Praise for Val McDermid
‘What superlatives are there left to describe the phenomenon that is the multi-award-winning McDermid?’ Daily Mail
‘Her books combine ironclad storytelling technique, cogent commentaries on modern society and an attitude to the crime genre’s long history that is both interrogative and innovative… we are reminded that the new Queen of Crime is still at the top of her game’ Independent
‘McDermid’s expertly juggled plotlines and masterful handling of pace and tension tick all the best boxes’ Guardian
‘McDermid concocts complex plots with plenty of twists and red herrings. At times the tension is palpable and there are genuine surprises… McDermid is a dab hand at creating enough plausibility to make her contributions to the genre intensely readable’ Sunday Herald
‘A celebrated crime author with an attention to detail which makes her stories both gripping and totally authentic’ Western Daily Press
‘Packed with intrigue, warmly drawn characters and dollops of tension, McDermid’s thirtieth novel leaves the reader looking forward to the thirty-first’ Irish Independent on Out of Bounds
‘Her writing is taut, her plotting pacy… McDermid is particularly good at analysing human damage and its effects’ Scotsman
‘With the deaths of P.D. James and Ruth Rendell, Val McDermid is the obvious successor as Britain’s Queen of Crime. For me, she has already held that title for many years. Her latest novel, starring the socially awkward but clever criminal profiler Tony Hill and ace detective Carol Jordan, demonstrates her supremacy’ The Times on Splinter the Silence
‘No one rivals Val McDermid’s skill at writing truly terrifying thrillers’ Good Housekeeping
Val McDermid is a No.1 bestseller whose novels have been translated into more than thirty languages, and have sold over fifteen million copies. She has won many awards internationally, including the CWA Gold Dagger for best crime novel of the year and the LA Times Book of the Year Award. She was inducted into the ITV3 Crime Thriller Awards Hall of Fame in 2009, was the recipient of the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger in 2010 and received the Lambda Literary Foundation Pioneer Award in 2011. In 2016, Val received the Outstanding Contribution to Crime Fiction Award at the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival and was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. She writes full time and divides her time between Cheshire and Edinburgh.
By Val McDermid
A Place of Execution Killing the Shadows The Grave Tattoo Trick of the Dark The Vanishing Point
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
KAREN PIRIE NOVELS
The Distant Echo A Darker Domain The Skeleton Road Out of Bounds
LINDSAY GORDON NOVELS
Report for Murder Common Murder Final Edition Union Jack
Booked for Murder Hostage to Murder
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 (ebook only) Gunpowder Plots (ebook only)
NON-FICTION
A Suitable Job for a Woman Forensics
COPYRIGHT
Published by Little, Brown
978-1-4087-0934-4
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.
Copyright © Val McDermid 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
LITTLE, BROWN
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Insidious Intent
Table of Contents
Praise for Val McDermid
About the Author
By Val McDermid
COPYRIGHT
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
Part Two
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
Part Three
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
This one’s for Professor Dame Sue Black and Professor Niamh Nic Daied – for the friendship, the fun and games and the forensics.
A black scene of calumny will be laid open; but you, Doctor, will make all things square again.
‘On Murder, Considered as One of the Fine Arts’, (Second Paper), Thomas de Quincey
PART ONE
1
I
f Kathryn McCormick had known she had less than three weeks to live, she might have made more of an effort to enjoy Suzanne’s wedding. But instead she had adopted her usual attitude of resigned disappointment, trying not to look too disconsolate as she stared at the other guests dancing as if nobody was watching.
It was just like every day at work. Kathryn was always the outsider there too. Even though the title of office manager wielded very little in the way of actual authority, it was enough to set her apart from everyone else. Kathryn always felt that when she walked into the kitchenette to make herself a coffee, whatever conversation had been going on either stopped altogether or swerved away from the confidential to the inconsequential.
Really, it had been stupid to think today would have been any different. She’d once seen a quote that had stuck with her – the definition of insanity was, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. By that standard, she was definitely insane. Sitting on the fringes of a wedding reception on a Saturday night but expecting to be at the centre of conversation and laughter fell smack bang at the core of repetitive behaviour that never produced anything but entirely predictable failure.
Kathryn sneaked a look at her watch. The dancing had only been going for half an hour. But felt like a lot longer. Nikki from accounts, hips gyrating like a pole dancer, opposite Ginger Gerry, slack-jawed with delight. Anya, Lynne, Mags a
nd Triona in a neat shamrock formation, elbows tucked in, bodies twitching and heads bobbing to the beat. Emily and Oli, feet shuffling in sync, eyes locked, grinning at each other like idiots. Idiots who would probably be going home together at the end of the night.
She could barely remember the last time she’d had sex. She’d split up with Niall over three years ago. But it still stung like a razor cut. He’d walked into the house one evening, the sharp sour smell of lager on his breath, a faint sheen of sweat on his skin. ‘I’ve been headhunted for a job in Cardiff. Running my own design team,’ he’d said, his excitement impossible to miss.
‘That’s great, babe.’ Kathryn had slid off the stool at the breakfast bar, throwing her arms around him, trying to stifle the voice in her head shouting, ‘Cardiff? What the fuck am I going to do in Cardiff?’
‘Big salary increase too,’ Niall said, his body curiously still, not responding to the hug.
‘Wow! When are we moving, then?’
He disentangled himself. Kathryn’s stomach clenched. ‘That’s the thing, Kath.’ He looked at his feet. ‘I want to go by myself.’
The words didn’t make any sense. ‘What do you mean, by yourself? You’re just going to come home at weekends? That’s mad, I can get a job down there, I’ve got transferrable skills.’
He took a step back. ‘No. Look, there’s no good way of saying this… I’m not happy and I haven’t been for a while and I think this is the best way for both of us. For me to move away, start again. We can both start again.’
And that had been that. Well, not quite. There had been tears and shouting and she’d cut the crotches out of all his Calvin Kleins, but he’d gone anyway. She’d lost her man and she’d lost her dignity and she’d lost her home because half the lovely terraced house in her favourite Bradfield suburb had been Niall’s and he’d insisted they sell it. So now she lived in a boxy little flat in a 1960s block too close to where they’d lived together. It had been a mistake to move somewhere so near the place she’d been happy, the house she had to walk past to get to the tram stop every morning. She’d tried making a ten-minute detour to avoid it, but that had been worse. An even sharper slap in the face, somehow. Every now and then, the couple who had bought the house emerged as she walked past and they’d give her a little wave and an embarrassed half-smile.
Since then, Kathryn had made a few tentative attempts at getting back to dating. She’d signed up for an online dating site and swiped her way through dozens of possibles. When she pictured herself standing next to them, none of them seemed remotely credible. One of Niall’s old workmates had texted her and invited her out for dinner. It hadn’t gone well. He’d clearly thought she’d be up for a pity fuck, and had been less than happy when she’d told him to sod off. At her cousin’s fortieth, she’d hooked up with a sweet lad from Northern Ireland. They’d ended up in bed together, but it hadn’t exactly been a raging success and he’d escaped back to Belfast with a broken promise to call her.
That had probably been the last time she’d had sex. Fifteen months ago. And this was supposed to be her sexual prime. Kathryn stifled a sigh and took another swig from her glass of Sauvignon Blanc. She had to stop feeling so sorry for herself. All the magazines she’d ever read were agreed on that point – nothing was a bigger turn-off for a man than self-pity.
‘Is someone sitting here?’ A man’s voice. Deep and warm.
Kathryn started and jerked round. Standing with his hand on the back of the chair next to her was a stranger. A not bad-looking stranger, she noted automatically even as she stammered, ‘No. I mean, they were but they’re not now.’ Kathryn was used to sizing up potential clients. Not quite six feet tall, she thought. Thirty-something. Mid-brown hair with a few silver strands at the temples. Full, well-shaped eyebrows over pale blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled. Like now. His nose looked a bit thick around the bridge, as if it had been broken at some point and poorly set. His smile revealed slightly crooked teeth, but it was an engaging smile nevertheless.
He sat down beside her. Suit trousers, brilliant white shirt with the top button undone, blue silk tie loosened. His fingernails were square and manicured, his shave close and his haircut crisp. She liked a man who took care of his grooming. Niall had always been meticulous that way. ‘I’m David,’ he said. ‘Are you with the bride or the groom?’
‘I work with Suzanne,’ she said. ‘I’m Kathryn. With a y.’ She had no idea why she’d said that.
‘Nice to meet you, Kathryn with a y.’ There was amusement there, but not in a piss-taking way, she thought.
‘Are you a friend of Ed, then?’
‘I know him from the five-a-side footie.’
Kathryn giggled. ‘The best man milked that in his speech.’
‘Didn’t he, though.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I noticed you sitting here by yourself. I thought you might like some company?’
‘I don’t mind my own company,’ she said, regretting the words as soon as they were spoken. ‘But don’t get me wrong, it’s really lovely to meet you.’
‘I don’t mind my own company either, but sometimes it’s nice to talk to an attractive woman.’ That smile again. ‘I’m guessing you don’t much like dancing? So I’m not going to suggest we strut our stuff on the dance floor.’
‘No, I’m not much of a dancer.’
‘I’m a bit fed up with the music. I prefer conversation, myself. Do you fancy going through to the bar? It’s quieter there, we can talk without having to shout at each other.’
Kathryn couldn’t quite believe it. OK, he wasn’t exactly George Clooney, but he was clean and polite and attractive and, extraordinary though it seemed, he was acting like he was interested in her. ‘Good idea,’ she said, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet.
As they weaved through the tables to the ballroom door, the man who called himself David cupped her elbow in his hand in a solicitous gesture. Kathryn McCormick’s killer was nothing if not solicitous.
2
D
etective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan shrugged into her heavy waxed jacket and pulled a thermal hat over sleep-tousled hair. A black-and-white collie danced around her feet, impatient to be out into the morning chill. She tied the laces on her sturdy walking boots and stepped out into a flurry of rain. She shut the door of the converted barn behind her, letting the tongue of the lock click softly into place.
Then they were off, woman and dog cutting up the moorside in sweeping zigzags. For a few blessed moments, concentrating on what she was doing drove the turmoil from Carol’s head, but it was too insistent to be kept at bay for long. The phone call that had come from out of the blue the night before had stripped her of any chance of a restful night and now, it seemed, of any peace this morning. There had been no running away from the blame her caller’s bitter voice had directed at her.
Years of policing at the sharpest of sharp ends had provided Carol with ample cause for regret. Every cop knew the acrid taste of failure, the tightness in the chest that came with delivering the worst news in the world. Those cases where they’d failed to bring any kind of consolation to people who had a sudden gap in their lives where a loved one should be – those cases still rankled, filling her with a sense of raw inadequacy when she drove down certain streets, crossed particular landscapes, visited towns where she knew unspeakable things had happened.