47

Jason had come up trumps, Karen told Daisy over the first coffee of the day. ‘So no pressure there, then, Sergeant Mortimer.’

‘I’ve already made a start,’ Daisy protested. ‘I’ve googled the prize and got a contact email for the administrator. I sent her a message before I came through, asking her for an urgent call.’

‘I’m impressed,’ Karen said. ‘Between you and Jason, I’m going to be redundant soon.’

‘When are you going to tell the Dog Biscuit where we’re up to?’

Karen pulled a face. ‘As late as possible. Ideally not till I’ve got them both in custody. And we’ve had a forensic team taking his car to bits. There’ll be something there. No matter how many times he’s had it valeted since.’

Before Daisy could challenge this, her phone rang. She snatched it. ‘Unknown Caller’ made her grin. ‘Either it’s my African prince seeking access to my bank account or it’s Gina Donizetti from the National Short Story Award.’ She accepted the call, putting the phone on speaker.

‘Hello? Is that Detective Sergeant Mortimer?’ Southern English, beautiful enunciation.

‘Speaking.’

‘I’m Gina Donizetti. You emailed me?’

‘I did, thanks for responding so promptly. Do you mind if I record this call?’ Daisy asked. Karen pulled out her own phone and set the voice recorder running.

‘I don’t see why I should mind. I have nothing to hide. But now I’m even more intrigued. Why on earth might a detective sergeant from the Historic Cases Unit in Edinburgh want to talk about short stories?’

‘It’s part of an ongoing inquiry. I’m afraid I can’t go into details, but I have some questions about the timetable of your judging process.’

‘How very intriguing.’

‘The prize is awarded in May, is that right?’

‘Correct. The fourth Monday in May, to be precise.’

‘And when is the shortlist announced?’

‘On the fourth Monday in April.’

‘And the stories are broadcast on the radio in the same week?’

‘That’s right, Sergeant. Is there some suggestion of corruption at the heart of our award? Because I can assure you—’

‘Nothing like that,’ Daisy hastily interrupted. ‘There’s no question of any wrongdoing on your part. Am I right in thinking that the stories are read by the authors themselves?’

Karen leaned in to better hear the reply. Gina Donizetti gave a little laugh. ‘That’s the idea,’ she said. ‘Wherever possible, they read the stories themselves. That can be quite demanding.’

‘I imagine some people are better at it than others.’

‘Yes. But we work very hard with them to make it happen.’

‘So I guess the writers know they’re going to be on the shortlist well before the public does? To make time for the recordings?’

Gina sighed. ‘Inevitably. The writers are told in the last week of March.’ A dry chuckle. ‘We managed to squeeze it in this year just before lockdown.’

Daisy let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. ‘So last year, 2019, your shortlisted authors would have known by the end of March?’

‘Just a moment.’ The whisper of fingers on keys. ‘March twenty-fifth, the messages went out to the authors and their agents, where applicable.’

Daisy raised an interrogative eyebrow at Karen, who nodded. ‘Thank you so much, Gina.’

‘It was one of yours who won last year.’ Now there was an alert edge to her voice.

‘One of ours?’

‘A rather dashing Scotsman. Has he done something wrong?’

‘I really can’t comment on an ongoing case.’ Daisy’s tone was repressive. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for your help.’

‘You’re welcome, but—’

‘Have a good day.’ Daisy managed to make it sound like she meant it, and ended the call. She nodded at Karen’s phone and her boss turned off the recording function. ‘He knew he was fucked if Lara was still alive when that story was broadcast. He might be able to persuade her he’d done it to show how good she was, that he still intended to give her the credit, but even someone as biddable as Lara would have her limits.’

‘And he had an oven-ready plan,’ Karen said wearily. She pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Poor Lara. It’s a bloody good story too. She should have had the chance to be proud of herself.’

Karen paced the length of Simpson’s Loan and back again, waiting for the call from Daisy to say she was about to move on Ross McEwen. Like Karen, she had a uniformed officer from Gayfield Square with her. Karen wasn’t expecting confrontation but it was always best to be prepared. Karen, Jason and Daisy had spent much of the day on Zoom, working their way through the evidence and putting together an interview strategy.

Her phone buzzed with a text. A glance showed it was from Miran, and she opened it with a mixture of dread and hope.

I wanted to let you know everything is well. Thank you for all you did to help. Your friend, Miran.

She was taken aback at how relieved she felt. Before she could interrogate the response, the screen lit up with Daisy’s number. ‘I’m on the doorstep,’ Daisy said.

‘Don’t let him make a phone call now. Tell him he’ll have to wait till he gets to the station. See you back there.’

She squared her shoulders and pressed the buzzer for Rosalind Harris’s flat. It felt like a long time before she answered, but it was probably less than a minute, Karen thought. ‘Ms Harris, it’s DCI Pirie. Can you come down, please?’

‘Why? I’ve had my exercise for today.’

‘I need you to accompany me to the police station.’

Absolute silence.

‘Ms Harris? Did you hear me?’

‘I heard you. But I can’t imagine what is so important that it trumps the lockdown rules.’

‘Crime, Ms Harris. I’m investigating a serious crime and I need to interview you under caution.’

‘Under caution?’

‘I can caution you via the intercom if you like? It’s equally valid. I have a witness here.’ She winked at the uniformed PC, who gave her the thumbs up. ‘I am detaining you under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure Scotland Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed offences punishable by imprisonment, namely abduction, murder and the illegal disposal of a body—’

‘I know what the bloody caution is. Are you insane?’

‘The reasons for my suspicions will be explained to you in full at a police station. You will be detained to enable further investigations to be carried out—’

‘Shut up. This is madness.’

‘If you don’t come down of your own free will, we will be obliged to enter the building and arrest you. I’m sure that someone in your position wouldn’t consider that a good look.’

The intercom went dead. ‘What do we do now?’ the PC asked.

‘We give her ten minutes to get herself together and phone a hotshot criminal lawyer.’ She leaned against the glass wall next to the door and studied her watch. Eight minutes passed and the intercom crackled into life. ‘Which police station are you taking me to?’ Rosalind Harris demanded.

‘Gayfield Square,’ Karen said. ‘Your brief will know it.’

Another three minutes and Rosalind emerged from the lift. She was wearing the same swagger of winter coat, only this time over indigo jeans, a cowl-necked sweater and a pair of scarlet New Balance trainers. Her hair was tucked into a cable knit turban against the chill. She gave Karen a look that would have sent the dogs of the city howling for the suburbs and strode to open the door.

‘You are going to regret this, Pirie. I won’t call you DCI, because I suspect by the end of this you’re going to be the same rank as your minder.’ She cast a disdainful glance at the squad car parked in the street. ‘I’m not travelling in that, either.’

‘Fine. Where’s your car?’

‘I’ll walk.’

‘Then I’ll walk with you.’

Rosalind stalked off at a fast pace. ‘What do you want me to do?’ the PC asked.

‘Your best.’ Karen hurried off in Rosalind’s wake. She was a brisk traverser of the city streets, but Rosalind was heading towards George IV Bridge like a race walker. She didn’t bother waiting for the little green man to cross the Royal Mile, which was perfectly reasonable as the only vehicle in sight was the police car on their tail. She cut through to the New Steps, taking them two at a time. No one to give them a second look. Ten o’clock at night in the heart of the city and scarcely a body was stirring.

Down past Waverley Station, up to St Andrew Square with its massive column paying homage to a man who delayed the end of the slave trade, past The Stand comedy club, its stages silent. No laughs to be had in the city tonight. Finally, Gayfield Square.

Karen caught up with Rosalind as she was buzzed into the station. Confronted with two masked women, the sergeant behind the bar looked shaken. Karen broke the ice. ‘Hi Sarge. I’ve brought Ms Harris in for questioning under caution. Interview room one?’

‘No can do, Chief Inspector. Sergeant Mortimer just brought someone in. You’ll have to settle for room two . . . ’

Karen shrugged. ‘Confessions sound the same, whatever room they’re made in.’

‘I’m going nowhere till my lawyer gets here,’ Rosalind said, the heat of her anger doing nothing to melt the frost in her voice.

‘Would that be Ms Considine?’ the sergeant asked sweetly.

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘Aye, she’s already in Interview Two.’

‘Better get going. Ms Considine’s clock’s running,’ Karen said cheerily, leading the way down the hall.