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  DEATH'S DOOR

  QUINTIN JARDINE

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2007 Portador Ltd

  The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author

  of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication

  may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any

  means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case

  of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences

  issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any

  resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 0 7553 5100 8

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Sixty-four

  Sixty-five

  Sixty-six

  Sixty-seven

  Sixty-eight

  Sixty-nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-one

  Seventy-two

  Seventy-three

  Seventy-four

  Seventy-five

  Seventy-six

  Seventy-seven

  Seventy-eight

  Seventy-nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-one

  Quintin Jardine gave up the life of a political spin doctor for the more morally acceptable world of murder and mayhem. Happily married, he hides from critics and creditors in secret locations in Scotland and Spain, but can be tracked down through his website: www.quintinjardine.com.

  Praise for previous Quintin Jardine novels;

  ‘Deplorably readable’ Guardian

  ‘Well constructed, fast-paced, Jardine’s narrative has many an ingenious twist and turn’ Observer

  ‘[Quintin Jardine] sells more crime fiction in Scotland than John Grisham and people queue around the block to buy his latest book’ The Australian

  ‘Perfect plotting and convincing characterisation . . . Jardine manages to combine the picturesque with the thrilling and the dream-like with the coldly rational’ The Times

  ‘There is a whole world here, the tense narratives all come to the boil at the same time in a spectacular climax’ Shots magazine

  ‘The perfect mix for a highly charged, fast-moving crime thriller’ Glasgow Herald

  ‘Remarkably assured . . . a tour de force’ New York Times

  ‘Engrossing, believable characters . . . captures Edinburgh beautifully . . . It all adds up to a very good read’ Edinburgh Evening News

  Ten years ago, on a Saturday afternoon, May 3, the world

  became a smaller, lesser place, when Irene, my first wife,

  drew her last breath. Her special light wasn’t extinguished,

  though. It will shine on, until the last person who ever

  knew her is gone, and beyond, I hope, through these

  words, on whatever library shelves they may come

  eventually to gather dust.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks go to

  The inestimable Mira Kolar Brown, for setting me on the road with a batch of names and with a piece of S-H slang.

  Frank Mansfield and Jenny Pollock, my in-laws, for rebuilding their house so that it can no longer be mistaken for one in this book.

  Martin Fletcher, Jo Matthews and Hazel Orme, for their invaluable roles in making sure that this work got from me to you.

  One

  ‘If there are such things as angels,’ the big detective whispered, ‘that’s what they look like.’

  Detective Inspector Stevie Steele said nothing. He was not given to pondering spiritual concepts, and especially not when he was standing at a crime scene.

  He glanced at the head of CID: not so long ago, such a remark would have taken him by surprise, but over the past few months he had come to know Detective Chief Superintendent Mario McGuire much better, through close contact on the job, and through small things that his new wife, Maggie, had let slip about her first husband. It was his Italian blood, Steele supposed, from which the closet romantic within him flowed, just as the Irish strain that he had inherited from his father marked him out as uncompromising, and on occasion fearsome.

  Steele looked at the girl. ‘Girl?’ he pondered silently. ‘Maybe that’s all she is, maybe not. People always look younger when they’re dead.’

  She lay on her back on the yellow sand, her face serene, framed by blonde hair, her pale lips set in what might almost have been a smile. She wore open-toed sandals, bare-legged; her arms were by her side, palms down and her long white dress was spread out, fan-like. Her eyes were open and gazed up at the clear blue afternoon sky. May was only just into its second week, but the weather was more than comfortably warm: summer often comes early in Scotland, although it can leave just as suddenly as it arrives.

  ‘She looks almost transparent, doesn’t she?’ said McGuire, absent-mindedly, still musing somewhere.

  ‘Has anyone touched her?’ Steele asked.

  ‘The local doctor’s certified death, but that’s all. The officers who were first on the scene had more sense than to disturb anything. They reported directly to Graham Leggatt, as the divisional CID commander, and he called me; all strictly by the book when it comes to a suspicious death. The locals’ first thought was that it was an overdose, some poor sad kid finding a quiet spot to end it all. That’s happened out here before and, of course, we’ve heard it elsewher
e too. But when Graham described the scene, I thought I’d better take a look for myself, and that you should see it too. You agree with me, do you, that it’s just like the other one?’

  The detective inspector nodded. ‘Absolutely. The way the body’s arranged, the fact that it’s a female, the age group, it all matches. She’s dressed differently, and her hair colour is different, but otherwise it’s identical.’ He glanced around. ‘Has the area been disturbed at all?’

  ‘I’m assured that it hasn’t; not since she was found, at any rate.’

  ‘Well, that knocks the supposition of suicide on the head. There’s no sort of paraphernalia around, no pill containers, no syringe, no booze bottles, no blades.’

  ‘And no blood, just like the South Queensferry murder. It looks as if she died instantly.’

  ‘You reckon she might have been killed somewhere else and brought here?’ asked Steele.

  ‘That’s a possibility, I suppose, but look around you, look at the sand: it’s unremarkably flat around the body. If she’d been dragged, it would show. If somebody had carried her here, surely his feet would have dug deep under the weight, and we’d still see the tracks. There’s been no wind to smooth them over; at least, that’s what the local officers told me. It just looks as if she was walking on the beach when someone came up behind her and . . . whap!’

  ‘Yeah. That’s what we reckon in the other one too, but we’ve never been able to say for sure.’

  ‘No: because it’s still unsolved.’

  The inspector winced. ‘We’ve done everything we can, boss. But every lead we’ve followed has wound up taking us precisely nowhere.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not knocking your investigation, Stevie,’ McGuire assured him, ‘just stating a fact. You couldn’t have been more thorough; whoever shot Stacey Gavin was either very clever, or very bloody lucky. Normally I would expect the latter, but if this is a repeat performance, Christ, it looks ominous.’

  ‘Might it be a copycat?’

  ‘How? You know as well as I do that all our press statements were cleared through Neil McIlhenney, and the crime scene was never described in any of them. No, we begin with the assumption that it’s . . .’

  The head of CID stopped in mid-sentence. ‘No, we don’t. If our deputy chief constable was here he’d kick my arse . . . and an arse-kicking by Bob Skinner is something to be avoided. We begin by following proper procedure. Let’s allow the doc in for a more thorough examination, and an estimate of time of death.’ He turned and lifted the flap of the enclosing screen that had been erected all around the body, holding it up for his colleague as they stepped out on to the beach.

  Aidan Brown, the pathologist, was waiting a few yards away, clad in the same crime-scene tunic as the detectives. He was a tall man, in his mid-thirties: he had been on the scene for a few years and was known to both of them. ‘Sorry to keep you, Doc,’ said McGuire, as he approached. ‘I wanted to let DI Steele see things exactly as they were found. You can go in now and take a look at the body.’

  ‘I suppose you want my thoughts on cause of death, as well as time?’ His accent was light, Irish.

  The head of CID nodded. ‘I do, but I suggest that you begin by taking a look at the base of her skull.’

  The medical examiner frowned. ‘Have you . . .?’

  ‘We didn’t lay a finger on her. There’s a tenner on it if you fancy a bet on the cause, though.’

  Brown chuckled. ‘That’ll be the day. I’m a scientist, man: I don’t indulge in such frivolities.’

  ‘You mean you’re a tight bastard.’

  ‘It’s in our Irish blood, Mario,’ the pathologist shot back. ‘You should know that.’

  Steele glanced at them: McGuire had switched from tender to hard-boiled mode in a few minutes. Yet he knew that it was forced, the copper’s defence mechanism against the realities of the job. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering about his unborn child, his and Maggie’s: a daughter, as they knew already. How would her personality be moulded . . . blessed or cursed . . . with two police officers for parents?

  ‘How’s Mags?’

  The question, thrown from out of nowhere as he watched Brown move off towards the tented area, took the inspector completely off-guard. ‘She’s fine,’ he replied, a little abruptly. ‘How’s Paula?’ At once he regretted his impetuosity. McGuire’s new partner, Paula Viareggio, had been, briefly, a figure in his past, but that was not something the two men had ever discussed.

  But the big man simply shrugged. ‘She’s good. Busy as ever; maybe busier, now that the family business is a public limited company. She’s got more legal stuff to look after, and she spends more time talking to the accountants.’

  Silence fell between them for a few seconds, until McGuire broke it awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, Stevie,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I’m prying, please. But Maggie and I were . . . Shit, you know what I mean. Her being pregnant, it’s so . . .’

  ‘Unexpected?’

  ‘Well, yeah. Tell me if I’m wrong, tell me the two of you planned it, but I’d guess it came as a hell of a surprise to you both. If that’s so, it hasn’t exactly happened at the best time for her career.’

  Steele looked out to sea. They stood in the middle of a wide bay, bitten out of the coastline by nature and defined by a semicircle of sand dunes, which formed a natural bridge to the bents above. The tide was at its highest and the water was millpond-calm, so flat that the sound of the engines of a distant tanker carried all the way to shore. ‘You’re not wrong, Mario,’ he replied. ‘And I hear what you’re saying about timing. But does she want a career any longer, assuming that everything goes all right with the baby? That’s the question you really should be asking.’

  ‘You’re kidding me!’ McGuire exclaimed. ‘Maggie’s thinking about packing the job in? She’s one of the most career-minded people I’ve ever met.’

  ‘She’s mentioned the possibility; that’s all I’ll say for now. That’s strictly between you and me, by the way. Understood?’

  ‘Of course. So she hasn’t discussed it with anyone else? The DCC, for example, or Brian Mackie, now that she reports to him?’

  ‘She hasn’t had the opportunity to discuss it with Mr Skinner, even if she was inclined to. Remember: he’s been on sabbatical since the end of January. As for our new assistant chief constable, they may have known each other for a while, but she’s not ready to discuss careers with him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The inspector frowned. ‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think she trusts him enough.’

  ‘Brian Mackie? Why wouldn’t she trust him?’

  ‘Because he’s new in post: people change when they go into the Command Corridor. I reckon she has a concern . . . I’ll put it no stronger . . . that if she went into a meeting with him to discuss career options, she might come out without any. No, let everyone assume what they will, I reckon she’ll say nothing about her future until after the baby’s born and maybe not till she’s getting close to the end of her maternity leave.’

  ‘When does she go off?’

  ‘In three days. She finishes on Friday.’

  ‘How long can she take?’

  ‘A full year from then, if she wants; and just between you and me again, that’s her present intention.’

  ‘Jesus! She’ll be bored stiff after a month.’

  ‘Maybe, but a month after that she won’t, not with the baby on her hands.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be going off then too. Bloody paternity leave,’ he grumbled. ‘Losing Neil McIlhenney is something I did not need.’

  ‘You’re complaining about that?’ Steele laughed. ‘I thought you were going to be his new son’s godfather.’

  ‘Louis? That I am. I’m his big brother Spencer’s too, but Neil didn’t get swanning off for a fortnight when he was born.’

  ‘Times change, sir.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re grinning about,’ McGuire retorted. ‘With Bandit Mackenzie off on extended sick
leave, you’re running your subdivision, and with Neil away . . .’ He broke off, as Dr Brown re-emerged from the green enclosure. ‘Well, Doc?’

  ‘I’m glad I didn’t take the bet.’ The Irishman grimaced. ‘It looks as if death was caused by a single gunshot fired directly into the brain, upwards through the second spinal vertebra. It wasn’t a contact wound, but the muzzle was close enough to singe the surrounding hair. As you’ve seen, the bullet hasn’t exited, which, given the range, would indicate something like a point two-two or nine-millimetre weapon. You’ll know when we recover the thing, if it’s not too misshapen from rattling about inside her skull. Time of death? Six to eight hours ago, I’d say.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘That would make it, neatly, between six and eight a.m.

  ‘Obviously I can’t carry out a complete examination here, but I could see no other signs of violence on the body, save one, and it hardly qualifies. There is very slight bruising on the left shoulder; it could be the print of a hand, possibly indicating that the woman was gripped from behind and shot. There’s no indication of any resistance whatsoever, so chances are, she never knew a thing, just the lights going out.’ He paused. ‘Any of that significant?’

  ‘All of it, worse luck,’ McGuire growled. ‘Thanks, Aidan. When can you do the post-mortem?’

  ‘As soon as I can round up someone to assist, or find someone more eminent than me to take the lead.’

  ‘I don’t want to wait for the professor for this one: I’d like to get my hands on the bullet as soon as possible.’

  The doctor’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘For comparison with another case?’