Past Lying, page 33
By the time she reached the end of the three hundred and fifty-nine pages, she’d taken sixty-two photographs. Approximately an eighth of the pages in this first draft had flagged-up alterations ranging from single words to, check with dave bryant re correct procedure.
Karen replaced the MS in the right place and carried on working backwards. By noon she’d worked her way through three of Jake Stein’s first drafts. The notes in the margins appeared in comparable quantities in each. And looking at the remaining boxes, it seemed likely she’d find more examples.
She leaned back in her chair and allowed herself a moment of congratulation. It had been Daisy who had mentioned in passing the lack of corrections on the pages they’d seen but Karen hadn’t paid attention at the time. But the sight of Ross McEwen working on his manuscript at his kitchen table had lodged in the back of her mind and she’d recalled what Daisy had noticed.
There were no corrections on the manuscript that was supposedly by Jake Stein.
OK, maybe it was the very first draft and he hadn’t gone back over it. Or else it was a revised draft that already incorporated corrections. If it was the latter, it didn’t make sense that all they had was a partial. It didn’t prove her hypothesis one way or another, but it was suggestive.
She packed up the boxes she’d opened that morning and replaced them. Then she went back to the original manuscript of The Vanishing of Laurel Oliver. It sat in its original position within the box, the material that had been on top of it to one side. It had occurred to Karen that because they’d had a photocopy, they’d never studied the original. Perhaps there were notes too faint to have been picked up?
As she read, what struck her was how tonally wrong it seemed. She’d learned a lot about Jake Stein since she’d first read the novel, and nothing she had learned made her think it likely that he’d paint himself in such an unfavourable light. Even if he was supposedly ventriloquising Ross McEwen, Karen struggled to imagine Stein wanting the world to see him like this. And did he even have the insight into his own narcissistic personality to access this image? OK, he was a writer of fiction. It was his business to create characters who provoked reactions in readers – from love to hate, and every shade in between. But could he have projected those characteristics on to someone who was supposed to correspond to himself? She wasn’t convinced.
But literary criticism wasn’t evidence.
She turned the page that read:
THE VANISHING OF LAUREL OLIVER
Part 2
7
And there it was. In faint pencil, too faint to have left an impression on the front of the page. The same block capitals Jake Stein used throughout the archive. The same block capitals that would be so much easier to forge than cursive handwriting.
SO, ANONYMOUS PHONE CALL TO POLICE: ‘HERE’S WHERE YOU’LL FIND THE BODY’
WHEN THEY SEARCH ‘ROB’S’ HOUSE, THEY’LL FIND THE HARD DRIVE. DIFFICULT TO SEE HOW HE WON’T GO DOWN.
BASTARD WILL GET LIFE. THEN TVLO WILL BE PUBLISHED WHEN I’M DEAD AND GONE, HE’LL BE EXONERATED BUT HIS LIFE WILL BE UTTERLY FUCKED. AND HERS TOO.
On the surface, it looked like confirmation of the theory she’d developed. But it felt too obvious. Stein wouldn’t have needed belt and braces; events would simply have unfolded as he’d set them up. If this was supposedly the posthumous manuscript that would tell the truth, why not let it speak for itself? He was an author, after all. He wrote novels that reached a conclusion that made sense, that didn’t need auxiliary explanations. Taking it at face value meant tying herself in knots again.
But there was another way of looking at this.
The crazy idea she’d been keeping at arm’s length all morning unfolded in front of her in one pencil note. It was as treacherous as walking out on thin ice. But it made more sense than anything else.
It was the mirror image of what they’d all fallen for.
41
Karen took the long way home. Down the gloom of the Cowgate to the eye-catching modernism of the Scottish Parliament; round the front of Holyrood Palace (they could probably house every street sleeper in Edinburgh in there since the Queen wasn’t going to be around for a while); through the New Calton burial ground; a tip of the metaphorical hat to the Burns Monument; across the back of Calton Hill to Royal Terrace, then across the top of Leith Walk and home. The rain had stopped and she was pleasantly surprised to see how many people were on the streets, determinedly pursuing their daily exercise. Were people getting the hang of this now?
She let herself into the flat and brewed a coffee she didn’t need but craved before she sat down and turned her phone back on. Voicemail from Jason. ‘Boss, I got a call from the Dog Biscuit’s PA. I’m back on the team. No news about Mum. What needs doing?’ Nothing you can do, son.
And from Daisy. ‘All quiet on the Western Front. McEwen was murdering Irish Druids when I looked in on him and River has been taking samples of that horrible muck and figuring out how to preserve the bones.’
And from Hamish. She debated whether to listen but in the end she realised it wasn’t fair to keep ignoring him. ‘Karen.’ A pause. ‘My heart’s hurting. We were all overwrought the other night. We need to sort this out. Call me, please.’ Overwrought? That wasn’t the word she’d have come up with. She’d get round to calling him soon. Probably. She thought of all the things she liked about him. Then remembered the things that made her uncomfortable.
Later.
Right now, she had to think. She went back to the files. Ross McEwen had told Daisy he had no alibi for the night Lara Hardie disappeared. Ironically, that was less suspicious than having some elaborate timetable supported by car park payments, theatre tickets, restaurant reservations, a bar full of mates. Which of us, a year after the event, would remember what we were doing on a particular Monday evening unless there was something in our diary? What had he said? Karen zipped through the interview notes. ‘If it was a Monday, I’d have watched Only Connect and University Challenge. That’s all I can tell you.’ Great. Even if he could remember the questions and what frock Victoria Coren had been wearing, in these days of streaming, it was no proof that he’d watched it live.
Back to the notes. The last time Lara Hardie had been seen by anyone other than her flatmates was at a Jake Stein book event in Dunbar, the night before she disappeared. Jason had spoken to the organiser, who had said she hadn’t paid much attention to the signing queue because her daughter was over from East Kilbride for the weekend.
Karen reached for the phone and dialled. ‘Jason,’ she said.
‘All right, boss. Thanks for getting me back on the team.’
‘Thank Charlie Todd for persuading your fuckwit brother to get you off the hook. Don’t you ever try to protect Ronan again, Jason. You’ve seen now where it gets you.’
‘Aye, sorry about that. So, what’s the score? Is there anything I can be doing?’
‘I take it there’s no more news about Sandra?’
‘I spoke to them this morning, they said she’d had a better night, so maybe she’s turned the corner?’
‘I hope so. Listen, there’s one wee detail you can maybe clear up for me. You spoke to the woman who organised the Jake Stein event in Dunbar? The night before Lara Hardie disappeared.’
Pause for thought. ‘Yeah, I did. She was the bookseller on the night. I don’t think she noticed anything funny.’
‘That’s what your note said. Did you get on OK with her? Is she somebody you could go back to?’
There was almost a laugh in his voice. ‘You know me, boss. I’m good with women of a certain age. They all want to mother me.’ A sudden intake of breath, then he recovered himself. ‘I got on fine with her. How?’
‘I want you to speak to her again. I want you to ask her whether she noticed any other writers there that night?’
‘You mean Ross McEwen? Is he in the frame now?’
‘No leading questions, Jason. No names. Just, did she notice any other writers there. Try to keep it casual.’ A big ask for any of them, especially for Jason. ‘Tell her it was on your list of questions and somehow you missed it off and now your evil boss is on your case.’
‘Good cop, bad cop,’ he said. ‘Will do, boss. Soon as I get off this call.’
‘There’s something else I need you to ask her. The one thing we haven’t chased down is the actual crime scene. You remember the cabin in the woods where the Laurel Oliver murder took place in the book?’
‘The converted shipping container, right?’
‘Exactly. The manuscript sites it in the Tyninghame woods, but there’s nothing in that area that even resembles that description. Not even any cabins or bothies. The local lads couldn’t come up with anywhere, so we had to give up on it. There’s just too many miles of empty coast along East Lothian to scour for something so nebulous. And it might not even be in East Lothian, he might have made that up. And we don’t know who owns it, which ruled out a search at the Land Registry. Do you think you could drag the conversation round to whether any writer she knows has a wee bolthole on her patch?’
‘I could try,’ he said, dubious.
‘Come on, Jason, you said yourself that women of a certain age take to you. You are so the man for the job. Me and Daisy, we’d never get anywhere. This is our best shot, short of checking out every blip on the Ordnance Survey map between Musselburgh and Torness.’
‘I’ll do my best. By the way, boss. I had this thought. I’m probably totally off the page here, and you’ve likely junked this idea already. But we’ve been fixated on the idea that Lara Hardie was picked out at random. What if she was the real target after all, not just some lassie who happened to fit the killer’s requirements? And then the book got written to cover up the real motivation?’
It hardly seemed credible, but Jason had come up with an apparently feasible theory that turned the case on its head. They’d all fallen for the neat version of events laid out in The Vanishing of Laurel Oliver without even considering that it might be a staggering double bluff. Karen had come close, but even she hadn’t made that final crucial leap.
Karen combed the file again, trying to find the loose thread that might provide something that was actual proof. If Lara had been a genuine target, there must have been a motive. There was nothing to suggest she’d had any kind of relationship with either McEwen or Stein. Nothing to indicate any sexual or emotional connection, and nobody had even hinted that she was the sort of woman who would revel in the secrecy of such a thing. Reading her work had squashed any idea that either man might have wanted to steal it for himself. She was biddable, it was true. But Karen couldn’t think of a single reason why that would have made her a victim of such a cold-blooded killing. Jason’s suggestion was tempting, but she feared she was being lured down a dark cul-de-sac.
Nothing to do but think. Karen hated inactivity so she got into the car and drove down to Barnton to check on River’s progress. There were even more white-suited bodies in the garage than before. River was in the inspection pit. At least, Karen thought it was River. Mask, goggles, hood, elbow-length protective gloves. A pair of video cameras on tripods were recording what was happening. River put her hands into the stinking mess and emerged with a curved bone. She passed it up to one of the other techs, who bagged it and passed it on. ‘Another rib,’ River said.
She looked up as Karen approached. ‘Pity we couldn’t have lifted it out intact. But it would probably have leaked everywhere.’
‘In fairness—’ Shane started.
‘Oh, I know, Shane, I’m not blaming you. With all that bloody polyurethane foam, it wasn’t an option.’
‘How is it going?’ Karen asked.
‘It’s definitely human remains,’ River said. ‘At this point, one human. I’m taking out the bones by hand.’ She frowned at the bag’s contents, slopping gently against the margins. ‘I think we’re at the point now where we can start taking some of the sludge out. Isha – I’m getting out now, and you can take over. Sorry, you’re the only one small enough.’
Isha said nothing. She merely went off to the van and returned with another pair of elbow-length gauntlets. River edged out of the pit and said, ‘Here’s how we’re going to do this. Isha’s going to scoop up the liquid a cup at a time and pass it up to one of you. You, the guy with the earring.’ A quiet ripple of laughter as a broad-shouldered man pointed to his chest. ‘Yes, you. You sieve it into a jug, check that there are no small bones in it, then transfer it into that big plastic bucket. I need this to be done carefully. I don’t want to lose anything. Once we get the level down a bit, I’ll swap with you, Isha. Is everybody clear on that?’
A murmur of assent, and Isha continued the grisly task. River walked across to Karen, stripping off her rubber gauntlets to reveal another pair of protective gloves beneath. ‘I don’t envy you this job,’ Karen said.
River shrugged. ‘I’d rather have this than maggot masses. We’re making good progress. Once we clear the bones and the liquid around them, we’ll get them off to the lab and Shane’s team can extract the bag and take it over to Gartcosh.’
‘You’re not taking the remains to Gartcosh?’
‘No. All my kit is in Dundee. There’s nothing they can do there that we can’t, and the one bonus I get from working for Police Scotland is that events like this make good teaching opportunities.’
‘Aye, well, you wouldn’t be doing it for the money,’ Karen sighed. ‘How long till you can give me some answers?’
‘Basics? When I get her on the table. Gendering of the bones, approximate age, any obvious bone injuries. DNA?’ River pulled a face. ‘We’ll certainly get it from the teeth. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘Speaking of teeth, can you get a chart across to me asap? If it is Lara Hardie, we’ve already got her dental records on file. What about CoD?’
‘Unless it’s something macro like a skull fracture, not much chance. I suppose it’s possible there might be some drug residue in the soup, but I wouldn’t put money on it having much evidential value.’ Seeing Karen’s disappointed face, she added, ‘She didn’t put herself in that inspection pit, Karen. You’re a good bit down the road already.’
‘I know. But we’ve come so far, I really need a result. A “case closed” I can put to the Dog Biscuit. When she sees how much of her precious budget I’ve blown on this body recovery, she’ll stroke out if she doesn’t get some good headlines out of it.’
‘You’ve never held back before because you might upset the bosses. Simon Lees used to be in a perpetual state of red-faced rage when he was in charge.’
‘I know. But the Macaroon had a grudging respect for us. Ann Markie acts like we’re the cross she has to bear, the price she has to pay for something she can’t even remember breaking.’
River patted her shoulder. ‘Look on the bright side. When this bloody pandemic is over—’
‘You think it will be over? It doesn’t show any signs of dying down.’
‘It’s early days yet. It’s not the big one, Karen. There will be a big one, the perfect balance between infectivity and lethality, but this isn’t it. To be brutal, it’s not lethal enough. And when it’s over, people are going to be making choices about their priorities. There are going to be all sorts of job vacancies all over the place. If we’re lucky, Ann Markie will end up running some poor benighted English force.’
‘I can dream.’ Whatever she was going to say next was lost when her phone rang. ‘Jason, my man. What have you got for me?’
‘You’re going to like this, boss. You’re going to like this a lot.’
42
With an apologetic shrug, Karen stepped away from River and the forensics team. ‘Fire away, Jason.’
‘The bookseller, she’s called Louise Fairbairn, she was a bit surprised to hear from me again, but she wasn’t bothered about it. I said we were trying to fill in some gaps about Lara’s disappearance and I wondered whether she could remember anybody else who was there who might be able to help. Turns out half the audience were her customers and she’s going to email me their contact details.’
Karen chuckled. ‘Good approach.’
‘I said did they ever get other writers turning up to events. Just in a chatty kind of way, you know?’
‘And, she goes, “Funny you should ask, Ross McEwen stopped in that night. He wasn’t there from the start, which is why I sort of forgot about him.” She said . . . ’ The sound of pages being turned. ‘She said he showed up at the beginning of the Q&A, hung about for a bit then went outside while Jake was packing up and saying his goodbyes.’
‘Did he make any contact with Lara Hardie?’
‘She didn’t see anything. But she was busy dealing with book sales.’
‘And did you record this, Jason?’ Please.
‘I did. I’ll forward it to you.’
‘Nice work. That takes us another wee bit further forward.’
‘But that’s not all.’ He sounded lively for the first time in days. ‘I went on about how lucky she was to live down the coast and how lovely it was and how me and Eilidh like driving down for a walk and a fish supper or a nougat wafer. And I said it must be a magnet for writers wanting to escape from the city. And she was off.’
‘You’ve been playing a blinder today, Jason. Who did she finger?’
‘Duncan Drysdale and Jess Hawkins live in North Berwick. Linda Marshall, J. P. Logan and his wife, Rona Balfour, they live in Dunbar. There were a couple of others in Haddington and somebody in Skateraw. I asked about boltholes and she said Deni Blackadder has a place at Cockburnspath and some Olga lassie from Belarus has a caravan at St Abb’s Head. I’ve got it all on the voice recording.’
