gabe. She lied about it because it was easier than having to answer questions about who his father actually was. There’s nothing sinister about it, I’ve known for years. Caroline left me a letter, the lawyer gave it to me when I was twenty-one. But it was private. Family business. Nothing to do with anyone else. And Felicity Frye told all this to this Pirie woman. But she didn’t stop there. Felicity’s got this weird fixation that Gabe’s biological father was Frank Sinclair.’
That was a name to stop the traffic. Noble didn’t know what to say.
‘You know who I’m talking about? Lord Sinclair. The media baron.’
‘The one who’s always going on about family values and family life?’
‘The one who’s made a career out of casting the first bloody stone,’ Abbott said. ‘More upright than the bloody Archbishop of Canterbury. I can’t bring out a bloody console game without him and his minions predicting the end of the world – and he’s a family friend, for fuck’s sake. God help his enemies. Can you imagine his reaction if a stupid rumour like this starts going the rounds? He’ll go off the Richter scale.’
Noble allowed himself a moment of
Schadenfreude
. ‘I can see why you’re upset,’ he said smoothly. ‘And I honestly think the best think I can do for you is to get DCI Pirie’s boss to speak to you. Assistant Chief Constable Simon Lees, that would be. What I’m going to do as soon as I’ve finished speaking to you, I’m going to speak directly to ACC Lees and
explain what’s happened. Obviously, he’ll have to speak to DCI Pirie to see what she’s got to say about this. But I know he’ll be eager to talk to you as soon as he has a clear picture of how we got here. For now, all I can do is apologise for the upset you’ve experienced.’
A sharp sigh. ‘That’ll just have to do, won’t it?’ Abbott snapped. But Noble sensed capitulation. They went back and forth a little longer, then ended on calmer water than they’d begun. Noble tucked his phone into his pocket and headed for the door. He wanted to make the most of this call, and he wanted to conduct it out of reach of the flapping ears of his colleagues.
Karen Pirie, to his perpetual surprise, had friends in Police Scotland, particularly in her native Fife. He wanted her to have no warning of what was coming at her. He hadn’t let Will Abbott hear it, but he was furious. How dare Karen Pirie come rushing to judgement on one of his cases; a case she knew nothing about except what her arrogance told her; a case she had no right to stick her nose into. She’d never made any effort to hide her opinion of him. She thought he was lazy and that he cut corners. Just because he’d never seen the point of knocking your pan in on cases that were going nowhere. Well, now the wheel had turned and it was her feet that were about to be held to the fire. The Macaroon wasn’t the only one who would enjoy it.
K
aren
knew she should have headed home on the Sunday-night sleeper, but she’d kissed goodbye to her better judgement on Friday night and it wasn’t showing any sign of coming back yet. As she’d explained in her head to Phil on her way back through Covent Garden after hanging out with the Grassies, there was something about this cold-case-that-wasn’t-her-case that had its hooks in her and wouldn’t let go. She was breaking all the rules – not a single bit of her cock-eyed investigation had a shred of corroboration, for starters – but she couldn’t shake loose the conviction that this was important and, if she didn’t pursue it, nobody else would.
Phil would have shaken his head in exasperation and told her she was her own worst enemy. He’d have pointed out that all she would achieve in the long run was to create even worse feelings between her and the Macaroon. And she’d have responded that, in her world, that was a bonus. He’d have reminded her that working outside the straitjacket of the rules was the best way to make sure the case would never stand on its own two feet, and she’d have reminded him that,
as things were, there was no case to stand or fall, so how could she be making things worse?
At that point, a child she’d passed in the street had strained at her parental hand, leaning back and staring at Karen wide-eyed as she beasted past, deep in conversation with herself. Karen had whirled round, walking backwards, met the child’s astonished stare and said, ‘Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he isn’t there.’
As she swung round and continued on her way, she wondered if she was actually cracking up. Was this PTSD? Heaven knew she’d had enough trauma and stress in the past year to last a lifetime. But she didn’t feel she was spinning out of control. The insomnia, the talking to Phil, the obsessions with things that were outside her remit – these were all things she was taking in her stride. People who knew her weren’t acting like she’d lost it. Not her parents, not her friends, not Jason.
She was fine. Maybe a bit more driven than usual. So instead of heading back to Euston and finding somewhere to eat before she caught the train, she checked back into the hotel – ‘Yes, still no luggage’ – and texted Jason:
Taking day off tomorrow. Will be back in office Tuesday. Keep checking Tina McDonald statements. Think I’ve sorted your flatmate problem. Don’t worry about it.
And then she’d sat down with her laptop to figure out how she was going to do the very thing she’d told Felicity only happened in fiction.
Which was why Monday morning found Karen heading down Tottenham Court Road, face turned up towards the sunshine that warmed her bones. She’d picked up a new shirt and underwear in the Marks & Spencer on Long Acre
the day before, she was showered and caffeinated and all set to break more rules.
She stopped at a coffee shop and bought a flat white. She asked the barista for a paper bag and didn’t demur when he charged her 5p for it. She folded it and put it in her pocket along with a few napkins. Now she was all set.
Back into the sunshine and on past the stores selling stylish interior fantasies; past the cheap electronic shops, their windows stuffed with things whose functions she didn’t understand; round the hoardings that hid the new station; past storefronts filled with books and guitars and the quirky crap people fill their flat surfaces with; past theatres and galleries and down into the heart of Westminster.
At last, she came to the river. On one side of the street, the iconic Houses of Parliament. On the other, Portcullis House, the custom-built modern building containing offices for MPs, meeting rooms and committee rooms. Where, this morning in the Boothroyd Room, the Lords Select Communications Committee would be sitting.
When she’d discovered this, Karen had felt it was a portent. Really, she was destined to do this absurd thing that was dancing on the edge of her peripheral vision. And since her better judgement was still in a state of suspension, she walked into Portcullis House with the confident air of a woman in possession of valid police identification who has no expectation of being hindered in the pursuit of a chimera.
The Macaroon sat in the back of his official car, warring emotions surging through him. There was fury that Karen Pirie had overstepped the mark so thoroughly that she had embarrassed and undermined him in front of the lower ranks. What did it say about him that an officer in his command thought it was acceptable to ride roughshod over protocol and trample all over someone else’s case?
But
there was also a grim delight, and for the same reason. She had gone too far this time. There was no possible hiding place for her. Not only was Gabriel Abbott’s death not her case, it wasn’t even a historic case. Abbott was barely cold, never mind the inquiry into his death. For that loose cannon Pirie to treat it as an excuse to exhume a long-buried case that was only technically unsolved was egregious. (A word he’d learned from his clever daughter and seldom had the opportunity to use.) It would be bad enough in any circumstances, but when it also involved slinging muck at a peer of the realm – and one as vociferous and litigious as Lord Sinclair – it beggared belief.
No, this was the end of the road for Karen Pirie at Historic Cases. First there had been the series of leaks and now this. And this was the perfect time to do it. Her shield had always been the level of media joy that her frequent successes provoked. She was never out of the tabloids, generally associated with families gushing thanks that they finally knew what had happened to their loved ones, or victims weeping with joy that assailants they’d thought were free and clear were finally paying for their crimes. But it had been a few months since Karen had chalked up a prominent success and, in media terms, that corresponded to a geological era. She was yesterday’s chip papers. Really, the only question was how far down the ranks he could bust her.