Shadow Man, page 24
‘Stewart was a loose end,’ Mahler tells Fergie. ‘Killing him wasn’t part of the original plan. And I think Mina can thank her lucky stars the killer didn’t know she had that iPad. Have we definitely identified it as belonging to Morven yet?’
Fergie shakes his head. ‘Maxine was going to ask the parents—’
‘Leave it for the moment. There’s someone I want to talk to first.’
40
Evicted from its home on Castle Wynd in the 1980s, Inverness Public Library sits on the edge of town, sandwiched between Farraline Park bus station and the Rose Street multi-storey. The former courthouse building has a gaunt, institutional feel, at least from the outside. But the interior is bright and welcoming enough to attract a number of people through its doors, even on a bright July morning with a promise of real heat by lunchtime.
If she doesn’t look at the messages filling up her inbox, Anna can just about make herself believe she’s back in the reading room at Glasgow University, revising for her finals. Just about. Until a text from Jamie flashes up with yet another amendment to the draft script she’s working through.
She scans the message, allows herself an internal eye-roll and switches the phone to airplane mode. The script’s gone through so many changes she’s starting to regret ever getting involved with it. Her mother’s convinced she’s planning a showbiz career as a direct insult to Morven’s memory, and Jamie . . . Jamie is concentrating so hard on fine-tuning his script that she’s starting to wonder if the production companies he’s been talking to are a little less enthused by his project than he’s led her to believe.
Time to walk away? God knows, she can think of several pretty good reasons to do just that. But when Anna looks down at the notes she’s made, she knows it’s not an option.
She’d been researching Patrick Sellar, one of the most infamous figures in the history of the Highland Clearances. Acting as the Duke of Sutherland’s agent, Sellar had evicted his lordship’s tenants with sufficient brutality, even by nineteenth-century standards, to be brought to trial in Inverness. Unsurprisingly, the jury of local landowners and merchants who depended on them for patronage had acquitted him – in about fifteen minutes, according to the court records.
History had judged Sellar and his kind more severely, and Anna’s not about to argue with that. But Jamie’s script reduces a complex situation to a morality tale for five-year-olds, painting an idyllic, soft-focus version of Highland life pre-Clearances, ripped apart by an evil cabal of absentee landlords. It’s a lazy, simplistic treatment – how the hell did he hook multiple TV companies on the strength of what she’s seen? But reading through the latest research, another story’s starting to emerge.
A story of resistance, this one – futile, in the end, like all last stands of a dying culture, but none the less inspiring for that. A story of women fighting the evictions, shoulder to shoulder, in defence of the only life they’d known. Women beaten unconscious, jailed, abused – dying, sometimes, of their treatment. Jamie had wanted something fresh, hadn’t he? Something to bring his project alive. Well, she’s just found it for him.
Anna notes down a couple more additions to her reading list, reaches for her laptop . . . and sees Lukas Mahler making his way across the room towards her. He looks shattered, his expression so sombre that a chill runs through her.
‘What is it?’ She starts to gather up her things. ‘Has something happened to my father?’
‘Nothing like that. I’m sorry, I did try to ring, but . . .’ he indicates the other tables, where the discreet tapping of laptop keyboards has fallen strangely silent since he walked in. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
There isn’t. But she’s been working all morning and a caffeine-deprivation headache is hovering somewhere above her right eye. ‘I could do with a coffee break, actually. I sometimes go across the road, or there’s Caffè Nero—’
‘I was thinking of somewhere less crowded. And a little more appropriate, if you don’t mind a short walk?’
Appropriate. She takes a gamble that he doesn’t mean Burnett Road police station this time. And musters a smile. ‘If you can guarantee good coffee, I’m in.’
The walk, down Queensgate and along Church Street to Leakey’s bookshop, turns out to take all of five minutes.
‘Café’s rumoured to be closing down soon, I’m afraid,’ Mahler tells her. ‘But it’s usually quiet around this time, and . . .’ He glances at her. ‘Oh, I see. You were expecting somewhere more inquisitorial? I’m afraid we’re hosing down the cells at Burnett Road at the moment. Flat white or espresso?’
An attempt at humour. As though having coffee with Mahler isn’t disturbing enough. She asks for a double espresso and makes her way to a table looking down on the huge wood-burning stove and row upon row of bookshelves. Located in the former Gaelic church next to the Old High, Leakey’s is one of her favourite places in the town – a home from home, more or less, when she was growing up.
She watches Mahler carry their coffees over. And a thought strikes her.
‘How did you know where to find me? I didn’t tell . . .’ At the look on his face, she shakes her head. ‘The B&B guy, right? He saw me heading out with my laptop.’ She hadn’t said she was going to the library, but he’d known she was a historian working on the Clearances. ‘That’s Inverness for you, Inspector. We make it our business to know what everyone’s up to.’
He shrugs. ‘Less true than it used to be in our parents’ day, perhaps. But Mr Cummins definitely enjoyed telling me how he worked out where you’d gone.’
‘I thought . . . I mean, your mother’s obviously local, but your accent—’
‘I was sent to school in England when I was seven. My accent was the first casualty of that.’
Seven? Christ. ‘That must have been hard.’
‘There were reasons.’ He tips a pack of sugar into his espresso, knocks half of it back. ‘I didn’t thank you properly, did I? For helping my mother the other day.’
‘I didn’t do that much, not really. How is she now?’
‘A little better. But if you hadn’t been there . . . you said you stopped volunteering at the women’s shelter in San Diego? That seems a pity, seeing how she responded to you.’
A burn of heat rising in her cheeks. ‘I hadn’t intended to. But one day, there was an . . . an incident, and I was injured. I tried to go back once I’d recovered, but I . . . I couldn’t go through the door.’ She clamps her hands round her empty cup to stop them shaking. ‘Just couldn’t do it. So when I saw Grace, I . . . I understood a little of what she was going through, that’s all.’
‘Anna, I . . .’ he glances at her cup, rattling on its saucer. And places his fingers on top to silence it. ‘I’m sorry. Truly. And I’m sorry to have to do this to you now, but I need to ask you something.’
He takes out his smartphone, touches an image to enlarge it and holds it out to her. ‘We’re hoping you might be able to identify this iPad. Have you ever seen it before?’
She leans forward and studies the image. The iPad has a distinctive monogrammed cover that she recognises as a famous designer brand, but other than that . . . she shakes her head.
‘I’m sorry, no. Morven would love it, though, she’s a real labels girl, and—’ the look on his face stops her in her tracks. ‘You think it was hers, don’t you? Where did you find it?’
‘It was in the possession of a man called Donnie Stewart. He worked as a kitchen porter at Bunchrew House, and—’
‘The man who was found murdered in the Ness Islands? How did he get Morven’s . . . oh, Christ.’ A sudden bitterness painting the back of her throat. ‘You think he killed her.’
Mahler looks as though he’s trying to pick his words carefully. ‘We think it’s probable Stewart was involved, yes. But it’s unlikely he was working alone. Is there anything else you remember about that evening, anything at all that could help us?’
Does he really think she hasn’t asked herself that? ‘I’ve gone over it in my head so many times, but it’s all . . . jumbled, like bits and pieces of a dream. Sometimes I wonder . . .’
‘What?’
She shrugs. ‘It seems like the harder I try to remember, the more confused it gets.’
‘Then don’t. Stop trying for the whole picture, and look for just one element – a sight, a sound, maybe – that you can focus on. If you can find that, we’ll work from there. Make sense?’
‘It does, actually. Thank you.’
‘Good.’ He glances at his watch. ‘Are you going back to the library after this?
‘Too much going on in my head right now, I think. Why?’
‘The B&B, then.’ He drains his coffee, stands up. And produces what could almost pass for a smile. ‘Shall we? I think better when I’m on the move. And you can tell me about your research as we walk.’
A police escort back to the B&B? So much for keeping a low profile while she gets her head straight. But Mahler’s already heading for the stairs – and maybe he’s right, she concedes. Maybe she’ll never make sense of that night if she keeps trying to force things. And the memory he’s just made her live through again is plenty to cope with for one day.
They walk up Queensgate and through the Victorian market with its mix of quirky shops and inevitable tourist traps. It’s the first time Anna’s spent much time in the city centre, and although she can see some of the positive effects of the council’s much-vaunted regeneration plans, there have been casualties too. Some of the old established businesses have disappeared, the premises either left empty or occupied by charity or pop-up shops. Inverness has always been a fairly prosperous town, but even here, the lingering after-effects of the recession are obvious.
At the foot of the Market Brae Steps, there’s a ‘Yes Inverness’ stall, decked out in blue and white saltires, its supporters studiously ignoring the group of ‘Better Together’ workers waving Union Jacks outside McDonald’s. Mahler dodges a couple of attempts to present him with a balloon from both camps, and waves Anna on towards Stephen’s Brae, the hill leading up to Crown.
‘Should be a little less fervent this way, thankfully. Unless you’re keen to be harangued relentlessly by born-again activists of either stripe?’
‘I didn’t notice any haranguing.’ As far as she could tell, both sides had been well-behaved, taking any heckling in good part. ‘And this is a massive thing we’re living through. You can’t just pretend it isn’t happening.’
‘And yet here I am, doing exactly that. On the nineteenth of September, half the country— Anna, what is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I just . . .’ A memory, rising up to take her by surprise. ‘Morven would have loved all this, you know. She wasn’t political, but she’d have made sure she was in the spotlight somehow – when one of her friends ran for the student council at uni, Morven was in there with her, getting her face all over the campaign. Which reminds me, I wanted to ask when I can have those papers back – the ones I brought back from Glasgow? I need to do a bit more work on them.’
‘I thought you’d finished the scrapbooks for your mother?’
‘I have. But you said Morven must have known her killer – and you’re right, she’d never have let someone she didn’t know and trust into her suite. So I thought if I went through her papers and put a proper archive together, I could—’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’ They’re walking past the abandoned shell of the old Inverness Academy, boarded up and dilapidated behind its rusting fence when Mahler turns to stare at her. ‘Please tell me I’ve got this wrong. Please tell me you haven’t been running round the town playing Miss bloody Marple with a double bloody murderer on the loose!’
‘Do you want to shout a little louder? I’m not sure they got all of that.’ Anna nods at the group of Japanese tourists gathered by the church. Mahler barks an explosive curse and produces a terrifying smile as the group files past. As soon as they’ve gone, he turns to glare at her.
‘Let me try to explain. My team and I, we’re the police. We’re the ones you call to investigate a crime, because we’re the trained professionals, the ones who’re out there day after day, chasing your sister’s killer—’
‘And getting nowhere!’
Silence. Layers of weariness in his face before he nods, looks away. ‘Sometimes it feels like that, yes. But we do it anyway. Because it’s our job to be at the sharp end, not yours. Look, Donnie Stewart is dead – lured to an isolated spot and killed in a spectacularly brutal fashion. What does that suggest to you?’
Put like that, the answer’s obvious. ‘It was him. The other person involved in Morven’s murder.’
Mahler nods. ‘Stewart represented a threat to the killer, and it got him killed. You’re raking through Morven’s past, turning over every rock you can find and hoping something crawls out. Do I have to spell it out?’
Does he really think she hasn’t thought of that? ‘Now you’re trying to scare me. But I’m not a threat to him – and I’m not an idiot, Inspector. If I did turn up anything, I’d tell you right away. I just . . . I need to do this.’
‘For Morven? Or for yourself?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘If you put yourself in harm’s way, yes. Very much. I understand the need for action, believe me, but I can’t sanction this.’
‘I’m pretty sure I didn’t ask you to.’ She tries another tack. ‘Look, you think it might be someone from her time at uni, don’t you? That’s why you asked about Conn.’
‘It’s something we’re looking at. We’re also looking at her social media interactions, her professional contacts, her future plans, so— What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Her plans.’ She swallows the raw sourness in her throat. ‘When I spoke to Glyn Hadley, he told me she was making plans for . . . something to do with her work, that’s all he’d tell me. But that’s not . . . why would you be interested in that?’
Silence. Mahler staring at her as though he’s making up his mind about something. Finally, he nods. ‘Okay. To convince you finally to walk away from this . . . Morven was researching a new series. She wanted to investigate cold cases – unsolved murders, unexplained disappearances, that sort of thing. We know she’d already talked to one family, and we’re pretty sure she had another couple lined up.’
‘You think that’s why—’
‘I don’t know!’ They’ve reached the entrance to the B&B. Mahler scrubs his hand across his forehead. ‘Sorry. I don’t know for sure, of course. But if she’d uncovered something about an unsolved murder, the killer would need to prevent it getting out. Having thought he’d got away with it—’
‘I see.’ Trying to keep her voice steady as what he’s telling her sinks in. ‘And if he thought I was following in her footsteps, he might not be too keen on that, right?’
‘Anna, I don’t want to alarm you. But I’m asking you not to continue your research – and I think it would be a good idea if you went back to your parents’ house.’ She starts to say something, but Mahler holds up his hand. ‘That one’s not negotiable. Maxine’s your family liaison officer, I need you to stay in contact with her – and if you’re planning any more day trips, I’m asking you to let me know.’
Day trips? She shakes her head. ‘The furthest I’ll be going from now on is Helmsdale – Badbea, maybe, if Jamie wants to work on his final scenes. And I’ll tell Maxine—’
‘Not Maxine. Me.’ The faintest lightening of his expression as he looks at her, something that in anyone but Mahler she might have called a smile. ‘One of my tutors used to say historians were the guardians of our past and protectors of our future. I feel losing one unnecessarily would be very careless of me.’ He looks at his watch again. ‘Please, think about what I’ve said. And if you remember anything else—’
‘I’ll get in touch.’
She watches Mahler walk back towards the Market Brae steps. And waits until he’s out of sight before she slumps down on the wooden bench by the B&B’s entrance. Unsolved murders. Cold cases. Christ, what had Morven been thinking of?
Anna looks down at her hands, waits for them to stop shaking. Mahler’s right, she needs to go back to her parents’ house. If she’s going to continue her research, it has to be somewhere she feels safe. Safer, at least, after what he’s told her. Somewhere to get her head together, maybe. Because in spite of her fighting talk to Mahler, inside she’s quivering with fear.
She’s never been a risk-taker, never been the idiot victim in the slasher movies, skipping down the cellar steps to face the monster in the shadows. And after that day at the women’s shelter, her store of bravery is all but gone, used up in those long, terrifying moments before help had arrived. But this . . . she can’t walk away from this now, however much she wants to.
Mahler’s talking about cold cases, but he’s still investigating Conn. It’s a legitimate line of enquiry, even she can see that. But he’s wasting time – Conn didn’t kill Morven, one of her cold cases did. And there’s only one person left who knows how to find which one. One person who knows how Morven’s mind worked, how she’d have chosen which case to follow, which to let go.
Her sister.
41
When Anna calls at her parents’ house, they’re in the garage. Her father’s kneeling on the garage floor and wrestling with a new pressure washer while her mother’s squinting at the instruction leaflet, trying to read the tiny print without her glasses. It’s so absurdly normal, this vision of the life they used to have, that it makes her feel like an intruder.
