44

At least they had a proper address for Olga Kotova. She’d been living in her caravan for long enough to be on the council tax register. Karen had set Jason the task of finding where it was; he had developed a certain expertise at negotiating his way round lists, usually by charming some woman into doing the searching for him. In spite of almost everyone working from home, he’d tracked down someone with the right database access, and he’d found the details by the time they’d arrived at St Abb’s.

‘ “Twinned with New Asgard”?’ Daisy exclaimed as they entered the village. ‘What the actual?’

‘It’s a sort of joke. They filmed the Avengers: Endgame movie here and renamed it. I think we’ve gone past the caravan site.’

Daisy groaned and turned round. ‘Sorry, got carried away.’

A hand-lettered sign said the site was closed due to COVID-19. A long chain extended across the gate, a central padlock presumably there to give existing residents access. The office seemed deserted. They left the car on the grass verge by the entrance and walked in.

There were only a handful of vans parked up. The place had an air of empty desolation. Apparently, few people were prepared to weather lockdown in the teeth of exposure to the vicious winds that beat against this coast. Karen had dug deeper into the images of Olga online and found a Scottish magazine feature about the poet that showed her sitting in a folding chair outside her van with the sea in the distance. At the far end of the site, she spotted a couple of smart-looking static caravans that matched the one in the photograph.

They approached on gravel paths that were beginning to sprout weeds. The nearer of the two showed no sign of life, but there was a light on in the farther one. ‘Sometimes,’ Karen sighed, ‘I wish I was a private eye, not a polis.’

‘How?’

‘Well, I could roll up to Olga’s front door and pretend to be a journalist researching a big feature on Rosalind Harris. Desperate to know the woman behind the wills. We could sit and have a proper blether about how Ros loves to come down to the seaside for a fish supper. So much so that Olga’s given her a key to come and go as she pleases.’

‘I can see the attraction,’ Daisy admitted.

As they grew closer, they could hear the insistent beat of a drum and bass track. ‘Really?’ Karen said.

‘Don’t be so judgemental,’ Daisy scolded.

‘Judgemental is what I live for, Sergeant.’ She grinned. ‘Come on, let’s chap the door.’

The music stopped. The woman who opened the caravan door couldn’t have been more different from Deni Blackadder. For starters, her hair was arranged in a French plait and her round face above the dramatic black and silver mask was devoid of make-up, emphasising her large grey eyes. She was elegant in black slacks, ballet slippers and a sweater in a fine marled grey wool. ‘I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong van,’ she said, her accent faint but very definitely present.

‘Are you Olga Kotova?’

She seemed to withdraw. ‘I am. Who is asking?’ Karen and Daisy went through the usual rigmarole while Olga grew more obviously wary. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you here?’

Karen recited the same spiel she’d given Deni Blackadder. It seemed not to alleviate Olga Kotova’s unease. Karen wondered what in her past had left her with so little trust of a police officer on a sunny afternoon. ‘You’re not suspected of any crime,’ she tried. ‘I’m sorry we can’t be more explicit about the case we are investigating, but there are good reasons for that. We want to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’

‘Do I need a lawyer?’

‘I don’t believe so. But if that would make you more comfortable, that would be fine, provided we can organise it within the lockdown rules.’

Olga gave her a long hard stare. She seemed to be memorising Karen’s face and matching it against some database in her head. ‘Wait there,’ she said, disappearing back indoors. Karen and Daisy exchanged looks, shrugged. Waited.

At length, Olga reappeared, struggling with three folding chairs. ‘Please, make way.’ She leaned the chairs one by one against the outside of the van. She took one and marched round the end, out of the wind. ‘Help yourselves,’ she called as she vanished.

They grabbed a chair each and followed her, setting themselves down more than two metres from her. She seemed to think Daisy was too close and waved her back a few centimetres. Then she took out her phone and laid it on the arm of the chair. ‘I will record this,’ she said.

‘That is your prerogative,’ Karen said. ‘How long have you lived here, Ms Kotova?’

‘It has been my home for six years. I know some people think it’s strange, not to want to live in a house. But I like liminal spaces.’

Whatever that meant. ‘Do you live here alone?’

She nodded. ‘Always.’

‘What happens when friends come to visit?’

‘Why do you care? If they are staying, I have an arrangement with the owners here. They give my visitors the use of a caravan at a very competitive rate. But not many people come to stay. They prefer to meet in Edinburgh.’

‘So you go up to Edinburgh often?’

She crossed one elegant leg over the other. ‘In normal times, yes. More or less every other week. I take the bus. It’s better than taking my car into the city.’

‘I can’t say I blame you. Edinburgh traffic’s terrible. I walk everywhere I can.’

Olga nodded her approval. ‘It’s a good city for walking. When the festival isn’t on, at least.’

‘Who looks after the place when you’re away?’

She frowned. ‘No one. I lock the door and away I go. I take my laptop and my notebook with me when I leave. I live very simply here. Who is going to break into a caravan with nothing to steal except books?’ She snorted with laughter. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone in St Abb’s who would have any interest in stealing my books.’

‘Does anyone else have a key?’

‘Why are you asking this? Why do you care who has my key? Do you think something bad has happened here?’

‘It would help if you would answer the question.’ Karen spoke mildly but her expression was severe.

‘Would it help me? I think not.’

‘You’re not suspected of any crime, Ms Kotova.’ Daisy spoke gently. ‘But we are investigating a very serious crime and we want to bring the perpetrator to justice. We think whoever has your key may have been exploited or coerced into handing it over.’

Karen didn’t always like these unscripted ‘good cop, bad cop’ routines, but Daisy was good at offering people a sort of sanctuary. Olga’s eyebrows rose, her eyes widening. She planted both feet firmly on the grass, and said, ‘And if that were to have been the case?’

‘Then there would be no blame attached to them.’ Daisy’s words hung in the air.

Aye, right. Karen picked up the ball and ran with it. ‘And it might be that you were protecting them from further coercion or control.’

Olga shifted in her seat. ‘And what if they were already safe? What if the person who had been putting pressure on them is no longer in a position to do so?’

‘It would ease their conscience,’ Daisy said. ‘And that’s no small thing.’

Olga stared out over the fields towards the sea. ‘I have a friend who loves the extremity of this coast. For some time, it was an escape for her from a difficult marriage. We share a taste in books, and I always think it nourishes her. About two years ago, I was awarded a residency in Banff in Canada. It meant I would be away for a couple of months or more, if I extended it elsewhere. It was advantageous to both of us for me to give her a key so she could come here and decompress. And I knew there would be someone keeping a watchful eye on my home.’

‘Would you tell me the name of your friend?’

Olga’s fingers wound themselves around each other. ‘I do not want her to think I have betrayed her.’

‘We won’t tell her,’ Karen said. ‘She need never know.’

‘Of course she would know, only we know this,’ she snapped.

‘Not necessarily. Your friendship isn’t a secret, surely? People know you’re close. She’s probably spoken to friends, to colleagues about her love of this area. She’ll have mentioned you, before she ever had your key. This is not a betrayal, it’s a way to help her to get rid of her guilt,’ Karen said, picking up Daisy’s theme.

Olga sighed and wrapped her arms around her chest. The two polis kept silent, scarcely daring to breathe. This could be the moment that made sense of their case. At last, she spoke. ‘My friend is called Rosalind Harris. She is a lawyer in Edinburgh. She used to be married to a man called Jake Stein who made her life very difficult. She divorced him but still he tormented her. And then he died. So she need fear no more the heat of his temper. But she still comes to visit because she loves it here.’ She paused. ‘Do you think he . . . did some evil here?’

‘I’m truly sorry, but I can’t say anything more now. I wonder, can you tell me whether you were away last April?’

‘Something happened last April, then? Something . . . here?’

Karen couldn’t see a way of avoiding the question. But if she was right, all that would do would be to postpone the poisoning of this sanctuary for Olga. ‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘Were you at home for all of April last year?’

In reply, she picked up her phone and tapped the screen. ‘I was here until April sixth. Then I went to Burgundy, in France. I was there for a four-week residency. Many of these chateaux, they like to visibly support the arts.’ There was a wry note in her voice. ‘It’s rather splendid bed and board for a small amount of work.’

‘You bring them prestige,’ Karen said. ‘So, for most of April, you were not here?’

‘I was not.’

‘But your friend had access to the caravan?’

Olga nodded, eyes downcast. ‘And why not? She had always respected it.’

‘Did you notice anything different when you came back? Anything missing, anything out of place?’

Olga pondered briefly then shook her head. ‘I don’t remember anything amiss.’ She sounded sad; bereft, almost.

‘I know how difficult this has been for you,’ Karen said. ‘When it’s possible to explain, I hope you’ll appreciate we came here with the best of intentions.’

Olga stood up, straight as a rake. ‘Ah yes. Those things that pave the road to hell.’

They walked back to the car, Karen feeling a spring in her step. They were getting closer. ‘Did you notice the security cameras on the admin building?’ she asked.

‘They’re quite well disguised but yes, I did. What are the chances, do you think?’

‘A year ago? Not good. Depends on the system, depends how organised the curation is.’

They’d arrived at the office by the gate. Still no sign of life. There was a number to ring but before Karen’s phone connected a man walked round the side of the building. He had the lean, wiry build of a fell runner, an impression emphasised by his outfit of lycra running pants and a wind shirt. ‘What can I do for you, ladies?’

They produced their ID. ‘DCI Karen Pirie. We’re making inquiries about an incident that may have taken place here last April.’

He turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘No incidents here last April, officer. We run an orderly site.’

‘But none of us knows for sure what happens behind closed doors, do we? Humour me, Mr . . . ?’

‘Garside. Doddie Garside. I’m the owner here. And manager. If anything kicked off here, I’d know.’ He took a pack of chewing gum from his pocket and offered it to them. They declined and watched him strip off the wrapper and slip the stick into his mouth.

‘I see you’ve got security cameras,’ Daisy said.

‘State of the art, pal. Motion-activated, digital cloud storage. You can’t be too careful in this game.’ He chewed vigorously, slack-jawed and ugly. ‘Every car, every van that rolls up to that entrance, it’s locked and loaded on the system. Even youse two. It’s got a wide angle of capture.’

‘How far back do you store images?’

‘Got them all, pal. Since I installed it in November 2018. What’s your interest?’

‘We’d like to look at last April,’ Karen said. No point in beating about the bush. ‘Would you be amenable to that?’

‘Do you not need a warrant for that?’

Silently cursing armchair criminalists, she smiled and said, ‘Not if you give permission. All we want to do is check whether a particular person was here on a particular date. If you’ve got it on cloud storage, presumably working through it wouldn’t be difficult?’