Death's Door

DEATH'S DOOR

QUINTIN JARDINE

Copyright © 2007 Portador Ltd

Quintin Jardine gave up the life of a political spin doctor for the more morally acceptable world of murder and mayhem. Happily married, he hides from critics and creditors in secret locations in Scotland and Spain, but can be tracked down through his website: www.quintinjardine.com.

Praise for previous Quintin Jardine novels;

‘Deplorably readable’ Guardian

‘Well constructed, fast-paced, Jardine’s narrative has many an ingenious twist and turn’ Observer

‘[Quintin Jardine] sells more crime fiction in Scotland than John Grisham and people queue around the block to buy his latest book’ The Australian

‘Perfect plotting and convincing characterisation . . . Jardine manages to combine the picturesque with the thrilling and the dream-like with the coldly rational’ The Times

‘There is a whole world here, the tense narratives all come to the boil at the same time in a spectacular climax’ Shots magazine

‘The perfect mix for a highly charged, fast-moving crime thriller’ Glasgow Herald

‘Remarkably assured . . . a tour de force’ New York Times

‘Engrossing, believable characters . . . captures Edinburgh beautifully . . . It all adds up to a very good read’ Edinburgh Evening News

Ten years ago, on a Saturday afternoon, May 3, the world

became a smaller, lesser place, when Irene, my first wife,

drew her last breath. Her special light wasn’t extinguished,

though. It will shine on, until the last person who ever

knew her is gone, and beyond, I hope, through these

words, on whatever library shelves they may come

eventually to gather dust.

Acknowledgements

My thanks go to

The inestimable Mira Kolar Brown, for setting me on the road with a batch of names and with a piece of S-H slang.

Frank Mansfield and Jenny Pollock, my in-laws, for rebuilding their house so that it can no longer be mistaken for one in this book.

Martin Fletcher, Jo Matthews and Hazel Orme, for their invaluable roles in making sure that this work got from me to you.

One

‘If there are such things as angels,’ the big detective whispered, ‘that’s what they look like.’

Detective Inspector Stevie Steele said nothing. He was not given to pondering spiritual concepts, and especially not when he was standing at a crime scene.

He glanced at the head of CID: not so long ago, such a remark would have taken him by surprise, but over the past few months he had come to know Detective Chief Superintendent Mario McGuire much better, through close contact on the job, and through small things that his new wife, Maggie, had let slip about her first husband. It was his Italian blood, Steele supposed, from which the closet romantic within him flowed, just as the Irish strain that he had inherited from his father marked him out as uncompromising, and on occasion fearsome.

Steele looked at the girl. ‘Girl?’ he pondered silently. ‘Maybe that’s all she is, maybe not. People always look younger when they’re dead.’

She lay on her back on the yellow sand, her face serene, framed by blonde hair, her pale lips set in what might almost have been a smile. She wore open-toed sandals, bare-legged; her arms were by her side, palms down and her long white dress was spread out, fan-like. Her eyes were open and gazed up at the clear blue afternoon sky. May was only just into its second week, but the weather was more than comfortably warm: summer often comes early in Scotland, although it can leave just as suddenly as it arrives.

‘She looks almost transparent, doesn’t she?’ said McGuire, absent-mindedly, still musing somewhere.

‘Has anyone touched her?’ Steele asked.

‘The local doctor’s certified death, but that’s all. The officers who were first on the scene had more sense than to disturb anything. They reported directly to Graham Leggatt, as the divisional CID commander, and he called me; all strictly by the book when it comes to a suspicious death. The locals’ first thought was that it was an overdose, some poor sad kid finding a quiet spot to end it all. That’s happened out here before and, of course,