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 propaganda, and political spin-doctoring. After a close call with the Brighton Bomb in 1984, he moved into the even riskier world of media relations consultancy, before realising that all along he had been training to become a crime writer. Now, forty novels later, he never looks back.

  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 blog: http://quintinjardine.me

  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

  The Cage

  Secrets and Lies

  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

  SECRETS AND LIES

  Quintin Jardine

  Copyright © 2024 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 2024 by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  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

  eISBN: 9781035402946

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

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  www.headline.co.uk

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  Contents

  About the Author

  By Quintin Jardine

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  This work is dedicated to my son and daughter, AJ and Susie. They know how I feel about them, and always will, now and in the other place, wherever that is.

  One

  ‘Bertie’s been twitchy for a few weeks now, every time we’ve walked past this thing . . . and we do, every day, sometimes twice, hail, rain or shine.’

  Maisie Berry looked down at her dog. ‘We believe that the bad days are the price we pay for the good ones,’ she declared, philosophically. ‘Isn’t that right, Bertie?’ The spaniel grunted, as if it knew that confirmation was needed. ‘He’s been stopping, sniffing at it for a few days now,’ she continued, nodding towards the huge square white tent that covered the pavement and more than half the width of the blocked off cul-de-sac. ‘Yes, for at least a week, maybe more. My sense of smell isn’t anything like it used to be, but yesterday I detected something too. I put it down to a blocked drain at first, but it was pretty clear by this morning that was coming from this camper van thing. So I called the police, and . . .’ she shuddered. ‘Horrible,’ she said, shuddering. ‘Imagine, such a thing happening here.’

  ‘How long has the vehicle been here, Mrs Berry?’ Detective Sergeant John Stirling asked.

  ‘Miss Berry,’ she countered, a little sharply. ‘At least two months, I’d say, maybe more. We all woke up one morning in early July and it was there, parked most inconveniently, and with a wheel clamp on it too. At first, I think each of the residents assumed that it belonged to one of the others. Obviously, this being a new estate we don’t know each other very well, not yet, but gradually it became clear that nobody knew anything about it. After a couple of weeks one of the neighbours did call the police to complain, but basically he was brushed off. He was told that as it wasn’t in a restricted road, it was far enough away from the nearest house not to be blocking anyone’s access, and it hadn’t been reported as stolen, there was nothing they could do. But finally,’ she harrumphed, ‘when I called, again, this morning, and reported the alarming smell, a uniformed officer deigned to come along. He decided that he couldn’t force entry without permission so he called in someone else, a man in plain clothes. He arrived and took a sniff, went back to his car and produced a crowbar, prised the door open, went in and . . . Well, you know the rest.’

  Stirling’s right eyebrow rose, momentarily. ‘Yes, I am the rest,’ he said.

  ‘How do you fit in alongside the other plain clothes officer?’ Miss Berry asked.

  ‘I’m from serious crimes, in Glasgow,’ the DS explained. ‘My team covers the west of Scotland. The other guy was a detective constable from area CID.’

  She winced. ‘Serious Crimes. So there really is a dead person in there? Not that I had much doubt after the officer who went in came straight back out and was sick all over the grass.’

  Stirling nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Dead for how long?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea,’ he said. ‘I only stayed in there for a second or two, because the forensic team were working and the space was limited. Once they’ve completed their initial sweep, the body’ll be taken to the mortuary for examination.’

  ‘You must have some idea, surely.’

  ‘He’s new to this kind of work,’ a third voice advised, as its owner bore down on them. ‘Me on the other hand,’ she continued, ‘I’ve been to more of these events than are good for me, enough to know that at this stage there
are too many variables for us to be guessing. My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Charlotte Mann,’ she volunteered. ‘I’m his boss.’

  ‘So this really is a crime?’ Maisie Berry asked. ‘A murder? Here in sunny Irvine?’

  ‘This is where I say “No further comment”, madam,’ Mann replied, ‘thank you for your help, and ask you to return home or to carry on walking your pal here.’

  Miss Berry frowned at the large woman, noting the positivity of her stance, the resolve that showed in her eyes and last of all her bronzed complexion, unaided by make-up. Where did she get a tan like that given the weather in Scotland this month? she wondered, before deciding that it was best to accede with dignity to the DCI’s request. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything else you need . . .’ she added, with a gentle tug on Bertie’s lead as they went on their way.

  ‘She’s a piece of . . .’ Stirling murmured, as he watched her leave.

  ‘She’s a retired teacher,’ Mann declared. ‘Probably a headmistress, I’d say.’

  ‘You know her?’ the DS exclaimed, puzzled by her certainty.

  ‘No, but trust me. I’d bet your life on it.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  She sighed, then raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m a bloody detective, John. I have these instincts. Plus, in her attitude and mannerisms she’s a dead ringer for my Auntie Annie. She was a primary head, and a right battle-axe, God rest her. She left a trail of terrified weans behind her in a forty year career. Back in the days when you could, she used to belt one every morning; boy or girl it didn’t matter. She said it made all the rest behave themselves.’

  Stirling shuddered, then handed her a set of crime scene overalls, identical to his own, and held her rucksack as she struggled into them. ‘What’s in the thing?’ she asked as she tucked her hair into the tight fitting hood. ‘Is it Male? Female? Canine?’

  ‘Female,’ he replied. ‘That’s all the lead soco said . . . other than that she’s been dead for a while . . . which was painfully obvious in the few seconds that I was in there. I didn’t stay any longer than I had to, or get any closer than I needed.’ He winced forcefully. ‘The body’s absolutely mingin’, boss: you should wear a mask when you go in there.’

  ‘She, then,’ Mann continued. ‘Is there any obvious cause of death?’

  ‘None that the soco or I could see, but like I said, it’s a mess.’

  She frowned. ‘Were you here when the vehicle was opened?’

  ‘No. A local CID guy opened it,’ her DS told her. ‘With a crowbar, so Miss Berry said. The bloke’s a veteran; he’s in his forties but still a detective constable. Not a deep thinker, without being too judgmental. Just like the old dear said, he went in, came back out, threw up, and called us. I stood him down when I got here . . . I had to, he had boak all over his jacket . . . but I told him we’ll likely need him and others later, for most likely this is going to turn into a major investigation.’

  She threw Stirling an atypical grin. ‘A crowbar?’ she muttered. ‘Forensics must have loved that when they got here. Messing up their crime scene.’

  ‘It wasn’t a crime scene until DC Brown opened it,’ he pointed out. ‘Don’t be too hard on him.’

  ‘Can we say for sure that it is now?’ Mann wondered. ‘Until there’s been an autopsy, can we rule out sudden death by natural causes, or a suicide?’

  ‘Suicides aren’t usually found lashed to a chair with yards of gaffer tape . . . Gaffer. I was in there long enough to register that.’

  ‘I’ll grant you that one.’ She paused. ‘Even so, how come we were called in so quickly? From what you’re saying this was flagged as one for serious crimes as soon as the vehicle was opened. From what you’re saying DC Brown didn’t even refer back to his own office before pressing the panic button.’

  Stirling beamed. ‘It wasn’t quite like that, but almost. Let’s just say that if the Scotland rugby team had passed the ball as quickly and efficiently as the buck was passed here, they’d have won the World Cup. This is a public holiday, right?’ Mann nodded. ‘So, when the uniform who turned out first phoned his sergeant’s mobile, he was told to, and I quote, fuck off and call someone else, because the sergeant was one, off duty and two, in the second hole of a golf tie. In the absence of that someone else, the PC, who’s now helping man the press exclusion zone that you’ll have passed through getting in here, called the CID office in Kilmarnock. They were short-handed too, so only Detective Constable Brown was sent to the scene. The rest you know, more or less. After the van had been opened and Brown had seen what he saw, he called his office, where his DS, the only other person there, was wise enough or cynical enough, depending on how you look at it, to tell him call us.’

  Mann gazed at him. ‘And when you got the message, was there nobody else that you could have called, other than me?’ she murmured. ‘My man and I were halfway through putting the lunch together when you belled me. Plus,’ she intoned, ‘I was supposed to be off today. Like you said, it’s a public holiday.’

  ‘Boss,’ Stirling pleaded, ‘you know the answer to that. We’re short of a DI. I had to call you. But if you remember I didn’t ask you to turn out.’

  She nodded, grudgingly. ‘I know, I’ll grant you that,’ she conceded. ‘I’m sounding like that sergeant, but at least I’m here. No, you did the right thing, John. ACC Stallings promised me someone six months ago then did eff all about it. Now that she’s out of the picture and Detective Superintendent Haddock’s effectively in charge of all the Serious Crimes teams, I’m hopeful we’ll have progress on that front. There was some talk of DI Singh being transferred to Glasgow when DI McClair comes back from maternity leave, but . . .’

  ‘I heard. There’s a problem with that?’

  ‘Two problems,’ Mann said. ‘The first, it’ll be six months before Noele’s back in action, and the second . . . big Tarvil’s none too keen on leaving Edinburgh. Normally you might say “tough on him, it’s a national force”, but he’s a bit of a folk hero these days, after he took down that bomber before he could atomise Sauce Haddock.’

  ‘Could DI McClair be transferred through instead when she comes back?’ the DS asked.

  ‘No chance. She’s a single parent, and as well as having the new baby, her boy’s halfway through primary school. She relies on her mother for support. It’s not just her they’d be moving, it would be her whole bloody family.’ She drew a long breath. ‘Bob Skinner was right all along, you know. He said loud and long that a national police service would never work in practice, and that cost savings were over-riding common sense, but the politicians . . . Skinner’s then wife among them, by the way . . . ignored him. He was a great cop, Big Bob, a, the, role model for the people who’re at the top now, McIlhenney, McGuire and Mackie. He taught them all. He’d have been great as the first chief but he stuck to his principles and walked away.’

  ‘He’s done all right out of doing that from what I’ve read,’ the DS observed. ‘Isn’t he the chair of an international media company now?’

  ‘Global, John,’ she said, ‘it’s global. He’ll likely be in the job for a while too; I heard from Sauce that he’s moving his family to Spain.’ She flexed her shoulders suddenly, rippling the tight-fitting tunic. ‘Come on then, back to business. Let’s take a look.’

  The two detectives stepped into the huge tent, which was floodlit by four lamps on stands, one on each corner, all of them powered by a generator that was positioned outside. The area in which they stood was dominated by the vehicle but the putrescent odour emanating from it filled the space entirely. She had been warned to expect it, but she reacted nonetheless, slipping on a filtered mask. ‘Jesus,’ she whispered, her voice muffled. ‘You weren’t kidding about the smell.’ She looked at its source. ‘I wasn’t expecting the thing to be that big. It qualifies as a motor home, not just a bloody Dormobile. What is it? American? A Winnebago?’

  ‘No, it’s German,’ Stirling replied. ‘It’s called a Schlossneues, if that’s how you pronounce it. I didn’t do German at school. I checked it on my tablet; I couldn’t see the manufacturer’s name anywhere but I identified it using the logo on the back. Whatever you want to call it, it’s well over a hundred grand’s worth.’

  ‘RJ08WRJ.’ She read the registration plate, then glanced at Stirling, a question in her eyes.

  ‘I’ve checked, boss,’ he answered. ‘Inevitably, they’re stolen: according to the DVLA it’s a Renault Clio, belonging to a woman in Dumbarton. We’ll try to trace it through the chassis number, but it’s a left-hand drive vehicle. There’s a better than even chance it was first registered in Europe, rather than the UK.’