Authors: Val McDermid
‘DCI Pirie. You wanted to talk to me. Are you in Edinburgh?’
‘I am.’
‘Good. I’ve been in court all day but I’ll be back at my stable in twenty minutes or so. You know where we are?’
‘You’re off the Canongate, right? Down by the kirk?’
‘That’s it. If you can get here then, I’ve got a small window in my diary.’
‘I’ll be there.’ She ended the call and pushed herself upright. ‘I’m going to see Semple at his stable.’
Jason
tittered. ‘I know, I know,’ he said, holding his hands up defensively. ‘I’ve had the lecture. It’s Scottish legal tradition. Part of our heritage and all that. But talking about advocates hanging about in their stables, it’s ridiculous. How can they not have offices like the rest of us?’
‘It’s not just tradition.’ She put her jacket on, struggling less than she had the day before. ‘It’s a way of excluding the rest of us from their world. It reminds us that they’re set apart from the likes of you and me.’
‘So they should call their firms “palaces”, not stables. That makes me think of a bunch of clapped-out old nags.’
Karen laughed. ‘I think you’re supposed to imagine sleek racehorses with gleaming flanks, going flat out on the final furlong.’ She groaned. ‘I wish I hadn’t said that. Not on my way to see Semple.’
‘You sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ Wistful tone, big puppy eyes.
‘I’ll be fine. You get on with this and see if you can find those statements.’
Semple’s office was exactly as it ought to be, in Karen’s opinion. Dark wood panelling, diamond-paned window looking out on a grey stone tenement courtyard and a fragment of grey Edinburgh sky; scarred old desk polished deep mahogany from long years of cleaners’ elbow grease; stacks of files tied with ribbon; and shelves of books whose titles alone might cure her insomnia. And at the heart of it, the advocate himself in his distressed leather chair, hands folded on his stomach, gazing equably at her.
Karen explained as best she could the status of Gary Foreman’s DNA. ‘So we don’t know how many people benefited from his organs or where they are now,’ she concluded. ‘But we don’t have to engage in any invasive procedures to get at the DNA. We just need to be able to examine the DNA
results from their routine blood tests. What are our chances, do you think?’
Semple probed his left cheek with his tongue, brows lowered. It was a theatrical performance of thought. He looked up at the ceiling, then back down at Karen. ‘There’s certainly an interesting argument to be made. On the one hand, you are seeking to breach medical confidentiality in the matter of transplant donation and further in the matter of blood test results. On the other hand, I could argue that since there is no need for the identity of these patients to be disclosed to the police, the courts or indeed the patients themselves, there is no breach and the public interest is such that it should be granted.’
‘And you think that argument could carry the court?’
‘I do consider myself an able enough advocate to win the argument. Or at the very least to set up grounds for appeal. I could certainly run this for you.’ He unfolded his hands and folded them again. ‘On the other hand …’ His eyebrows raised in a question.
Karen obediently let herself be drawn. ‘On the other hand, what?’
‘What is driving you here, Chief Inspector? It seems to me that you have already demonstrated the validity of your case. It’s rather like Sudoku, where you’ve filled in so many of the squares that the last two or three are inevitable.’ He unclasped his hands to tick off the points on his fingers. ‘Firstly, you have established a familial DNA connection between Ross Garvie and Tina McDonald’s murderer. That points to a father, an uncle, a brother or, I believe, possibly a cousin. Ross Garvie’s biological father has an absolute alibi, and you fully expect his DNA to exonerate him. Apart from Ross he has only daughters, so far as you have been able to ascertain. The only other close male relative that you are aware of is Gary Foreman, Ross Garvie’s uncle. Who also
had no sons. He had a potential link to the victim, in that we know he drove the bus on the route she regularly used to travel in town and which she almost certainly used on the night she was murdered. The man is dead, Chief Inspector. There is never going to be a trial, so “beyond reasonable doubt” is never going to be tested in this case. I would suggest you simply declare the case closed. Tell Tina McDonald’s family that the killer’s identity is now known but he is beyond human justice.’ He smiled, a pitying, indulgent smile. ‘I entirely understand your drive towards certainty. Not to mention the headlines such a novel approach will bring. But anything other than the course I’ve put forward is about you and not the case, I would suggest.’
His words shocked her. A lawyer rejecting a paying brief on moral grounds hadn’t featured on her expectations of how the day would go. ‘There’s still room for doubt.’
‘Only the kind of doubt that afflicts the blinkered and the partial. His family won’t like it, but you have to weigh that against the closure it will give Tina McDonald’s family.’
‘You’re right, Gary Foreman’s family won’t be happy. His mother in particular. She’ll be all over the tabloids, shouting the odds.’ It was a valid point, but Karen suspected she was using it to cover up her own desire for absolute answers. Because she had a sneaking suspicion Semple might be right about her motives.
‘No, they won’t be happy. But nothing you do at this point is going to make them happy. Besides, you can step up on to the high moral ground and say that you’re confident you have reached the correct conclusion without wasting Police Scotland’s budget or potentially invading the privacy of innocent transplant recipients.’
Karen breathed deeply. ‘But this isn’t Sudoku. It’s not about playing word-games for the media. It’s about truth and justice.’
He
shifted in his chair and leaned forward, forearms on the desk, hands clasped in front of him as if in earnest prayer. ‘Karen, you know better than that. You don’t have to wrap yourself in that tattered cloak to feel proud of the job you do. I’m not pressing you for a decision now. But I think you should go away and think about what really matters here. I’ll take it on if you are determined to go ahead with it, but I would advise you to consider what’s really in the best interests of your department and the victim’s family.’
C
hastened,
Karen took the back way from the Royal Mile to her office, down past the graffitied hoardings and the grimy stone of the railway viaduct. Sometimes her thoughts were too ugly and uncomfortable for the drama and beauty of the Edinburgh skyline. Semple had been right. She’d been so excited at the prospect of nailing a case with a flashy new trick that she hadn’t looked at the whole picture. She was getting things all out of proportion, something Phil would never have let her get away with.
Which reminded her that she had half-promised River that they could meet between trains that evening. She leaned against a hoarding and sent a text suggesting they meet for a quick Vietnamese meal near the station. Karen could unburden herself and discuss the options with a friend, as opposed to a lawyer who couldn’t know what really mattered to her.
She arrived back at the office to find Jason with his feet on the desk, a can of Irn Bru in one hand and in the other, a doughnut leaking what looked suspiciously like blood and pus. ‘Good to see you hard at work,’ she said, sounding as sour as she felt.
‘I
found the statements,’ he said, not even pretending to sit up. ‘Both of them. So I went to the shop. There’s one in the box for you. I got you the chocolate cream one.’
Sometimes, Karen thought, she didn’t deserve the people in her life. She flipped open the box and stared greedily at the sticky brown glaze dripping on to the greaseproof paper. ‘That’s a glorious sight,’ she sighed, reaching for it before she even took her coat off. She sank her teeth in, unable even to remember the last time she’d had so much sweet sugary pleasure. ‘Oh man,’ she groaned, muffled by chocolate crème pat. This, she thought, was utter self-indulgence. And maybe enough self-indulgence for one day.
‘How’d it go with the stallion?’
Karen spluttered crème pat over her desk. ‘Not fair!’ She wiped her mouth with a tissue from her drawer. ‘I think there’s something wrong with him. He thinks we don’t need the DNA to point the finger at Gary Foreman. There’s enough on the balance of probabilities, since we’re never going to have to stand up in court and prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. So he says it’s a waste of money to set him on the medics.’
Jason hoicked his feet off the desk and sat up straight. ‘What? Is this the invasion of the bodysnatchers? A lawyer turning down money?’
‘Apparently. I’ve to go away and think about it. But never mind that. I’ll think on my own time. What did you find?’
He handed her a couple of sheets of paper stapled together, holding another close to his chest. ‘This is the statement from Christopher Barnes.’
It began with the usual official introduction. Place, date, time, full name, address, date of birth. Christopher Barnes, an aircraft mechanic, had been fifty-three at the time. His words had the traditionally stilted air that came from a police officer translating them from colloquial English to officialese.
I
attended my place of work at Elstree Aerodrome at 8 a.m. on the morning of 5 May 1994. Upon arrival I changed into my overalls and collected my toolkit from my locker. I performed routine maintenance on a Piper Cheyenne III on the airfield apron. I then proceeded to the hangar where Mr Richard Spencer kept his Cessna Skylane. I arrived there at approximately 9.15. I unlocked the hangar, which was padlocked as usual and showed no sign of forced entry. I was to prepare the plane for a flight to Scotland that morning so I performed a series of checks on the plane itself and on the engine. There was nothing untoward about the body of the plane or the engine. When I checked it over, I could see nothing out of place.
At no point did I leave the hangar unattended. At one point the airfield manager John Saroyan came in and asked me about another customer’s plane. We spoke for about five minutes then he went away. Later, a young man came into the hangar and introduced himself as Will Abbott. He said his mother was to be a passenger in the plane. He was interested in the plane so I told him a bit about it. While he was there, I opened up the hangar and walked out to check there were no hazards outside or on the runway. I was gone for perhaps five minutes at most but Will Abbott was still there when I returned so the hangar was never left unattended.
It is possible that a foreign object such as a bomb could have been hidden in the plane. There are enclosed areas of fuselage which I had no reason to check. Mr Spencer had a key for the padlock and there is also a spare in the office safe. I suppose someone could have got in
without it being obvious. We do have security and the local police routinely check the hangar is locked up, but if someone was determined to get in at night they could. But nobody could have interfered with the plane that morning.
Karen read the last sentence aloud and looked at Jason. ‘One person could have.’
He nodded. ‘But who would suspect a teenager whose mother died in the crash?’
‘We would. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’
A similar preamble then a short statement:
I drove my mother Caroline Abbott and her friend Ellie MacKinnon to Elstree Aerodrome on the morning of 5 May 1994. We got there about ten o’clock. They were flying up to Scotland with their friend Richard Spencer and his wife Mary. Richard was a qualified pilot and had his own plane. Richard was filling out paperwork and the ladies were having a tour of the control tower. I was interested in the plane. I’d never seen a small plane up close before so I went to the hangar.
Mr Barnes, the mechanic, showed me the plane. Then he opened the doors and went outside to check everything was OK for take-off. He was gone for a few minutes and I was there the whole time so nobody could have got in then and planted a bomb. Then Mr Spencer and the passengers came out to the hangar. I gave my mum a hug and said goodbye to her and Ellie, then I watched as they got in the plane and taxied out to the runway and took off. That was the last time I saw my mum.
She
put the statement down. ‘Means, motive and opportunity. That’d be good enough for Miss Marple.’ She sighed. ‘Unfortunately we have the small matter of proof.’
‘How do we get that?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know if we can. We need to pull together as much circumstantial as we can.’
Jason produced another piece of paper with a flourish. ‘And speaking of circumstantial, see what I found!’
It was a statement from Frank Sinclair’s driver. Jason stabbed one paragraph with his finger. ‘Look at that. Either the mechanic was lying or he forgot.’
Karen read the key passage. ‘“Mr Sinclair told me to park the car behind the hangar so he could get away quickly after he’d said goodbye. So I did that. The mechanic came out of the back door of the hangar when he heard the car. He was interested in the Bentley’s engine so I opened up the bonnet to let him have a look. I suppose it took about ten minutes, but nobody went into the hangar past us.”’ She sighed. ‘But anyone could have gone in the front of the hangar, presumably. I wonder if they arrived before Ellie and Caroline and Will?’
Jason went back to the timeline. ‘According to this, they arrived a good twenty minutes ahead of the others.’
‘Where was Sinclair then? Before the tour of the control tower?’
‘It doesn’t say. Everybody thought it was the IRA, all they were looking at was access to the plane. They weren’t checking every movement of the passengers or the people with them because they were all above suspicion. Do you still think the plane crash is tied in with the Gabriel Abbott murder?’
‘I do. It’s too much of a stretch not to. Gabriel takes an interest in his history and boom, next thing he’s dead.’
‘But why?’
‘I
think because finding out the truth about his past would make him reconsider what he’d always believed about the plane crash. Not to mention that he’d be pretty bloody angry with Will for doing him out of his inheritance, which he’d realise as soon as he saw Ellie’s will. And who knows where that would have ended up, if he’d pursued it? All sorts of awkward questions start to rear their heads then. They’d probably already started, which was why Will – or Frank Sinclair – decided Gabriel had to be taken out of the picture.’