‘Agreed,’ they said together.

  ‘Good. Now there’s something else I have to do, and that’s call your chief constable. Neil McIlhenney told me last year that I should stand back from police investigations, but through no fault of my own I’m bang in the middle of this one, and he should hear it from me. I’ll leave it to him to tell Karen Neville; she needs to know that her Uncle Matt really is a goner. Give me fifteen minutes or so to do that, then I suggest one of you gets in touch with Neil yourself, or with Mario McGuire.’

  ‘Why?’ Mann asked.

  ‘Because the two of you are going to ask for something that it’ll probably take someone at their level to swing with the Mossos hierarchy. You’re going to say that you want my wife, Sarah, to be present at the autopsy. There’s no question that Matthew Reid’s body is lying here in the Catalan outback, but given that he’s a fucking icicle, there’s actually no proof he died in Spain.’

  Forty-Six

  ‘You have a visitor.’

  Sarah Grace looked in surprise at the Pathology department secretary. ‘I do?’ she retorted. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone. Who is it?’

  ‘Go and see,’ the woman replied with a grin. ‘He’s in your office.’

  Grace checked her watch. ‘Whoever it is, he’s early.’ Curious, she moved towards her suite and opened the door.

  Chief Constable Neil McIlhenney was one of those people who looked better in the uniform than out. The new style tunic downplayed his bulk, although Sarah could remember a time when he had carried substantially more weight. Of all the police officers who had come through the ranks under her husband, his success was perhaps the least expected. In Scotland it had been modest, with McIlhenney always a step behind his great friend Mario McGuire. It was only when he had moved to London and joined the Metropolitan Police that it had taken off. His return to Scotland had been unexpected. When Chief Constable Margaret Steele had stood down from the post, it had been assumed by most insiders that McGuire, her designated deputy, would succeed her. To their surprise the DCC had shown no ambition to be chief constable. Instead he had encouraged McIlhenney to apply and had lobbied privately for his appointment. Since his arrival the force had changed, subtly; there was, Bob had told his wife, less informality and more respect. In McIlhenney’s first days in office, a sergeant in Glasgow had put a post on Facebook in which he called his new boss, ‘Chief Commissioner Miekelson’, a reference to a character in a TV satire. That officer was settling into a new life in Thurso, and rumour had it, not enjoying it at all.

  ‘Good morning, Neil,’ Grace exclaimed as she saw him, in the more comfortable of the two chairs she kept for visitors. ‘This is a surprise. I’m guessing you’re not here to sell me raffle tickets, so what can I or my department do for you?’

  ‘Have you heard from your husband in the last eighteen hours?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have, so yes, I know about him going looking for Matthew Reid in Spain, and finding him in an unexpected spot. I was expecting to see it at the top of the Scottish news cycle this morning, but no sign.’

  ‘No, the Spanish are keeping a lid on it, not least because they don’t have a formal identification of the body.’

  ‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely Bob told them who it is.’

  ‘That’s not enough, it seems. We’ve got the fiscal overseeing us, albeit without hands on. They’ve got their examining judge, or whatever they call him, and this one seems to be a stickler. He wants independent proof that the stiff is Matthew Reid. The police who attended got into his house, but they didn’t find anything there; no passport, no driving licence, no photographic identification at all.’

  ‘Not even his bus pass?’ she gasped.

  ‘Not even that.’

  ‘Where do they go from there?’

  ‘The judge says he wants a family member to identify him, but he doesn’t have any that we know of. From what I’m told, the closest we have is Karen Neville. She called him Uncle Matt, but she isn’t a blood relative either. So this morning they’re going to contact his agent.’

  ‘He has a place in L’Escala too,’ Sarah volunteered. ‘We know him. If the judge would accept a witness with a professional relationship, I’m sure that Eddie would fly out and do it . . . that’s assuming he isn’t there already.’

  ‘If that works, good,’ McIlhenney said, ‘but it’s not why I’m here. I’ve been persuaded by two of my officers that we should have a professional presence at the post-mortem on the body, and I’d like it to be you. Can you do it? It would mean flying out to Barcelona tonight. They won’t begin until tomorrow; they can’t, not until the body thaws out. Their pathologist is insisting that happens naturally.’ His forehead wrinkled. ‘I guess they don’t have a big enough microwave.’

  ‘Who does? I would insist the same if it was me.’

  ‘Can you do it?’ he repeated. ‘I can see this is a surprise to you. Bob didn’t mention it?’

  ‘No, but why would he?’

  McIlhenney grinned. ‘I’ve got a suspicion that he’s behind the request. He called me to let me know about finding Reid, and less than half an hour later, DCI Mann was on the line, saying that she and Haddock thought you should be there.’

  She returned his smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right. You know Bob; he doesn’t do subtlety very well, if at all. I can do it,’ she said, ‘but I’d want to fly back as soon as possible afterwards. Yes, I’ve got Trish to look after the kids, but I don’t like both of us to be away for any longer than necessary. Not with a rebellious pre-teen around.’

  ‘Jazz?’ She nodded. ‘Tell me about it. I went through all that with Lauren and Spence, and I’ll have it again with Louis in a few years.’ He paused. ‘It was Jazz that spotted the body in the woods, I hear. How’s he dealing with it?’

  ‘Maybe not as well as he’d admit. He has his father’s soft centre.’

  ‘His what?’ McIlhenney beamed incredulously.

  ‘Oh, Bob has one,’ Sarah insisted. ‘Granted you have to dig deep to find it, but it’s there.’

  The chief constable nodded, suddenly serious. ‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘He was a huge help to me when Olive was in her final illness – and beyond, truth be told.’

  ‘I remember.’ For a second she thought that she saw McIlhenney’s eyes moisten.

  ‘Speaking of the woods,’ he continued quickly, ‘what’s the latest on that? I know the lab identified the first set of remains, but how about the second? Have you heard?’

  ‘I had a message as I was getting out of my car,’ she told him. ‘From Arthur Dorward to Noele McClair, but copied to me. The female skeleton has the same paternal link as the first with the man Moses Trott. The two bodies appear to be brother and sister.’

  Forty-Seven

  ‘It’s Naomi, Moses Trott’s daughter,’ McClair told her colleagues. ‘Brother and sister, buried in the same location and, we have to assume, at the same time.’ She looked up from the tablet from which she had read Arthur Dorward’s message. They were gathered around Haddock’s conference table in the Serious Crimes office in the squat, unattractive building that had been the headquarters of Edinburgh’s police service under the leadership of Bob Skinner, and before him, of Sir James Proud.

  The DCI had called a squad meeting, to share information on current investigations, although he had made it clear that McClair remained in absolute control of the Black Shield Lodge inquiry. ‘Do you want to take your group back up there?’ he asked her.

  ‘Not to the hotel,’ she replied, ‘but we might need to blag some space in the Dundee office. The general belief,’ she told the team, ‘was that Samuel and Naomi simply left the family home, as young people do. Did they? Were they killed after that? If so, where did they move to, and where did they meet their deaths? This pair have been thirty years dead, and so witnesses are going to be hard to find, but Dundee is where we’ll need to look.’

  ‘Will you have another go at interviewing Moses?’ Haddock asked.

  Two seats along from McClair, Benjamin shuddered. ‘Neither the care home management nor his doctor will allow it,’ the DI told him. ‘He’s an old man, he’s seriously disturbed and he probably doesn’t remember what he had for breakfast let alone things that happened that long ago. We could insist on interviewing him, we could go to court to enforce it, but there’s precious little chance of us getting anything out of him. Before we left yesterday, Fields, the manager, was talking about having him transferred to a secure psychiatric hospital. If that happens, Sauce, he’ll be well out of our reach.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he conceded, ‘I suppose. Whatever, it’s your call. If you feel you need authorisation for anything, get it from Stallings. I’ve got my own issues, thanks to the gaffer and his supernatural instinct for finding trouble.’

  ‘What’s he done this time?’ McClair asked, grinning.

  The DCI stared at her. ‘Jesus,’ he murmured, ‘has nobody told you?’ He looked around the table, at Wright, Benjamin and DS Tarvil Singh, newly recovered from Covid. ‘Give us the room, please,’ he asked. The trio rose and filed out. The two women wore the same puzzled expression as the DI.

  ‘Noele,’ Haddock said, ‘that text you received: there have been two more, ostensibly from the same source, Matthew Reid. One went to the gaffer’s friend Aislado, the Saltire owner, and the other, yesterday, to the big man himself. He’s in Span just now and it wound him up, so he went looking for Reid at a place he owned in Catalonia. Did Matthew ever mention it to you?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, he did,’ she said, quietly. ‘The night we . . . that night, he even suggested taking Harry and me out there next summer. He said it was a bit run down and didn’t have a swimming pool or anything, but it was handy for the sea. You know the strange thing, Sauce? When I think back to that moment, I’m sure he was entirely sincere. He really did mean it. That hardly squares with someone who was planning to disappear without a trace a couple of days later. I’m surprised I didn’t think about that before. I’m sorry, I should have, and I should have told you.’

  ‘No matter,’ he replied. ‘What I have to tell you is that the gaffer went there, got into the place and found Matthew. He was dead, Noele, and his body was in a big chest freezer in his garage.’

  A shiver ran through her. It began in her groin, in the place where Reid had been, and spread until she had difficulty bringing it under control. To her astonishment she realised that she had tears in her eyes. Knowing that she could be seen by her colleagues through the glass walls of the room, she blinked them away, fighting off the urge to reach for a tissue.

  ‘My God, Sauce,’ she exclaimed, ‘has there ever been a woman less lucky than me when it comes to men? Terry, Griff, now Matthew: I think I’m cursed, no, I know I am. I really did like him. When I was with him, when I was in bed with him, I never thought about the age difference. He made me feel safe, in a way that nobody else had ever done. Terry, he was actually the most boring fuck I’ve ever known. Griff, he always felt risky, even dangerous. Matthew, no, it just felt peaceful. Twice my age, and yet . . .’

  ‘How old did you think he was?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘In his seventies. I never asked him but that’s what it says in the biography in his books.’

  ‘Actually, he was sixty-four. That’s his age according to his passport and driving licence. Nobody knew that, not even Karen Neville.’

  She stared at him, along the table. ‘Why would anyone do that? People might take a few years off their age, but not the other way round. I’ve never heard of anyone adding years on.’

  ‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question, and I’m not close to finding an answer. I do know this: for months, we’ve been thinking, at least I have, that Matthew played a game with us, that he was behind those three peculiar deaths in Gullane, accidents at first sight, and that when we were about to get to him, he wiped out all traces of himself, faked his death and disappeared. Maybe we were right; maybe that was all true. But the fact that he’s been taken out of the game himself, that creates a massive doubt.’

  ‘What about the Glasgow murder?’ McClair challenged. ‘Calder Bryant. He was of interest to DCI Mann, but its circumstances were completely different, unconnected to Gullane.’

  ‘That’s Lottie’s business, not ours.’

  ‘But the book he left behind? It’s based on the three Gullane deaths, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Haddock conceded. ‘That was an assumption. It’s still what I fear, but the publishers are saying nothing about the content. All that his editor would tell me is that it doesn’t incriminate him in any way. Everything’s in doubt, Noele. The biggest mystery of all is: what did happen the night he disappeared and how did he turn up in Spain? Is that an extension of both our inquiries, Lottie’s and mine, or is it a completely different story?’

  Forty-Eight

  ‘Have you thought about flying Haddock or Mann out here to observe and assist the Mossos investigation?’ Skinner asked DCC Mario McGuire.

  ‘Yes, we have. Neil and I discussed it, but we thought we’d wait until we see the results of the post-mortem before going that far. Meantime we’re grateful . . . at least I am . . . for your presence on the ground there and for the information you’re feeding back to us.’

  ‘What information?’ Skinner saw himself shrug on the split Zoom screen. ‘All that my friend in the Mossos told me when he called me fifteen minutes ago is that his crime-scene team worked in Matthew’s house all night, but so far they’ve found nothing that means a damn thing to them. His prints are all over the place, obviously, but there’s no sign of anyone else’s other than a cleaner that Villa Service sent there two years ago. She was traced last night and finger-printed for elimination.’

  ‘Villa Service?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a property-management agency that a lot of British expats use. I knew Matthew did because the owner mentioned him to me.’

  ‘What did the body look like when they took it out of the freezer?’ McGuire asked. ‘Were you close enough to see?’

  ‘Choose your analogy, mate,’ Skinner sighed. ‘He was dead and he was frozen. Yes, I was close enough to see as much as the Spanish officers did. All that I can tell you is that he looked as if he’d died in his sleep. There was no blood, there were no visible signs of violence. He was fully clothed: black denim jeans, blue check shirt, and a Calvin Klein jumper. He even had shoes on: brown moccasins. They were Spanish; I recognised the brand but read nothing into that. I have a few pairs myself.’

  ‘Nobody’s prepared to guess how long he’d been there?’ McGuire ventured.

  ‘We can all bloody guess, man,’ Skinner chuckled, ‘but what good would it do? We have to wait for the autopsy in Barcelona, and likely that won’t begin until tomorrow afternoon. The medical examiner reckoned that the pathologist would want to let him thaw out for forty-eight hours at least. That means they can’t keep him in a cooler like they would normally. He’ll be fucking humming by that time; what Sarah calls a two-shower job. I don’t envy her.’

  ‘Mmm.’ On screen, McGuire smiled. ‘Neil and I were going to ask if you’d observe, officially, with Spanish approval, on behalf of the Scottish police service.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. It’s a legal thing. In the unlikely event evidence from the autopsy is ever led in a Scottish court, corroboration might be needed.’

  ‘Fuck.’ He sighed, recognising that his friend was correct ‘Okay, if there’s nobody else. Sarah and I might as well have the same awful smell in our nostrils for the rest of the day. It’ll give us an excuse to have dinner in Los Caracoles and a night in our favourite hotel.’

  ‘Thanks, Bob. We’ll make the request. You’ll know the venue and the timing from Sarah. Maybe we’ll have a bit more from the crime scene by then.’

  ‘That’s not a complete bust,’ Skinner said. ‘There is something out of nothing. There was a UHT milk carton in the kitchen. It was only two months out of date and there were no prints on it. I know, personally, for sure, that with the pandemic travel restrictions, Matthew hadn’t been in Spain for eighteen months. Yet that milk must have been bought last year. It was opened, it had been used, yet no prints. It couldn’t have been Matthew that used it. He’d have left prints and he wouldn’t have wiped them off. No, somebody else did that; the person who put him in the freezer, I’m assuming. It even suggests that he’d been there for quite some time. The carton has a bar code. The Mossos are hoping they’ll find out where and when it was sold.’

  ‘Couldn’t somebody else, somebody unconnected, have been in the house?’ McGuire suggested. ‘Another cleaner, say?’

  ‘There was no other cleaner. Only Villa Service have the keys.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure, because there’s another witness, of sorts. A man arrived on the scene last night about the same time as the SOCOs. He’s an artist, and . . . I didn’t know this because Matthew never mentioned it to me . . . he rents the barn that’s part of the property as his studio. He doesn’t have keys to the house but Matthew told him that if he ever needed access for any reason, he could get them from Villa Service, and only them.’

  ‘Could he have seen the person, or the people, who put Reid in the freezer?’

  ‘More than likely just one guy,’ Skinner said. ‘There was only one mug in the sink. But no, the artist said he’s seen nobody there. In fact, he hasn’t seen anyone since the pandemic.’

  ‘What about property taxes, stuff like that?’ McGuire asked.

  ‘They’ll all be paid by direct debit from a Spanish bank account. That’s an assumption on my part, mind, but it’s the norm. An expat can meet his obligations in Spain, but leave no footprint at all. The artist must be paying his rent to someone; my guess, it’s to the bank account. We have lots of negatives, and one more to add. People arriving in Spain still have to fill out locator forms before they enter the country. The Mossos checked last night and found no record of one being in place for Matthew Reid, ever. As I said, lots of negatives, but that one points me towards a definite conclusion. I suspected it last night, but now I’m sure. He didn’t die in Spain, Mario. He was dead when he arrived here.’