1989 Read online

  By Val McDermid

  A Place of Execution

  Killing the Shadows

  The Grave Tattoo

  Trick of the Dark

  The Vanishing Point

  ALLIE BURNS NOVELS

  1979

  LINDSAY GORDON NOVELS

  Report for Murder

  Common Murder

  Final Edition

  Union Jack

  Booked for Murder

  Hostage to Murder

  KAREN PIRIE NOVELS

  The Distant Echo

  A Darker Domain

  The Skeleton Road

  Out of Bounds

  Broken Ground

  Still Life

  TONY HILL/CAROL JORDAN NOVELS

  The Mermaids Singing

  The Wire in the Blood

  The Last Temptation

  The Torment of Others

  Beneath the Bleeding

  Fever of the Bone

  The Retribution

  Cross and Burn

  Splinter the Silence

  Insidious Intent

  How the Dead Speak

  KATE BRANNIGAN NOVELS

  Dead Beat

  Kick Back

  Crack Down

  Clean Break

  Blue Genes

  Star Struck

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Writing on the Wall

  Stranded

  Christmas is Murder

  Gunpowder Plots (ebook only)

  NON-FICTION

  A Suitable Job for a Woman

  Forensics

  My Scotland

  An Allie Burns Novel

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2022 by Val McDermid

  Jacket design by Becca Fox Design

  Jacket artwork: Igor Stevanovic / Alamy Stock Photo

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Sphere an imprint of Little, Brown UK

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: October 2022

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

  ISBN 978-0-8021-6010-2

  eISBN 978-0-8021-6011-9

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  For Jo on the occasion of her 20th birthday. Don’t worry, it’ll all work out.

  On reflection, I think the 1980s were an absolutely terrrible, abysmal time

  PETE BURNS

  When I look back at the 1980s, I pinch myself. Did I really do all that?

  CYNTHIA PAYNE

  Prologue

  Finally the weather turned. He only realised how tense his shoulders had been when he felt them relax. He’d had just a week’s holiday, and as the days flew past bringing more Atlantic gales, he’d thought he was going to have to abort his plan. But at last, on the fourth day, the wind dropped enough to make sailing a proposition. He slipped anchor from Tobermory Bay on a cold blue morning and motored out into the main channel heading north-west.

  The wind was from the south-west, around a force four, he reckoned. It wasn’t perfect, but he set his sails to catch the wind to his best advantage and settled down for what he calculated would be around a four-hour sail out past Coll to Ranaig. And ‘sail’ was the operative word. He wanted to use the motor as little as possible so nobody would be able to estimate how far he’d travelled.

  The boat he’d hired for the week in Tobermory was a bit of a tub but she didn’t take much getting used to and she was well suited to single-handed sailing. There was a muscular swell on the sea that would have made most people feel queasy. But he’d learned his sailing off the coast of North Wales, braving the Irish Sea in all weathers. Sailing solo on a small boat in fair weather held no terrors for him.

  The wind whistled in the sails and the water hissed along the hull yet they were no distractions from his thoughts. He’d been working out how to kill Wallace Lockhart for months, evolving and discarding plans one after the other till his researches had eventually led him to this. It matched his existing skills, it embraced elements of poetic justice, and it had the added beauty of not requiring an alibi. A man would die, but the timing was impossible to predict. Whenever it happened, his avenging angel would be far away. The only downside was that, as he lay dying, he would not know which of his inhumanities he was dying for.

  It was early afternoon when he lowered the sails and motored into the bay on the Atlantic coast of Ranaig. There was a small wooden jetty, exposed to the elements beyond the tidal barrage that provided power to the island, and he tied up his craft securely to the iron stanchions. He grabbed his tall rucksack and climbed ashore. He stood on dry land and took a long deep breath. The air smelled of salt and seaweed, and that was all. He was alone on the island; he knew the housekeeper and the bodyguard were only in residence when its owner was due. And he was giving evidence to a Parliamentary committee this week. When he wasn’t being questioned himself, he’d be watching his rivals closely.

  There would be nobody standing between the intruder and his intended goal.

  There was a faint track up from the bay which joined a tarmacked path that ran between the helipad and the house. It was easily wide enough for the golf buggy that sat under a carport at the back of the house, protected on three sides from the weather by log cabin timbers. He crossed the path and approached at an angle, the machair springy beneath his feet, treacherous pockets of wet peat ready to suck the boots off him.

  From the shelter of the carport, he checked out the pos­itions of the security cameras. The island’s lord and master clearly thought there was little risk on Ranaig. The cameras at the back of the house were fixed and they covered a wide arc including the path. But the corners weren’t within their scope.

  Nevertheless, he took a balaclava from his pack and pulled it on. Gloves next. Then a folding aluminium ladder just long enough to put him in reach of the guttering. It was cast iron and firmly secured to the stonework and the fascia board with heavy bolts, designed to withstand the wild weather that would blow in from the ocean. Finally, a lumpy plastic bag whose handle he slipped over his wrist.

  With little fuss, he unfolded the ladder and propped it against the wall. He took off his boots, scaled the ladder and pulled himself on to the roof, grunting at the effort. He crawled up the roof till he reached the first of the long dorme
r windows. He clenched his fist and drove it hard into the window. The glass crazed and he hit it again. This time it broke, the hole large enough for him to reach inside and unfasten the catch. The window swung abruptly open, carried by the wind, and he rolled over the sill and into a bedroom.

  Stepping carefully over the broken glass, the man opened the carrier bag and emptied the dead seagull on to the carpet. He’d picked it up off the beach the day before. By the time Lockhart’s people arrived, the obvious conclusion would be that the gull had crashed into the window in a storm. It happened. Occasionally, it was true. But it happened.

  This was obviously a guest bedroom. Well appointed, but impersonal. He emerged on the landing and tried the next door. Another guest bedroom. He crossed the landing and as soon as he opened the door, he knew this was the master suite. Vast picture windows looked out across the sea to a distant vista of small islands and big mountains. It would be a treat to wake up to this, he thought.

  It wasn’t the bedroom he was interested in but the bathroom. The plan he’d finally settled on had been formed after reading an interview with the island’s owner in Condé Nast’s Traveller magazine. There was a sidebar on Travel Essentials – What I Never Leave Home Without. Among his target’s necessities were his vitamin capsules. ‘Individually tailored to his needs by a top Swiss naturopath.’ And a photograph of a scatter of dark green capsules, their overlap obvious even at that small scale. Two cylinders with open ends, one nesting tightly inside the end of the other.

  The bathroom was roughly the size of the intruder’s living room. A bath that would comfortably contain a very large man and plenty of water; a separate double shower cubicle. A toilet, a bidet and a pair of sinks. Why one man needed two sinks was beyond him, but what did he know of a life of luxury like this? He opened the bathroom cabinet and there, among the toiletries and assorted medications – it pleased him inordinately to see three preparations for easing haemorrhoids – he found what he was looking for.

  He unscrewed the jar and took out a capsule. They were dark green, he’d read, so they wouldn’t deteriorate in sunlight. From his pocket, he took out a small vial of white powder. With infinite care, he separated the two halves of the capsule and tipped the contents down the nearest sink. Then he replaced the vitamins with the white powder and reassembled the capsule. He compared it with a couple of others from the jar, and was satisfied. He closed the jar and put it back in exactly the same place. He ran the tap briefly to wash away any trace of the vitamins then retraced his steps.

  Across the bedroom, across the hall, through the window. Closing the catch was more tricky but he managed it. Inching down the roof to the ladder, then feet in boots and back to the boat. Back aboard, he stripped off his gloves and balaclava. He’d drop them overboard somewhere on the way back, along with his folding ladder.

  At last, he allowed himself to relax. He had a half-litre bottle of good Polish vodka in his rucksack and he poured himself a small measure. He raised a silent toast, threw it down in one and plotted his course back to Tobermory.

  He didn’t know when the cyanide would catch up with its intended victim. But it was only a matter of time.

  1

  A steady drizzle fell from low clouds that echoed the slate roof of Dryfesdale parish church and leached colour from the red sandstone walls. The world was monochrome with grief.

  Good intro, Allie Burns thought, hating herself even as the idea crossed her mind. She’d come to the church before dawn, knowing she’d have to beat the rest of the world’s press to the Lockerbie bombing memorial service if she was going to stand any chance of a decent exclusive that would hold till the Sunday paper. The main door of the church was still locked but she’d lurked among the worn sandstone grave markers until a florist’s van turned into the access road. She sidled through the headstones to the front of the church. A middle-aged woman in a nylon overall under a rain jacket was struggling with an impressive load of floral tributes.

  ‘Let me give you a hand,’ Allie said, not waiting for a reply to get stuck in to unloading the flowers.

  ‘Thank goodness. Are you with the church?’ the woman asked.

  The correct answer would have been, ‘No, I’m the northern news editor of the Sunday Globe.’ Allie opted for the less problematic, ‘I couldn’t see you struggling by yourself.’

  Between them, they unloaded the van and carried the flowers in through an unobtrusive side door. Allie quickly took in the typical Church of Scotland spartan interior, the simple wood pews, the plain communion table and the pulpit built from blocks of local stone. The gallery above boasted a barrel roof, its panels painted a surprising pink in contrast to the white ribs. Towards the rear of the church, a young boy sat with bowed head.

  ‘Oh, my,’ Allie’s new friend said. ‘That must be the wee laddie that lost his mum and dad and his brother.’

  Allie knew exactly who she meant. He’d gone to a friend’s, to play table tennis. When Pan Am flight 103 had disintegrated above the small Scottish town thanks to a terrorist bomb, part of the scatter of wreckage had obliterated eight houses. One of those houses had been home to the boy’s family. Four days before Christmas.

  Now she had an even better intro.

  Before she could say more, two burly men in dark suits hustled in the side door with a harassed air. They gave the florist a cursory glance then glared at Allie, betrayed by her belted black raincoat and fashionable footwear. ‘Who are you?’

  Allie’s smile was conciliatory. She held up her hands, palms facing them. ‘I’m out of here,’ she said.

  The younger of the two was faster than he looked. A hand shot out and grabbed her arm. ‘Not so fast. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Nothing sinister. I’m press,’ she sighed. ‘I’d just arrived, and this lady looked like she needed some help.’ With her free hand, she reached in her pocket and produced her NUJ press card. ‘I’ll get out of your way, if you’ll just . . .’ She nodded at the fingers gripping tightly.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be in here,’ he snapped. ‘Have you got no shame? This is a memorial, not a press conference.’ He let her go. ‘Away and join the rest of the vermin.’

  Allie squeezed out a smile. Never let them see you’re intimidated, no matter which side of the good guys/bad guys fence they are on. On her way out she nodded to the florist, whose expression gave no clue to her reaction.

  While she’d been inside, the security cordon Allie had anticipated had been set round the church. The dozens of police officers were no surprise, given that the service for the 270 victims of the presumed terrorist attack would be attended by the prime minister and the American ambassador. Not to mention another seven hundred mourners from the town and far beyond.

  Allie spotted the press corral, dozens of reporters and photographers hemmed around by a subsidiary cordon. Nothing for her there. Today was Wednesday, and the nuts and bolts of the memorial service would be detailed many times over by the daily paper reporters that were covering it. With luck, her early exclusive would hold till Sunday. But it wouldn’t hurt to try and find something else. She kept her distance, joining the growing crowd standing in the rain along the pavements of the main street. She managed to get a good line of sight to the main gate then pulled a folding umbrella from her satchel and snapped it open.

  The mourners began to arrive, some wearing white carnations, some carrying posies and bouquets, many unable to hold back the tears. Allie had struggled to imagine the shock and grief that gripped them. Two weeks on from the catastrophe that had claimed 270 lives, it could scarcely have penetrated the shell of natural denial. If Rona had been one of those sudden dead, Allie doubted she’d even manage to stand, never mind walk into a church under the eyes of the watching world.

  But thankfully she wasn’t one of the bereaved, even though she’d walked those streets the night the plane had disintegrated, scattering debris and human remains aro
und the town and its surrounding fields, turning roads into rivers of fire. Allie had stumbled on stray rivets and cut her leg on a jagged piece of metal, she’d inhaled the terrible varied smells of burning, she’d spoken to locals who could hardly manage sentences. She’d come close, but she had no right to grief today. Sympathy, pity, anger, yes. But not grief.

  It dawned on Allie that for the first time in two weeks there was no rattle of rotors overhead. The military helicopters that had been quartering the skies in the search for wreckage were absent, presumably out of respect. The streets were empty of traffic too. Instead there was a heavy stillness in the street. Allie had never been in such a silent crowd. There was no conversation around her, no speculation about who was attending the service. Not even condemnation of the supposed bombers, or conjecture about who might be behind the attack. Just the gentle patter of rain on umbrellas.

  But when the public figures arrived at the church gate, she heard a low murmur run through the crowd. The PM and her husband, the leader of the Opposition, the US ambassador, assorted half-recognised faces of politicians. And walking close on their heels, the unmistakable bulk of Wallace ‘Ace’ Lockhart. A couple of inches over six feet, solid legs bearing the wide body of a heavyweight boxer gone to seed, the newspaper proprietor was upholstered in a double-breasted black coat with an astrakhan collar. He topped it off with the inevitable homburg that Allie believed he wore solely because he thought it lent him a resemblance to Churchill, especially when he was smoking one of his Cohiba Esplendidos.

  Typical of Ace Lockhart. Muscling in on an occasion where he had no business other than the bizarre form of showmanship that he inhabited. Ace Lockhart, the sole architect of all her present ills. As if today wasn’t rough enough, here came the chopper to chop off her head.

  She considered slipping away before the mourners left the church. Anything to avoid seeing her boss twice in one day. But before she could manage to find a gap in the crowd behind her, he turned his head, as if her malevolent gaze were magnetic. Their eyes met and she knew it would be more trouble than it was worth to leave before he did. If she’d learned one thing from her years inside the testosterone tent of national newspapers, it was never to give a bully fuel for his fire.