Copyright © 2022 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.

  First published in Great Britain in 2022 by

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  First published as an Ebook in Great Britain in 2022

  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.

  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

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Alcester, Warwickshire

  Cover design by Patrick Insole

  Cover image © Martin Amis/Arcangel Images

  Author photograph © Chris Close

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 8288 0

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the author

  Praise for Quintin Jardine

  Also by Quintin Jardine

  About the Book

  Dedication

  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

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Eighty-Nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-One

  Ninety-Two

  Ninety-Three

  Ninety-Four

  Ninety-Five

  Ninety-Six

  Ninety-Seven

  Ninety-Eight

  Ninety-Nine

  One Hundred

  One Hundred and One

  One Hundred and Two

  One Hundred and Three

  One Hundred and Four

  One Hundred and Five

  One Hundred and Six

  One Hundred and Seven

  About the author

  Quintin Jardine was born once upon a time in the West: of Scotland rather than America, but still he grew to manhood as a massive Sergio Leone fan. On the way there he was educated, against his will, in Glasgow, where he ditched a token attempt to study law for more interesting careers in journalism, government propoganda and political spin-dictoring. After a close call with the Brighton Bomb, he moved into the riskier world of media relations consultancy, before realising that all along he had been training to become a crime writer.

  Along the way he has created/acquired an extended family in Scotland and Spain. Everything he does is for them.

  He can be tracked down through his website www.quintinjardine.me.

  Praise for Quintin Jardine

  ‘The Legendary Quintin Jardine . . . Such a fine writer’

  Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Scottish crime-writing at its finest, with a healthy dose of plot twists and turns, bodies and plenty of brutality’

  Sun

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

  Observer

  ‘Another powerful tartan noir that packs a punch’

  Peterborough Evening Telegraph

  ‘Incredibly difficult to put the book down’

  Scots Magazine

  By Quintin Jardine and available from Headline

  Bob Skinner series:

  Skinner’s Rules

  Skinner’s Festival

  Skinner’s Trail

  Skinner’s Round

  Skinner’s Ordeal

  Skinner’s Mission

  Skinner’s Ghosts

  Murmuring the Judges

  Gallery Whispers

  Thursday Legends

  Autographs in the Rain

  Head Shot

  Fallen Gods

  Stay of Execution

  Lethal Intent

  Dead and Buried

  Death’s Door

  Aftershock

  Fatal Last Words

  A Rush of Blood

  Grievous Angel

  Funeral Note

  Pray for the Dying

  Hour of Darkness

  Last Resort

  Private Investigations

  Game Over

  State Secrets

  A Brush with Death

  Cold Case

  The Bad Fire

  The Roots of Evil

  Deadlock

  Open Season

  Primavera Blackstone series:

  Inhuman Remains

  Blood Red

  As Easy As Murder

  Deadly Business

  As Serious as Death

  Oz Blackstone series:

  Blackstone’s Pursuits

  A Coffin for Two

  Wearing Purple

  Screen Savers

  On Honeymoon with Death

  Poisoned Cherries

  Unnatural Justice

  Alarm Call

  For the Death of Me

  The Loner

  Mathew’s Tale

  About the Book

  Amidst a family celebration, a cataclysmic storm uncovers long-buried horrors – and a team of detectives struggle to solve a thirty-year-old double murder.

  The police are also searching two countries for traces of a mysterious crime novelist who appears to have vanished. Has the faking of his own death been his masterpiece?

  Alongside each inquiry as it evolves is former Chief Constable Sir Robert Skinner, relishing his new role as a media magnate, but drawn into reluctant action and towards a chilling discovery of his own.

  With evil on one hand and intrigue on the other, will Skinner escape with either his integrity or career intact . . . or is it open season on him?

  This is dedicated to my beloved Eileen,

  who set out on the journey to the cosmos on January 9, 2022. See you soon, Babes.

  One

  ‘Su hijo involuntario.’ Ignacio Skinner Watson smiled, wryly. ‘That’s me, Pilar, their unintended son.’

  The whisper carried to their immediate neighbours at the table. His mother gazed at him over her glass; Mia McCullough’s eyebrows arched. ‘That’s a big assumption,’ she murmured.

  Sir Robert Skinner frowned. ‘It isn’t a discussion I want to have but it’s true as far as I’m concerned. I was there too, remember.’

  She turned to him. ‘I do, but it was twenty-one years and nine months ago; I can’t say for sure what was in my mind. I was in love with you, so I was reckless.’

  He stared back at her. ‘You were what?’ he gasped.

  ‘I was,’ Mia insisted. ‘Maybe only for a couple of hours,’ she added with a wink, ‘but I was. Later on, if I hadn’t taken your advice and run for my life . . . who knows?’

  ‘Too much information,’ Cameron McCullough exclaimed. ‘Whatever’s in the past can stay there. This is Nacho’s twenty-first; we’re looking forward, not back.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Alexis Skinner agreed. �
�He’s my kid brother and I don’t care whether he was an accident or not.’ She looked at Ignacio across the table. ‘I’d like to have known you while you were growing up, but that’s history too. Pilar,’ she sighed, focusing on the olive-skinned young woman who sat by his side, ‘we’re not your ordinary family. Let’s face it, we’re a fucking jigsaw puzzle, but you’re welcome among us.’

  ‘The missing piece would echo that,’ Cameron said. ‘Wouldn’t he, Grandma?’

  Mia sighed. ‘Jesus, Cheeky, I hate it when you call me that. But I agree with you. Indeed, your grandpa would have; in fact he said it first, when Ignacio brought Pilar here to meet us, to Black Shield Lodge. And yet,’ she continued, heavily, ‘he was never welcomed into this family himself as Nacho’s stepfather.’

  ‘Ladies,’ Sarah Grace Skinner interjected, breaking a few seconds of awkward silence, ‘I didn’t know Grandpa McCullough very well, but I do know that he wouldn’t have welcomed recriminations around his dinner table. And it still feels like his dinner table, although it’s a few months since the stroke claimed him.’

  Her husband gazed to his left casually, towards the man who sat three places away from him at the circular table. Harold ‘Sauce’ Haddock had been quiet during the meal, conversing only with his wife and his eight-year-old neighbour, Seonaid Skinner. The only family members missing from the celebration were his and Cheeky’s baby, Samantha, and Dawn, the Skinners’ toddler. They were in the care of a nanny in a guest suite.

  The will of Cameron McCullough senior had left CM PLC, the complex network of companies that contained the bulk of his wealth, to his namesake granddaughter. Mia, his widow, had inherited a lifetime interest in Black Shield Lodge, the Perthshire hotel complex that was also her home, and full ownership of the radio station in Dundee where they had met when she had become a presenter, together with a multi-million pound cash settlement. Grandpa McCullough had conducted his business life under a cloak of secrecy so impenetrable that it had led to many rumours and attracted the attention of more than one police force. Nevertheless, the size of his estate had taken everyone by surprise, even his heirs.

  Privately Bob Skinner wondered how Haddock, as a serving Detective Chief Inspector, felt about being the husband of a multi-millionairess, and what effect it might have on his future career in a service where he was an obvious high-flyer. None, he hoped. The young police officer was a chief constable in waiting, and Skinner had always taken pride in the part he had played in his development. Now there was an added twist; Haddock’s wife and Ignacio were related by marriage. That made Sauce part of Alex’s jigsaw puzzle.

  ‘Dad.’ His oldest son’s call drew him back to the moment. ‘Sauce and I are going to run tomorrow morning. Are you coming with us?’

  Skinner’s eyebrows rose. A flicker of a smile showed on his face. ‘Can you hear the weather outside?’ he retorted. ‘Storm Bawbag, or whatever it’s called; it’s raging out there.’

  ‘Come on, Gaffer.’ Haddock laughed. He had never been able to call Skinner by his Christian name. ‘The forecast says the worst’ll be over by then. It’ll be bracing, no more.’

  ‘I’m going,’ twelve-year-old James Andrew Skinner volunteered. He looked at his half-sister. ‘Alex, how about you?’

  She raised her glass and shook her head.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ Jazz persisted. ‘If we were home . . .’

  ‘I’d say exactly the same,’ his father declared. He winked. ‘Which would be “No”. I have nothing left to prove to you lot, so I’ll stay here and wait to see who gets back first.’

  ‘That’ll be me.’

  Both Ignacio and Sauce stared at the boy. Haddock grinned. ‘We’ll see about that, Jazz.’

  ‘I’ll put fifty quid on him,’ Bob said. ‘Do you want to cover that, Sauce?’

  ‘I’ve got to, haven’t I?’ he sighed.

  Two

  ‘Sauce was right,’ Sarah announced as she peered between the drawn bedroom curtains. ‘The worst of Storm Boromir seems to be over. Are you sure you don’t want to run with the guys?’

  ‘Dead certain,’ her husband replied. ‘I didn’t bring my gear with me.’

  ‘Couldn’t you borrow kit from the hotel gym?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he conceded, ‘but let me hide behind my excuse, okay?’

  ‘Skinner, are you beginning to accept your age?’

  ‘Not for a second,’ Bob protested. ‘But I will admit that Covid left a mark on me. Its effects are fading, but they’re still there. I’ll swim instead, then have a sauna to sweat out the booze from last night.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to support Jazz?’ she asked. ‘You’ve got money on him, remember. What a reckless bet, on a boy against two grown men.’

  ‘You reckon?’ he chuckled. ‘I run with our son regularly and I coach him. I know what he’s capable of. He might be smaller than they are, but he’s got more aerobic endurance than either Sauce or Nacho, and pound for pound he’s stronger than either of them.’

  ‘He’ll need to be,’ she murmured. ‘They’re running now and see how it’s going.’

  She opened the curtains a little wider. As he came to join her, he saw three figures heading across the hotel’s extensive lawn. Sauce seemed to be leading Ignacio by a few feet, with the smallest of the trio lagging behind. Bob and Sarah watched until they were almost out of sight.

  ‘Jazz is setting his own pace,’ he said. ‘He isn’t bothered about what either of them are doing. He isn’t closing the distance yet, but he isn’t losing ground either. Nacho’s gone off too fast, trying to keep up with Sauce. Jazz will blow him away before they’ve gone a mile, and then he’ll close on Sauce. This will be the easiest fifty quid I’ve made in a while.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ she murmured, ‘are you still going to Spain on Tuesday?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ he confirmed. ‘The company jet’s flying up from Girona first thing in the morning to pick me up.’

  ‘Couldn’t the executive board come to you for once?’ she grumbled. ‘You are the chairman, after all, and it wouldn’t involve any more flying time for the company plane.’

  ‘Stand-in chairman,’ he corrected her. ‘If Xavi was still doing the job, they’d be meeting at corporate headquarters. If I tried to change that, they’d think I was acting above my station. They’d probably be right too. The Intermedia group is a Catalan-owned company and that’s where its principal business should be done.’

  ‘How’s Xavi doing?’ Sarah asked. ‘Is he starting to get over his loss?’

  Bob frowned. ‘I’m not sure that he is. Maybe he never will. Xavi and Sheila, it took them a while to get together, but when they did it was for ever . . . or so they both thought. It’s funny, isn’t it,’ he mused, ‘how the mind can shut out the inevitable, that one day one of us will be left alone. Xavi’s experiencing the same thing I did when Alex’s mother died. You go from being happy to being deeply unhappy in the time it takes to draw a single breath. It was only when I met you that I really began to get over that feeling. But the difference between Xavi and me is that he’s been there twice. He had a tragedy when he was young; I was a witness to it, of sorts. We never talk about it, but it’ll be there, in his head.’

  Three

  Ignacio thought that his lungs were on fire. He had no idea of the distance they had covered, but the timer on his sports watch told him that forty-three minutes had elapsed since they had left the hotel. He worked out regularly in the university gym, and played football for the second team, but its training involved sprints and a few laps of a four-hundred-metre track. Cross-country running was a new experience for him, and it was chastening. He was no quitter, though; the competitive nature that he assumed he had inherited from his father insisted that he keep pace with Haddock.

  Sauce knew that as a serving cop he had a built-in advantage over his companions. Fitness levels had to be maintained, and more; as a senior officer he was driven by the need to set an example. Whatever the benchmark was in his team, he had to be the one who set it. He was aware of Ignacio close behind him. He could have picked up the pace, but he knew from the younger man’s increasingly laboured breathing that there was no need. They were past halfway on the route they had mapped out around the perimeter of the forest, but he doubted that Nacho would still be running by the time they reached the finish. As for James Andrew, he smiled at the over-confidence of youth, anticipating the pleasure he would take in pocketing Bob’s fifty pounds. Nacho’s were the only footsteps he could hear. He guessed that common sense had prevailed and that the boy was heading home already.