Past Lying, page 37
‘And then he arranges to meet her to work on it together, just like in the manuscript? And tells her to keep it all to herself, not just to save him from other writers but so she can take all the credit when it’s a runaway success.’ Daisy was up and running with it now.
‘He has access to Olga Kotova’s caravan because Rosalind has the key. Either with or without her knowledge, he does what it says in the manuscript and uses Olga’s caravan to kill Lara. Then he buries her in his own inspection pit, makes a sort of copy of Lara’s hard drive and “hides” it in his house. I think the plan was to wait for Lara to drop out of the headlines to cover his back in case anyone had spotted the two of them together. If it was clear they were home and dry, then they would send the manuscript anonymously to the police. Or phone in a tip-off about the body dump. And Jake Stein would almost certainly be convicted of murder.’
‘Only, he died before they could complete their plan. Are we absolutely sure that was natural causes, by the way?’
Karen nodded. ‘There was a post-mortem because it was a sudden unexplained death. Both pathologists agreed it was natural causes. Bolt from the blue kind of thing.’
‘So they didn’t need to fit him up. Why didn’t they just destroy the manuscript?’
‘Because they had Lara Hardie’s body in McEwen’s garage. If the body was eventually discovered, by then the archive would have been catalogued. If the archivist didn’t make the connection, Rosalind could say, “Didn’t my late ex-husband write something very similar to that?” ’
Daisy mulled it over. ‘It makes a horrible sort of sense. But how do we prove it?’
Karen went through to her bedroom and returned with a substantial box of chocolates. ‘This, Sergeant, is a three-layer problem.’
46
‘How many lies does it take to turn circumstantial evidence into truth?’ Karen asked, contemplating a salted milk chocolate praline.
Daisy chewed her chocolate treacle toffee, swallowed it and said, ‘How many have we got?’
Karen bit into the praline and made an appreciative noise. ‘Rosalind Harris said she vaguely remembered meeting McEwen at a few crime writing functions, when he’d been coming round her house for two years playing chess with her husband. She denied knowing whether Stein had a regular chess partner. Me, I think I’d notice if the same guy kept turning up at my house once a fortnight, even if we didn’t have much to do with each other.’
‘Plus she omitted to mention that she was in a relationship with this guy that she only vaguely remembered. I’ve never managed to pull that off,’ Daisy said. ‘Though heaven knows I’ve tried.’ She grinned. ‘The reason for keeping things secret was a bit shoogly too. I’ve only ever kept somebody I was sleeping with a secret when there was what you might call an overlap. And there’s been nothing like that since Rosalind divorced Stein, and certainly not since he died.’
‘Let’s not forget I saw Ross McEwen coming out of her apartment block at Quartermile with her. Snogging on the doorstep.’
‘Total breach of COVID rules,’ Daisy said solemnly. ‘Social media would lose its tiny collective mind over that. Plus McEwen never came forward at the time Lara disappeared to say he knew her and he’d definitely seen her the night before she went missing. That’s a big sin of omission.’ She reached for a dark chocolate strawberry cream.
‘OK, so that’s the relationship lies. I want to talk about this,’ Karen said, pulling the photocopied MS in front of her. ‘I’ve seen the original now. And I’ve seen some of Stein’s other first drafts. You mentioned this right at the start, and I’m sorry I didn’t pay attention at the time. Not in my wheelhouse, as the cliché goes. You said The Vanishing of Laurel Oliver was amazingly clean. But his other first drafts – they don’t look like this. There are small corrections – words swapped for similar ones, that sort of thing. And there are much bigger changes. Whole paragraphs deleted, sentences turned about. One where a minor character’s name was changed. Wee notes to himself to check things. So this manuscript doesn’t match the others. I’m not a literary critic, but that seems significant. What do you think? Am I talking shite?’ Apparently without thinking or consulting the guide, Karen went straight for a nut cluster.
‘No, you’re on the money, I’d say. If there’s no earlier version of this MS, it’d be really surprising if he got it so right straight off the bat. Where did you get these, by the way? They’re lush.’
‘They were in a gift bag at the back of the wardrobe. If they weren’t for me, they should have been.’ A tart note in her voice that made Daisy’s eyebrows rise.
‘Finders keepers, boss . . . Something struck me as well, going through it again the other day. I didn’t have Jake Stein marked down as a man with much self-awareness. Now, maybe this was a double bluff but I don’t think he would have been able to picture himself as the loser in the way he’s portrayed here. I think we should think about getting a textual analysis of the manuscript, compared to Stein’s published works and to McEwen’s.’
‘That’s not going to be cheap.’
‘There’s bound to be some geek at the university who knows how to do it. Plus there’s software for it now,’ Daisy said. ‘With the availability of text on the internet, student work is routinely checked for plagiarism. I’m sure you can run comparisons in the same way.’
‘What? To see if they copy each other?’
‘It’s more to do with the way they compose sentences. Grammatical formations. Favourite words. The algorithms work it out. Do you not remember a few years ago there was that big stooshie about that political thriller that came out under a pseudonym? And people were making all kinds of wild guesses about who it might be? Everybody from George Osborne to Janey Godley. And it turned out to be some Glaswegian down-table hack on the Telegraph that nobody had heard of? And they got him on language. We could do the same, get him that way?’
Karen wrote EVIDENCE on her pad and underlined it. She added textual analysis underneath.
‘And there’s that pencil note you found on the back of the Part 2 page. There might be something there. Handwriting comparison maybe?’
Karen bit into a liquid centre and screwed up her face in revulsion. ‘I thought that was rum baba, but it’s horrible.’ She studied the list. ‘Pisco sour,’ she revealed in disgust. ‘Who would do a thing like that?’ She pulled a face and grabbed a chocolate mint cracknel to take the taste away. ‘Handwriting analysis isn’t a science, it’s an art. All depends on the level of experience. But it’s worth bearing in mind. The bottom line is, if we can prove McEwen wrote The Vanishing of Laurel Oliver, it all becomes much more straightforward.’
‘And if Jason finds security camera footage of Ross McEwen’s car going in and out of Olga’s caravan site, at the very least he’s got questions to answer.’
‘If the gods are smiling.’
‘So what’s our next step?’ Daisy’s hand crept towards the chocolate ginger, but Karen got there first.
‘Two things. In the morning, you see what you can find out about the timeline on the short story. And we wait for Jason. If he finds what we need, and your timeline works, we bring them both in. Interview under caution. If they won’t come, we arrest them. She’s the weak point. He won’t budge, I’d put money on it. But she might be persuaded that she can have a life after this if she can lay it all on him.’
‘If she knows about it?’
‘If she knows about it. I’m inclined to think she knows enough.’
‘First thing in the morning?’
Karen shook her head. ‘I’d rather do it in the evening. Provided you and Jason get the goods. That way, we keep them hanging about into the small hours, let them stew. If their lawyers kick off, we’ll bed them down in the cells.’
‘You have a very dark streak.’ Daisy put the lid on the chocolates with a look of regret.
‘Someone should probably have told Hamish I come with a government health warning.’
‘He’s a big boy, he can take his chances along with the rest of us.’
‘Aye, and if you find him floating face down in the Water of Leith, don’t come looking for me. I’ll be the one with the alibi with a cast of thousands.’
47
Jason had come up trumps, Karen told Daisy over the first coffee of the day. ‘So no pressure there, then, Sergeant Mortimer.’
‘I’ve already made a start,’ Daisy protested. ‘I’ve googled the prize and got a contact email for the administrator. I sent her a message before I came through, asking her for an urgent call.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Karen said. ‘Between you and Jason, I’m going to be redundant soon.’
‘When are you going to tell the Dog Biscuit where we’re up to?’
Karen pulled a face. ‘As late as possible. Ideally not till I’ve got them both in custody. And we’ve had a forensic team taking his car to bits. There’ll be something there. No matter how many times he’s had it valeted since.’
Before Daisy could challenge this, her phone rang. She snatched it. ‘Unknown Caller’ made her grin. ‘Either it’s my African prince seeking access to my bank account or it’s Gina Donizetti from the National Short Story Award.’ She accepted the call, putting the phone on speaker.
‘Hello? Is that Detective Sergeant Mortimer?’ Southern English, beautiful enunciation.
‘Speaking.’
‘I’m Gina Donizetti. You emailed me?’
‘I did, thanks for responding so promptly. Do you mind if I record this call?’ Daisy asked. Karen pulled out her own phone and set the voice recorder running.
‘I don’t see why I should mind. I have nothing to hide. But now I’m even more intrigued. Why on earth might a detective sergeant from the Historic Cases Unit in Edinburgh want to talk about short stories?’
‘It’s part of an ongoing inquiry. I’m afraid I can’t go into details, but I have some questions about the timetable of your judging process.’
‘How very intriguing.’
‘The prize is awarded in May, is that right?’
‘Correct. The fourth Monday in May, to be precise.’
‘And when is the shortlist announced?’
‘On the fourth Monday in April.’
‘And the stories are broadcast on the radio in the same week?’
‘That’s right, Sergeant. Is there some suggestion of corruption at the heart of our award? Because I can assure you—’
‘Nothing like that,’ Daisy hastily interrupted. ‘There’s no question of any wrongdoing on your part. Am I right in thinking that the stories are read by the authors themselves?’
Karen leaned in to better hear the reply. Gina Donizetti gave a little laugh. ‘That’s the idea,’ she said. ‘Wherever possible, they read the stories themselves. That can be quite demanding.’
‘I imagine some people are better at it than others.’
‘Yes. But we work very hard with them to make it happen.’
‘So I guess the writers know they’re going to be on the shortlist well before the public does? To make time for the recordings?’
Gina sighed. ‘Inevitably. The writers are told in the last week of March.’ A dry chuckle. ‘We managed to squeeze it in this year just before lockdown.’
Daisy let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. ‘So last year, 2019, your shortlisted authors would have known by the end of March?’
‘Just a moment.’ The whisper of fingers on keys. ‘March twenty-fifth, the messages went out to the authors and their agents, where applicable.’
Daisy raised an interrogative eyebrow at Karen, who nodded. ‘Thank you so much, Gina.’
‘It was one of yours who won last year.’ Now there was an alert edge to her voice.
‘One of ours?’
‘A rather dashing Scotsman. Has he done something wrong?’
‘I really can’t comment on an ongoing case.’ Daisy’s tone was repressive. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for your help.’
‘You’re welcome, but—’
‘Have a good day.’ Daisy managed to make it sound like she meant it, and ended the call. She nodded at Karen’s phone and her boss turned off the recording function. ‘He knew he was fucked if Lara was still alive when that story was broadcast. He might be able to persuade her he’d done it to show how good she was, that he still intended to give her the credit, but even someone as biddable as Lara would have her limits.’
‘And he had an oven-ready plan,’ Karen said wearily. She pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Poor Lara. It’s a bloody good story too. She should have had the chance to be proud of herself.’
Karen paced the length of Simpson’s Loan and back again, waiting for the call from Daisy to say she was about to move on Ross McEwen. Like Karen, she had a uniformed officer from Gayfield Square with her. Karen wasn’t expecting confrontation but it was always best to be prepared. Karen, Jason and Daisy had spent much of the day on Zoom, working their way through the evidence and putting together an interview strategy.
Her phone buzzed with a text. A glance showed it was from Miran, and she opened it with a mixture of dread and hope.
I wanted to let you know everything is well. Thank you for all you did to help. Your friend, Miran.
She was taken aback at how relieved she felt. Before she could interrogate the response, the screen lit up with Daisy’s number. ‘I’m on the doorstep,’ Daisy said.
‘Don’t let him make a phone call now. Tell him he’ll have to wait till he gets to the station. See you back there.’
She squared her shoulders and pressed the buzzer for Rosalind Harris’s flat. It felt like a long time before she answered, but it was probably less than a minute, Karen thought. ‘Ms Harris, it’s DCI Pirie. Can you come down, please?’
‘Why? I’ve had my exercise for today.’
‘I need you to accompany me to the police station.’
Absolute silence.
‘Ms Harris? Did you hear me?’
‘I heard you. But I can’t imagine what is so important that it trumps the lockdown rules.’
‘Crime, Ms Harris. I’m investigating a serious crime and I need to interview you under caution.’
‘Under caution?’
‘I can caution you via the intercom if you like? It’s equally valid. I have a witness here.’ She winked at the uniformed PC, who gave her the thumbs up. ‘I am detaining you under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure Scotland Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed offences punishable by imprisonment, namely abduction, murder and the illegal disposal of a body—’
‘I know what the bloody caution is. Are you insane?’
‘The reasons for my suspicions will be explained to you in full at a police station. You will be detained to enable further investigations to be carried out—’
‘Shut up. This is madness.’
‘If you don’t come down of your own free will, we will be obliged to enter the building and arrest you. I’m sure that someone in your position wouldn’t consider that a good look.’
The intercom went dead. ‘What do we do now?’ the PC asked.
‘We give her ten minutes to get herself together and phone a hotshot criminal lawyer.’ She leaned against the glass wall next to the door and studied her watch. Eight minutes passed and the intercom crackled into life. ‘Which police station are you taking me to?’ Rosalind Harris demanded.
‘Gayfield Square,’ Karen said. ‘Your brief will know it.’
Another three minutes and Rosalind emerged from the lift. She was wearing the same swagger of winter coat, only this time over indigo jeans, a cowl-necked sweater and a pair of scarlet New Balance trainers. Her hair was tucked into a cable knit turban against the chill. She gave Karen a look that would have sent the dogs of the city howling for the suburbs and strode to open the door.
‘You are going to regret this, Pirie. I won’t call you DCI, because I suspect by the end of this you’re going to be the same rank as your minder.’ She cast a disdainful glance at the squad car parked in the street. ‘I’m not travelling in that, either.’
‘Fine. Where’s your car?’
‘I’ll walk.’
‘Then I’ll walk with you.’
Rosalind stalked off at a fast pace. ‘What do you want me to do?’ the PC asked.
‘Your best.’ Karen hurried off in Rosalind’s wake. She was a brisk traverser of the city streets, but Rosalind was heading towards George IV Bridge like a race walker. She didn’t bother waiting for the little green man to cross the Royal Mile, which was perfectly reasonable as the only vehicle in sight was the police car on their tail. She cut through to the New Steps, taking them two at a time. No one to give them a second look. Ten o’clock at night in the heart of the city and scarcely a body was stirring.
Down past Waverley Station, up to St Andrew Square with its massive column paying homage to a man who delayed the end of the slave trade, past The Stand comedy club, its stages silent. No laughs to be had in the city tonight. Finally, Gayfield Square.
Karen caught up with Rosalind as she was buzzed into the station. Confronted with two masked women, the sergeant behind the bar looked shaken. Karen broke the ice. ‘Hi Sarge. I’ve brought Ms Harris in for questioning under caution. Interview room one?’
‘No can do, Chief Inspector. Sergeant Mortimer just brought someone in. You’ll have to settle for room two . . . ’
Karen shrugged. ‘Confessions sound the same, whatever room they’re made in.’
‘I’m going nowhere till my lawyer gets here,’ Rosalind said, the heat of her anger doing nothing to melt the frost in her voice.
‘Would that be Ms Considine?’ the sergeant asked sweetly.
‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘Aye, she’s already in Interview Two.’
