Past Lying, page 35
‘Deni Blackadder. She has a wee place here, overlooking the sea.’
‘I know fine who you mean. She writes books, eh? Dresses like a jumble sale?’
‘I know about the books,’ Karen said. ‘Where will I find her?’
‘Back to the roundabout, last exit. Turn left and just before you get to the harbour, you’ll see a wee track off to the left. Go down there about quarter of a mile and you’ll see her place tucked in against the cliff. It’s two of they shipping containers welded together and turned into a kind of house. You wouldnae catch me living there.’ He closed the window without further explanation.
Five minutes later, they’d reached the end of the track. On the outside, the containers were unmistakable, right down to the fading logos of shipping companies. A Harley Davidson trike was parked under a wooden lean-to. ‘That must be a bloody cold way to travel in winter,’ Karen said.
‘Not to mention spring, summer and autumn. She’s obviously doing well, those things aren’t cheap.’
As they spoke, the cabin door opened and a woman emerged. She was tall and rangy, dressed in leather trousers, biker boots and a heavy sweater that appeared to have been knitted from a bag of remnants of many colours. Her hair was a chaos of black curls, her face lean and angular. ‘What’s going on here? Who the fuck are you? This is a lockdown and this is private property.’
Karen produced her ID again. ‘We’re the polis. We’re from the HCU.’
A frown flashed across her face then she grinned. ‘Historic Cases Unit. The lassies that wake the dead. So what’s this in aid of? It’s fiction I write, you know. I don’t dabble in true crime.’ She sat down on her doorstep. ‘Sorry I can’t invite you in. Lockdown, and all that. Plus I haven’t made my bed since a week past Tuesday.’
In spite of the spikiness, Karen warmed to Blackadder. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions about a case we’ve reopened. Well, technically it wasn’t actually closed but it wasn’t what you’d call active. And we need to check some details with you.’
‘Me? I know fuck all about fuck all. Who’s dead?’
Karen shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you. It’s complicated and I don’t want anything leaking until we’ve spoken to the relatives.’
Blackadder pulled a battered silver cigarette case from her trouser pocket, followed by an equally battered old Dunhill lighter. She opened the case to reveal a row of roll-ups. ‘Smoke?’
Daisy and Karen both shook their heads. Karen really hoped the smell of dope wasn’t going to hit her. ‘So, do you mind answering some questions?’
‘If I can, I will. Least I can do, living as I do on the proceeds of crime.’
She’d used that line before, Karen could tell by the smirk. ‘You live here alone?’
‘I do. Before we all became prisoners of our own company, I brought women back occasionally, but mostly I tried not to. I like the emptiness. I write better here than anywhere else.’
‘So you don’t invite friends, colleagues to join you?’
‘Nope. If they want to write by the sea, they can find their own bolthole.’
‘Not even if they’re mentors, like Ross McEwen?’
Her face sharpened and she took a deep drag of her blameless cigarette. ‘What’s Ross got to do with it?’
‘I did my homework. I know he helped you with your first novel.’
‘I didn’t even have this place then. After I had this craned in, everybody wanted to come and have a look, but I wasn’t about to have a housewarming party. That cheeky bastard Jake Stein turned up out of the blue one day, but he didn’t even get a cup of tea. I let him take a piss but that was all. I had a cup of coffee with Ann Cleeves at the picnic table—’ she gestured beyond the containers to where a basic picnic table sat near the edge of the cliff. ‘She was researching locations for one of her Vera books. Lovely woman, but she didn’t get inside.’
This was going nowhere, fast. ‘Does anyone else have a key? Someone local, in case there’s a problem?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m pals with the folk up at the campsite. If there’s a problem, they’ve got my phone number.’
‘No spare key under a plant pot?’
She grinned and waved her arm. ‘No plant pots, Karen.’
‘Ever had an intruder? Burglary? Local kids?’
‘Nope. People round here think I’m mad but they’re not hostile. And besides, I’ve got three locks on the door. Reinforced glass on the windows, because when it blows here, it really fucking blows.’
‘Were you here last April? Around a year ago?’
Deni pulled an iPhone out of her hip pocket. ‘Give me a minute . . . ’ She frowned at the screen. ‘Yeah, I was suffering from rewrites. I was here from the third to the thirtieth. My editor came up for a few days, but apart from that, I was locked into my bloody fucking binfire of a book.’ A crooked smile.
Karen looked at Daisy, who gave her best blank look. Definitely nowhere to go. She smiled. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you. Thanks for your cooperation.’
‘Your books are great,’ Daisy said. ‘I love the characters, especially Sophy. I totally get her.’
Blackadder looked startled. ‘Wow. Thanks. I never thought I’d have a police officer fan.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Wait a minute.’ She disappeared inside.
‘I never had you pegged as a fan girl,’ Karen teased.
Blackadder appeared with a book in one hand and a Sharpie in the other. ‘The courier just brought these yesterday. It’s my new book.’ She flipped it open. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Daisy.’
Karen couldn’t quite credit this breathless version of her sergeant. Blackadder scribbled something, signed with a flourish then shut the book. ‘It’s been fun, girls. Now I know where to come for professional advice on cold cases.’
‘Any time,’ Daisy said. Karen nudged her back towards the car. Deni Blackadder leaned in her doorway, arms folded, a knowing smile on her lips.
‘What was that?’ Karen asked.
Daisy managed a three-point turn without ending up at the bottom of the cliff. ‘I think she’s a really interesting writer. Challenging. You should give her a try.’
As they reached the end of the track, Daisy said, ‘Do you mind if we drive down to the harbour? I feel like stretching my legs.’
‘Sure. I’ll wait in the car, I’m not in the mood for a face full of North Sea spray.’
When she’d parked, Daisy took a quick look at what Blackadder had written. Karen spotted the familiar pinking of her cheeks. ‘What did she write?’
Daisy passed it over. ‘To Daisy. Who really does get it. In sisterhood, Blackadder,’ Karen read. ‘Looks like you’ve got a fan too,’ she said, handing it back with a grin. ‘Away you go and walk off the excitement.’
She watched Daisy head into the wind. Jake Stein had been inside Blackadder’s shipping container home, albeit briefly. But long enough to realise it made good copy as a crime scene. It wasn’t an exact match with the book, but it wasn’t far off. And he’d have known about the connection between Blackadder and McEwen. He might well have told McEwen all about the bolthole, for that very reason. Nevertheless, it proved nothing.
Then, in a bid to divert herself from her frustration at their failure to make progress, she googled ‘Olga poet Belarus Scotland’. Up came Olga Kotova, a poet in her forties who had been resident in the UK for a dozen years. She taught at the Open University, and seemed to appear regularly at book festivals. No blurbs from Ross McEwen, obviously. She didn’t seem a likely fit for a friend of his.
Karen scrolled on. Olga doing events; Olga publishing a new translation of some poet Karen had never heard of; Olga chairing a panel at the Edinburgh Book Festival; Olga winning a prize for a translation of a book of short stories; Olga—Karen stopped and went back. The short story prize was sponsored by an Edinburgh legal firm. Binns McIndoe Harris.
Hardly daring to breathe, she opened another window and googled the law firm. BMH were a blue-chip outfit with offices on George Street. Their selling point was ‘Cradle to the Grave – all your legal needs. From Family Trusts to Wills & Probate, and everything in between.’ She clicked through to ‘Who we are’ and halfway down the page, she found herself looking at a very stylish headshot of Rosalind Harris. ‘Rosalind heads our Wills & Probate team. She is an expert in ensuring your testatory desires are met in every respect.’ A part-time job that didn’t bring in the kind of money Jake Stein could earn? It didn’t sound like it to Karen.
She went back to the page about Olga’s prize. This time, she googled the prize itself. On the ‘history’ page, she found not only the details of the winners but also the photographs of the presentation events. Four years ago, there was Olga, accepting a crystal trophy and a cheque from Rosalind Harris. The following year, in one of the ‘candid’ shots from the reception, Olga and Rosalind faced each other, laughing and toasting each other with champagne flutes. Nothing the year after, but last year, Rosalind and Olga were seated next to each other at the celebratory dinner.
Had they been looking at the wrong bolthole?
44
At least they had a proper address for Olga Kotova. She’d been living in her caravan for long enough to be on the council tax register. Karen had set Jason the task of finding where it was; he had developed a certain expertise at negotiating his way round lists, usually by charming some woman into doing the searching for him. In spite of almost everyone working from home, he’d tracked down someone with the right database access, and he’d found the details by the time they’d arrived at St Abb’s.
‘ “Twinned with New Asgard”?’ Daisy exclaimed as they entered the village. ‘What the actual?’
‘It’s a sort of joke. They filmed the Avengers: Endgame movie here and renamed it. I think we’ve gone past the caravan site.’
Daisy groaned and turned round. ‘Sorry, got carried away.’
A hand-lettered sign said the site was closed due to COVID-19. A long chain extended across the gate, a central padlock presumably there to give existing residents access. The office seemed deserted. They left the car on the grass verge by the entrance and walked in.
There were only a handful of vans parked up. The place had an air of empty desolation. Apparently, few people were prepared to weather lockdown in the teeth of exposure to the vicious winds that beat against this coast. Karen had dug deeper into the images of Olga online and found a Scottish magazine feature about the poet that showed her sitting in a folding chair outside her van with the sea in the distance. At the far end of the site, she spotted a couple of smart-looking static caravans that matched the one in the photograph.
They approached on gravel paths that were beginning to sprout weeds. The nearer of the two showed no sign of life, but there was a light on in the farther one. ‘Sometimes,’ Karen sighed, ‘I wish I was a private eye, not a polis.’
‘How?’
‘Well, I could roll up to Olga’s front door and pretend to be a journalist researching a big feature on Rosalind Harris. Desperate to know the woman behind the wills. We could sit and have a proper blether about how Ros loves to come down to the seaside for a fish supper. So much so that Olga’s given her a key to come and go as she pleases.’
‘I can see the attraction,’ Daisy admitted.
As they grew closer, they could hear the insistent beat of a drum and bass track. ‘Really?’ Karen said.
‘Don’t be so judgemental,’ Daisy scolded.
‘Judgemental is what I live for, Sergeant.’ She grinned. ‘Come on, let’s chap the door.’
The music stopped. The woman who opened the caravan door couldn’t have been more different from Deni Blackadder. For starters, her hair was arranged in a French plait and her round face above the dramatic black and silver mask was devoid of make-up, emphasising her large grey eyes. She was elegant in black slacks, ballet slippers and a sweater in a fine marled grey wool. ‘I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong van,’ she said, her accent faint but very definitely present.
‘Are you Olga Kotova?’
She seemed to withdraw. ‘I am. Who is asking?’ Karen and Daisy went through the usual rigmarole while Olga grew more obviously wary. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you here?’
Karen recited the same spiel she’d given Deni Blackadder. It seemed not to alleviate Olga Kotova’s unease. Karen wondered what in her past had left her with so little trust of a police officer on a sunny afternoon. ‘You’re not suspected of any crime,’ she tried. ‘I’m sorry we can’t be more explicit about the case we are investigating, but there are good reasons for that. We want to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’
‘Do I need a lawyer?’
‘I don’t believe so. But if that would make you more comfortable, that would be fine, provided we can organise it within the lockdown rules.’
Olga gave her a long hard stare. She seemed to be memorising Karen’s face and matching it against some database in her head. ‘Wait there,’ she said, disappearing back indoors. Karen and Daisy exchanged looks, shrugged. Waited.
At length, Olga reappeared, struggling with three folding chairs. ‘Please, make way.’ She leaned the chairs one by one against the outside of the van. She took one and marched round the end, out of the wind. ‘Help yourselves,’ she called as she vanished.
They grabbed a chair each and followed her, setting themselves down more than two metres from her. She seemed to think Daisy was too close and waved her back a few centimetres. Then she took out her phone and laid it on the arm of the chair. ‘I will record this,’ she said.
‘That is your prerogative,’ Karen said. ‘How long have you lived here, Ms Kotova?’
‘It has been my home for six years. I know some people think it’s strange, not to want to live in a house. But I like liminal spaces.’
Whatever that meant. ‘Do you live here alone?’
She nodded. ‘Always.’
‘What happens when friends come to visit?’
‘Why do you care? If they are staying, I have an arrangement with the owners here. They give my visitors the use of a caravan at a very competitive rate. But not many people come to stay. They prefer to meet in Edinburgh.’
‘So you go up to Edinburgh often?’
She crossed one elegant leg over the other. ‘In normal times, yes. More or less every other week. I take the bus. It’s better than taking my car into the city.’
‘I can’t say I blame you. Edinburgh traffic’s terrible. I walk everywhere I can.’
Olga nodded her approval. ‘It’s a good city for walking. When the festival isn’t on, at least.’
‘Who looks after the place when you’re away?’
She frowned. ‘No one. I lock the door and away I go. I take my laptop and my notebook with me when I leave. I live very simply here. Who is going to break into a caravan with nothing to steal except books?’ She snorted with laughter. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone in St Abb’s who would have any interest in stealing my books.’
‘Does anyone else have a key?’
‘Why are you asking this? Why do you care who has my key? Do you think something bad has happened here?’
‘It would help if you would answer the question.’ Karen spoke mildly but her expression was severe.
‘Would it help me? I think not.’
‘You’re not suspected of any crime, Ms Kotova.’ Daisy spoke gently. ‘But we are investigating a very serious crime and we want to bring the perpetrator to justice. We think whoever has your key may have been exploited or coerced into handing it over.’
Karen didn’t always like these unscripted ‘good cop, bad cop’ routines, but Daisy was good at offering people a sort of sanctuary. Olga’s eyebrows rose, her eyes widening. She planted both feet firmly on the grass, and said, ‘And if that were to have been the case?’
‘Then there would be no blame attached to them.’ Daisy’s words hung in the air.
Aye, right. Karen picked up the ball and ran with it. ‘And it might be that you were protecting them from further coercion or control.’
Olga shifted in her seat. ‘And what if they were already safe? What if the person who had been putting pressure on them is no longer in a position to do so?’
‘It would ease their conscience,’ Daisy said. ‘And that’s no small thing.’
Olga stared out over the fields towards the sea. ‘I have a friend who loves the extremity of this coast. For some time, it was an escape for her from a difficult marriage. We share a taste in books, and I always think it nourishes her. About two years ago, I was awarded a residency in Banff in Canada. It meant I would be away for a couple of months or more, if I extended it elsewhere. It was advantageous to both of us for me to give her a key so she could come here and decompress. And I knew there would be someone keeping a watchful eye on my home.’
‘Would you tell me the name of your friend?’
Olga’s fingers wound themselves around each other. ‘I do not want her to think I have betrayed her.’
‘We won’t tell her,’ Karen said. ‘She need never know.’
‘Of course she would know, only we know this,’ she snapped.
‘Not necessarily. Your friendship isn’t a secret, surely? People know you’re close. She’s probably spoken to friends, to colleagues about her love of this area. She’ll have mentioned you, before she ever had your key. This is not a betrayal, it’s a way to help her to get rid of her guilt,’ Karen said, picking up Daisy’s theme.
