‘No kidding. Did you ever find out how he administered the roofies?’
‘Ice cubes. One side of the tray was laced with rohypnol. The other side was clear.’ She gave a little snort of laughter. ‘The side with the drugs had a big “R” written on it in magic marker, to keep him straight.’
Tony sipped his drink. ‘I wondered at the time if he was going to cheat us.’
‘Cheat us? How?’
The cyanide capsule in the shirt button. Or whatever. I wouldn’t have been surprised.’
He stared out over the valley. ‘Anything new on Rachel Diamond?’
‘She’s still protesting her innocence. But we have witnesses to the fact that the Diamonds’ marriage was shaky. And the stuff Stacey managed to get off her office computer coupled with the handover in the gallery cafe is going to nail her. You did a brilliant job, figuring that out.’
He shook his head. ‘It was a very strange time for me. The pain, the drugs, the weirdness of the cases. And my mother.’
‘Has she been in touch?’
‘No. She probably won’t be, until the next time she wants something from me.’
Carol leaned into him. ‘Are you still thinking about trying to find out more about your father?’
He sighed. Sometimes he wished she wouldn’t pick at his scabs. He knew she did it out of concern and affection, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. When his father had been unknown, he’d been able, like Jack Anderson, to inhabit his dreams. Now there was a flesh-and-blood reality to investigate, he wasn’t sure he wanted that part of his inheritance. ‘I never thanked you properly for sorting Vanessa out,’ he said.
‘It’s all right. I know it’s complicated for you.’
He looked down at her, hair gleaming in the sun, long legs stretched out in front of her. Anyone observing them would presume them to be a longstanding couple, out for a Sunday-afternoon walk, comfortable with each other. The truth, like most things in his life, was far more intricate and less attractive. He gave a wry smile. ‘It’s just that sometimes I wish you’d never stopped me signing,’ he said.
She pulled away and looked at him, shocked and hurt. ‘You wish I’d just stood by and let your mother rip you off?’
‘No, that’s not it,’ he said, struggling to find the words. ‘We spend so much of our lives, you and me, figuring out the answers to mysteries. We’ve got so into the habit of it that we can’t leave anything alone. We’ve always got to take the wheels off and see how it works. And increasingly, I find myself wishing for a bit of inscrutability and vagueness. Being and doing instead of thinking and analyzing.’
‘You’re not talking about your father now.’
‘No,’ he said, lying back and looking at the sky. ‘I’m not.’
The music is what keeps me going through a book. It’s the unacknowledged balm, the inspiration, the rhythm and delight. I work in a room alone so I can have it as loud or as soft as I want. I can listen to the same track as many times as I feel like without anybody accusing me of trying to drive them crazy. Every book is accompanied by old friends and new discoveries. So for this book, thank you to Richard Thompson, Sigur Ros, Deacon Blue, Roddy Woomble, Mary Gauthier, Ketil Bjornstad, Elvis Costello, Rob Dougan, Michael Marra, Rab Noakes, Karine Polwart, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and the Blue Nile. Thanks too to Radio Scotland’s Iain Anderson, who has cost me a small fortune in CDs and downloads. And a particularly big hand for Sue Turnbull who came all the way from Australia to introduce me to Sigur Ros and Peter Temple.
I had two major orthopaedic surgeries between the previous book and this one, and I am very grateful to Mr David Weir and the nursing team at the Newcastle Nuffield Hospital for my magnificent new knees, and also for the inspiration for one element of this novel.
Some of the people who helped with this book have asked not to be named. I hope they don’t feel their trust was misplaced. Harry and Louise assisted me with aspects of the medical stuff and the helpful staff at the Alnwick Garden unwittingly provided food for thought.
Finally, thanks to my loyal team at Gregory and Co, at HarperCollins and at Coastal Productions, particularly Jane, Julia, Anne, Sandra and Ken.
But most of all, thanks to Kelly, who makes everything better.
About the Author
Scottish crime writer VAL MCDERMID is the author of twenty-three novels. Her books have won the Gold Dagger Award for Best Crime Novel of the Year and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, been named
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International Praise for
“McDermid’s previous novels have set the bar vertiginously high, but the latest outing for criminal profiler Tony Hill and DCI Carol Jordan has all the craft, panache, and pace that we have come to expect from this outstanding writer…. Vintage stuff: unplug the phone, lock the door, and prepare to read in a sitting.”
“If Rankin is the king of British crime, Val McDermid is undoubtedly the queen…. Hill and Jordan are compelling
