Authors: Val McDermid
But before Giorsal could reply, a brisk tattoo of knocking broke into the conversation. Without waiting for a response, the door swung open and a tall thin man in black trousers, a black polo neck and a black leather jacket walked in. Salt-and-pepper hair en brosse, narrow sunbed-tanned face bisected by a perfectly trimmed Clark Gable moustache, Detective Inspector Alan Noble always made Karen think of the Milk Tray man, only more sinister. He looked surprised to see her, but didn’t let that break his stride.
‘Hello, ladies,’ he said, brisk as the wind off the North Sea. ‘Well, well, well, look what the breeze blew in. I didn’t expect
to see you here, Karen. I thought you’d abandoned us for the fleshpots of the capital.’
Three sentences in and already she was weary of his overblown archness. ‘Hi, Alan. I needed a wee steer on adoption law, and who better to ask than a social worker?’
His face creased in a smile. ‘Aye. Like the old joke, eh? What’s the difference between a Rottweiler and a social worker?’ Both women sighed. ‘You can get your kids back off a Rottweiler.’ He giggled, a ridiculously high-pitched sound coming from a man with his image.
‘See, the thing about jokes, Alan? They’re supposed to be funny,’ Karen said wearily. ‘Do you need me to step outside so you can talk to Giorsal?’
‘No, no. No need for that. Nothing confidential here.’ Without waiting for an invitation, he sat in the other visitor chair, carefully pinching the knees of his trousers to preserve their crease. ‘I’m only here for a bit of background. Like you, except my case isn’t cold yet.’
‘Is this about Gabriel Abbott?’ Giorsal cut in.
‘The same. First thought was a suicide then we decided it was a murder. Well, now the pathologist has had a look at the body and the gun and he thinks we might have been right in the first place.’
‘What? He thinks it’s a suicide after all?’
DI Noble gave a condescending nod. ‘Got it in one, Giorsal.’ He mispronounced it, enunciating each vowel with deliberate clarity, as if he despised her for being saddled with something so outlandish as a Gaelic name. ‘The suicide we thought was a murder turns out to be a suicide after all.’
K
aren
leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Things that turned out not to be what they appeared were what she enjoyed most. The prospect of unravelling a tight, intractable knot was what had drawn her to cold cases. ‘What changed his mind?’ she asked.
Noble looked smug. ‘I did. I took another look at the gun. It’s just a wee one, a Smith and Wesson 457. They stopped making them nearly thirty years ago, but they were quite the thing for a few years. With it having a short barrel, it would be possible for Abbott to have shot himself in the right temple with the gun in his left hand. The bullet trajectory would have been angled a bit towards the back of his skull rather than straight across, so I asked the pathologist to check. And lo and behold’ – he spread both hands in a gesture of generous munificence – ‘it turns out I was absolutely spot on. And since we’ve no evidence of anybody else at the scene or in his company, I’d say suicide is definitely the more likely option. Especially since we already know we’re dealing with one of the mentally afflicted.’
‘I don’t like that terminology,’ Giorsal said.
Noble
smirked. ‘I’ve never been awfully good at that political correctness thing, ladies.’
‘It’s not political correctness,’ Karen said. ‘It’s about dignity. Respect.’
‘Christ, Karen,’ Noble drawled. ‘The guy was in and out of mental institutions and residential care half his adult life.’
‘And now he’s dead. In my book, that entitles him to a wee bit of respect.’
Noble shrugged. ‘What. Ever. Bottom line is, I need to know what kind of frame of mind he was in lately. When I spoke to you before, you said you’d actually sat in on a meeting he had with his case worker recently?’
Giorsal nodded. ‘I’ve been trying to assess as many of my team in the field as I can. I met Gabriel with Ian Lesley, his key worker, about six weeks ago. By chance, I ran into Gabriel a couple of weeks ago in Kinross. He stopped me in the street and we had a bit of a chat. But I wouldn’t say I was an expert on his state of mind.’
‘How would you characterise his personality? His state of mind generally?’
‘Is this a formal interview?’ Giorsal said, frowning.
‘No, no. Just a wee off-the-record chat to help me see how the land lies.’ Noble raised his palms as if to ward off an attack. ‘Obviously, it might come to a more formal interview before the Fatal Accident Inquiry, but we’d do that down at the station. So, how would you describe him?’
Giorsal fiddled with a pen. Karen could see that she wasn’t entirely happy with the situation, but she would go along with it rather than get into a ruck with a senior police officer. Karen knew of old that Giorsal liked to keep her powder dry for the fights that really mattered. Talking about a man who was already dead by his own hand probably wasn’t one of those.
‘Gabriel had a major breakdown in his final year at
university. He never really recovered. As you said, he’d often been in residential care when he couldn’t cope with taking care of himself and functioning in the outside world. He wasn’t schizophrenic but he did have episodes of paranoia where he was convinced he had been the victim of a conspiracy to destroy his life.’
Noble snorted. ‘What? He thought he was the rightful heir to the throne?’
Giorsal glared at him. ‘No. He was never very specific. If he was questioned, he’d veer away from the subject. He’d say it was too dangerous to talk openly about what had been done to him. You’re probably aware that his mother died when a plane she was travelling in was blown up by the IRA. I think that situation fed into his paranoid fantasies. Caroline Abbott was collateral damage in the bombing, but Gabriel seized on her death as evidence that he was in danger.’
‘But was he suicidal?’ Noble tapped the fingers of his right hand on his knee.
‘I didn’t see evidence of that,’ Giorsal said carefully.
‘But he had episodes of paranoia, you said. What if he killed himself and tried to make it look like murder as a way of saying, “See? I told you somebody was after me.”’
‘“I told you I was ill,”’ Karen muttered.
‘What?’ Noble swung round to face her, baffled.
‘Spike Milligan’s epitaph. Sorry, not an occasion for frivolity.’
‘You’re the last person I’d expect to be making jokes about death,’ Noble said acidly, pointedly turning away from her. ‘So, what do you think, Giorsal? Is that what was going on here?’
She sighed. ‘It’s a possible interpretation, I suppose.’
‘It’s a bit of a stretch,’ Karen said.
‘It fits the crime scene and the dead man’s mental history,’ Noble said stiffly.
And
it lets you off the hook of a difficult murder inquiry, Karen thought but didn’t say. Impenetrable murder mysteries were fine for Scandinavian TV series on Saturday nights, but the reality was something few cops relished.
‘You should talk to Ian Lesley if you want a more nuanced picture of Gabriel’s mental state,’ Giorsal said. ‘If that’s all, DI Noble, I won’t keep you.’
Noble took his time getting to his feet, smoothing down his trousers and shrugging his shoulders to get the set of his jacket right. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said. ‘Thanks for your help in clearing this up.’
‘What about forensics? Gunshot residue?’ Karen asked when he was halfway to the door.
Noble turned back, his eyes narrow. ‘There was some GSR on his left hand.’
‘Aye, but the gun had just been fired. You’d expect to find some GSR transfer from it, regardless of whether he pulled the trigger. What about his clothing?’
Noble breathed heavily through his nose. ‘His jacket’s with the lab. I’m not expecting any surprises. Now, I’m sure you’ve got cases of your own to keep you occupied without sticking your nose in mine.’
Noble closed the door firmly behind him. Giorsal looked troubled. ‘I’m surprised,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think Gabriel was suicidal. But he had a history of emotional volatility, so it’s quite possible.’
‘Did he have any family? Could they cast any light on his state of mind?’
‘Not close. He had a brother, Will. He lives in London and runs a computer gaming company. Must be doing all right because he paid his brother’s rent and that wasn’t cheap. Gabriel lived in a cottage about quarter of a mile from the path round the loch. Just a wee place, but a very desirable location. He’d never have been able to afford it on benefits. He
once said his brother was happy to pay the rent as long as it was far away from him and his family.’
‘How did he sound about that? Bitter? Angry?’
Giorsal shook her head. ‘Sad. He was a sad man, Gabriel. I did warm to him, though. He was obsessed with South East Asian history and politics. I don’t know why. Ian Lesley said once he got going on the subject he became a different person. Coherent, cogent. But you don’t want to hear about that. We hadn’t finished talking about adoption law. You were asking about exceptions?’
‘That’s right.’ Karen didn’t mind moving on. She was intrigued by Gabriel Abbott’s suicide/murder/suicide but not enough to divert her from her main concern. ‘Are there any?’
‘It’s very rare. The only incidences I’ve ever heard of have been on medical grounds when the person concerned wasn’t able to give consent.’
‘Ross Garvie can’t give consent.’
‘Yes, but accessing his adoption records won’t affect his medical state.’
‘So I’m screwed?’
Giorsal smoothed her hair back from her forehead. ‘Not necessarily. You can still go to court and ask for the extract of the original birth certificate to be opened for you.’
‘That would work?’
‘Maybe. The obvious argument against it is the European Convention on Human Rights, which is incorporated in the Scotland Act. You’d be in breach of Article 8 in respect of Ross Garvie, who is entitled to a private and family life. And as far as a future accused is concerned, it could be argued that you’re in breach of Article 6 – that’s the right to a fair trial. I think your suspect might complain that he’s being accused of a twenty-year-old offence on the basis of a process over which he’d had no consent.’
‘But
that’s all legal hair-splitting, surely? Who’s going to stand up in court and oppose us?’
‘His adoptive parents, for a start. You said they’ve never told him he’s adopted. So they could argue you’re not just breaching Garvie’s Article 8 rights but theirs as well.’
Karen digested this for a long moment. ‘Would any court hearing be in private?’
‘Totally. It would be heard in camera.’
‘So I’m not breaching their human rights if I don’t tell Ross Garvie when he wakes up, am I?’
‘Now who’s hair-splitting? Surely it would all come out in open court if you finally nail someone and he goes to trial?’
Karen shrugged. ‘Maybe not. I don’t think we’d have to name Ross Garvie. We could ask the court to preserve the anonymity of the familial DNA source. Make the human rights legislation work for us, not against us.’
‘I don’t know anything about criminal court proceedings. I suspect that the family court would ultimately decide for giving up the info, but it might take a bit of strenuous argument. You’d need a good advocate. The court might also say, There’s no rush. Let’s wait and see whether Garvie recovers consciousness. Your case has waited twenty years already, a wee bit longer won’t hurt. And of course, if Garvie doesn’t recover and dies, the court will give you whatever you want because dead men have no human rights.’
Karen groaned. ‘See, that’s the kind of thing courts say because they’re run by lawyers who don’t know what it’s like to live with all the uncertainties that go along with not knowing who killed your daughter, your lover, your friend. The way I look at it is every day that killer walks the streets is a day that the justice system has failed Tina McDonald. And there’s a very potent argument for not waiting.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Police
Scotland is a very leaky sieve. It’s only a matter of time before somebody hears we’ve reopened the case and sells us out to their favourite hack. And if our killer’s still around? He might decide that, rather than chance it, he’ll flee the jurisdiction.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Do we have an Ecuadorian embassy in Scotland?’
A
ssistant
Chief Constable Simon Lees had fared pretty well in the reorganisation that had followed the creation of a single Police Scotland force. He’d maintained his rank with a small but well-deserved uptick in his salary. He’d been able to escape the Neanderthals of Fife and base himself in the infinitely more civilised Edinburgh. And his natural talent for administration and management made him well-placed to shine. Really, he had no complaints.
Strike that. He had one complaint. Detective Chief Inspector Karen Pirie was still under his direct command. He’d thought he would be escaping her when he moved to Edinburgh. But her notable successes running cold cases in the former Fife force had brought her to the attention of the big bosses and they’d picked her to run the national Historic Case Unit. Even so, she should have been someone else’s problem. Then that someone else had a heart attack and Lees’ reward for his perpetual overweening careerism was to be given oversight of the HCU.
Karen infuriated him. She had a complete disregard for his rank, treating him with a bland condescension that bordered
on insolence but never quite crossed over into insubordination. Or rather, by the time he’d discovered her sidestepping of his authority, she’d achieved another success that made her untouchable. And that was the worst of it. She was defiantly good at what she did. Sometimes unorthodox, sometimes out on a very shaky limb, but more often than not successful. And dramatically successful with the kind of cases the media loved. Karen bloody Pirie, whose every triumph reflected more glory on her boss, who had to smile and smile through gritted teeth.
Almost as irritating was his discovery that she’d been responsible for coining his nickname. He’d always craved the kind of handle he’d heard in the squad rooms when he was climbing the greasy pole – Hammer, Batman, Sherlock and the like. But she’d condemned him to the Macaroon, after Lees Macaroon Bars, a typically Scottish item of confectionery made traditionally with icing sugar and mashed potatoes. It wasn’t a nickname calculated to cast fear into the hearts of criminals or subordinates.