Read an extract from Silent Bones

The most recent book in the Karen Pirie Series

– Prologue –

New Year’s Eve 2013
She’d never imagined a Hogmanay thrash like this, never mind that she’d be invited to it. Growing up in a lochside hamlet on the edge of the Trossachs, of course the year end had always been celebrated, though on a scale that reflected village life. But this? The midnight fireworks alone were legendary. She couldn’t conjure up a notion of what the everyday life of these people must be like, given this was what they considered a party should be.

For a start, there had been a queue of taxis and honestly, limos waiting at the gates to be admitted. There was actually a stretch Hummer. Even as she marvelled at it, the sensible part of her thought it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever seen on wheels. To get through the gates, she had to produce her invitation as well as the photo ID she’d been told to bring. She’d thought that was a joke. Fancy having to bring your passport to a party.

She’d leaned back in the taxi as it drove sedately down a wide gravel drive that swept between perfectly groomed waist- high hedges, with flaming torches set at regular intervals. The house itself was spotlit, its perfect symmetry making it look like a cut gemstone against the night. She was glad for their host that it wasn’t raining. To go to all this trouble and have that perfect vision smudged and blunted by a typical Glasgow drizzle would have gutted her, if it had been her party. As if. She stifled a snort of derision.

She smoothed her sheer scarlet dress over her thighs. She’d gone way over budget in that new Italian designer boutique in the Merchant City, but it would be worth it if she made the right impression on the right people tonight. If she could market herself so well, then surely they’d have to realise she should be given a role where she could market their business with the same flair? The year they were about to enter was being boosted as the Homecoming, heralding the upcoming referendum that would sweep Scotland out from under Westminster’s boot and usher in a new independent Scotland. A land of opportunity, equality and social justice for all, or so they promised. But Fraoch House wasn’t her home, not by any stretch of the imagination. Now she was on the threshold she was definitely feeling stage fright. What if she looked tarty? Or lumpy? Or just plain?

So many ways she could blow it . . .

The taxi drew to a halt and she fumbled with the catch on her new evening bag. She handed the driver a twenty, waited for the change then realised he was going to make her ask for it. She’d planned to give him a two quid tip; him expecting a fiver was taking the piss. But tonight, she’d left meek in the bathroom mirror. ‘I’ll take my change,’ she said briskly.

He turned to face her, a sneer on his thin lips. ‘What’s a few quid tip to the likes of you?’ ‘My bus fare to my work next week,’ she snapped, holding out her hand. ‘C’mon, you’re not the only working stiff here tonight.’

He grumbled something under his breath then counted out ten fifty- pence pieces. She had to cup both hands beneath the cut- out in the partition to prevent them falling to the floor. She absolutely wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her scrabbling on her knees for her money. She shovelled the coins into her bag and said, ‘You have a good new year when it comes.’

Before he could find a withering response, she was out of the cab and walking with every appearance of confidence up the wide stone steps. They led towards imposing glossy black doors, thrown wide for the evening. Two beautiful youths in glittering silver body suits held trays of champagne cocktails to greet the new arrivals and she swept in alongside a trio of perfectly groomed young women on impossibly high heels. She recognised one of them, an actress one step up from a non- speaking part in half a dozen minor Scottish TV dramas. It looked like she’d had a nose job since she’d last been a murder victim on River City.

She turned away and let herself be drawn into this exotic world. Marble floor, domed ceiling that could have given Govan Town Hall a run for its money, scantily clad statues in alcoves, a sweeping staircase with broad shallow steps, a Christmas tree covered in baubles and lights that wouldn’t have been out of place in George Square – it was like stepping on to a film set. Or it would have been if it hadn’t been crammed with people in their finery clutching champagne flutes and whisky tumblers and talking at a volume designed to disguise the fact that they had nothing to say worth listening to.

She moved through the throng, slipping easily between groups of strangers, trying not to make it obvious that she only knew the other guests from screens, sports pages and TV debates. The politicians were there to give faux gravitas, she thought. They looked too eager, unlike the beautiful people who knew they deserved to be there.

At last, she spotted a familiar face. The man responsible for her invitation. Billy the Kidd, a star of the comedy circuit on both sides of the border, was holding forth, showering those around him with observations and quips, taking no prisoners in his usual style. The admirers around him seemed not to understand they were the butts of his often cruel humour; she knew from her own experience of William Kidd that his victims seldom recognised themselves in his slights. They told themselves his jibes were aimed at some other rich entitled tossers.

She knew better. She liked William in spite of his cruelties, not because of them. But then, he’d never used her for target practice. She wasn’t important enough. Yet.

Absently, she checked out his audience. The usual hoorays and yaahs, she thought. Then one of them snagged her attention and her eyes stuttered back to him. He was watching her, a knowing smile twitching one corner of his mouth. She knew who he was. Everyone who was here tonight would know who he was. This was home turf for him, king of the high- end parties – Lord Haig Striven- Douglass, younger son of the Marquess of Friockheim, record producer and chairman of one of Scotland’s leading conservation charities. She could never quite square those different elements of his profile, but he seemed to steer a passage through the gap without turbulence.

William came to the end of his excoriation of the Scottish Labour Party, his current bête noire, and gave a mocking bow to his audience before swinging round to face his host. ‘Haig, my man, take me to the powder room.’ Haig slung an arm round his shoulders and steered him towards a side corridor. But before they reached the corner of the passageway, he turned and caught her eye. ‘Chloe?’

Until her invitation had arrived, she’d had no idea Kidd had even noticed she existed, never mind that he knew her name. She’d just been an insignificant intern on a BBC radio comedy programme when she’d started out. But somehow she’d made an impression and he’d remembered her.

William slid out from under Haig’s arm and his face lit up, like he was genuinely pleased to see her. She’d seen that look too often to take it seriously. ‘Chlo, the finest marketing assistant in the biz. Come away with me and His Lordship and we’ll show you how the stars party!’

His Lordship grabbed him in a headlock. She’d seen plenty of that kind of horseplay before, so it didn’t bother her. ‘Ignore him, he’s a pleb,’ Haig said. ‘Come and join us, escape the hoi polloi and have a drink somewhere you don’t have to shout to be heard.’

William fought his way out of Haig’s grip. ‘Though you can scream if you like. Walls this thick, it’s like Alien. Nobody can hear you.’ ‘We are the boys to be with,’ Haig said, eyebrows raised, mischief in his expression. William was a known quantity. She knew he could help her build her career; he had a genuine streak of kindness. Haig Striven- Douglass she knew less about. Except that he had some of the keys to the kingdom she was ambitious to enter.

Why not? she thought.

It was a question that would be answered soon enough.

 

Chapter 1

 Spring 2025
Detective Chief Inspector Karen Pirie hated doing her expenses. Crafting a narrative that would justify the bundle of receipts she’d forgotten she’d even incurred was the worst aspect of running Police Scotland’s Historic Cases Unit. When she’d first recruited Detective Sergeant Daisy Mortimer, she’d tried to convince her that doing the DCI’s expenses was now her responsibility. Daisy had grinned and said, ‘Good try, boss.’ So the ringing of her phone was a welcome relief. But only for as long as it took her to read the screen.

In Karen’s experience, a call from the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) never brought tidings of comfort and joy. Nevertheless . . . ‘Sir,’ she answered brightly. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I wanted to talk to you about a bit of reorganisation.’

Karen’s heart sank. ACC Rowntree – aka the Fruit Gum – had announced himself as the new broom when he’d arrived at Police Scotland a couple of years before. If his predecessor had heard that line, she’d have gutted him at his first morning briefing. Ann Markie had been convinced she was the face of the future when it came to policing; the reality was that her brand of coppering was rooted in a historic world view that Karen thought had gone out with the abolition of slavery. If Markie had had a whip, she wouldn’t have let a day go by without cracking it. Rowntree, on the other hand, liked to claim he was frank and open with the lower ranks. Karen had soon realised that only applied to the trivial stuff.

Trying to keep her tone upbeat, Karen said, ‘What did you have in mind, sir?’

‘I think I’ve made it clear what an asset I believe your team is to Police Scotland, Karen.’ He paused for praise.

‘You have, sir.’ Because we get the kind of results that produce great media reactions and you like getting your name in lights.

‘So I hope you won’t take what I have to say as a criticism.’ Another pause.

That was a question that demanded only one answer. She was damned if she was going to play his game. ‘I have no problem with constructive criticism,’ she said. That was mostly true. Most days.

And enough to tip him slightly off his stride. He gave a fake laugh. ‘I’m under pressure to make sure Police Scotland gives great value for money. Which of course, the Historic Cases Unit continues to do.’

Karen could hear the ‘but’ all the way across the city. ‘It’s always a consideration, sir.’

‘So in the interests of economy of scale, it’s my intention to move your unit from the furthest recesses of Gayfield Square to an office space more commensurate with your prestige. How would you like to be based at Gartcosh?’

Another question that demanded a single answer.

She knew he wouldn’t appreciate her knee- jerk response that she’d rather slam the car door on her fingers. ‘I’d welcome the chance to give the suggestion careful consideration. Why don’t I call your secretary and make an appointment to see you later in the week? Then we can discuss it fully.’

‘I don’t know that there’s—’

She bulldozed straight over him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve got to go now, I’m due at a meeting. Thanks for the suggestion, and we’ll talk soon.’ And she ended the call. Karen squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. The Fruit Gum might like to appear a different species from Ann Markie, but some days she thought you couldn’t get a cigarette paper between them. Nobody wanted to work out of Gartcosh, the Bermuda Triangle of Central Scotland. Bounded by motorways on all sides, convenient for absolutely nothing and nowhere except itself, a desert with insufficient parking. She’d fight this one and she’d win. Probably.

 

Chapter 2

‘I swear to God we never had tropical downpours like this when I was wee,’ Detective Chief Inspector Pete Niven complained, pulling the hood of his raincoat closer to his narrow face. ‘Can we get a fucking tent up here?’ he shouted at the crime scene technicians battling the howling wind and the sheeting rain to erect a shelter over the collapsed section of the M73. A massive mudslide had careened down the hillside when the heavens had opened during the night, shifting enough mud and previously unseen rocks to bite a chunk out of the motorway. Bad enough that it had completely blocked one lane, destroyed the hard shoulder and caused mayhem on the morning commute, but when the road crew had finally turned up, the traffic problem swiftly morphed into a very different one.

The torrential rain had dislodged more than the steep bank beside the road; the layers of roadway had shifted downwards and sideways to reveal unmistakably human remains. DCI Niven had been dragged away from his warm office at the nearby Police Scotland Crime Campus to contemplate the grim sight of a skull grinning up at him out of the mud. Recovering the body would be a logistical nightmare in this weather, never mind figuring out how to secure the most chaotic crime scene he’d ever seen.

Niven glared at the body as if it was a personal insult directed at him. His dark thoughts were disturbed by his bagman, DS Richie Scott, who announced his arrival with a typically tasteless comment. ‘Found Jimmy Hoffa, then, boss?’ He leaned over the crime scene tape. ‘Makes a change from all the stories about Glasgow gangsters bricked up in the Kingston Bridge.’

‘Give it a rest, Scott. We don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman.’

‘So you’ve not PLE’d it?’

Scott was, as usual, grating on Niven’s nerves. ‘I have done this before, you know. I have not only pronounced life extinct, I’ve spoken to the Fiscal’s office. They think there’s someone over at Gartcosh who can come across and formally confirm it so we can get the body removal under way.

’ Niven turned away and headed for the shelter of the police Land Rover. Scott climbed in alongside him and the two men waited for the crime scene techs to secure the scene. A few minutes of silence passed, then Niven said,

‘When was this bit of motorway built?’

‘Not a scooby, boss. I don’t remember it not being here.’

Niven rolled his eyes. ‘Of course you don’t remember it. You’re just a bairn, Scott. Which means you’re supposed to be a fucking genius with the technology. Get your phone out and do some research.’

Scott sighed, his cheerful expression swept away like rain under the windscreen wiper. ‘Aye, right.’ His chubby fingers stabbed his phone as if he was trying to injure it. At least, thought Niven, it shut him up.

Time trickled past and the crime scene tent slowly took shape through the downpour. Then two things happened at once. The rain stopped as abruptly as if someone had turned off a tap. And their Land Rover door opened to reveal a diminutive woman who had materialised outside. She was sensibly clad in waterproofs, fisherman’s waders and a bucket hat. A thick comma of dark auburn hair had worked its way loose in front, a single drip worming its way downwards towards an eyebrow. ‘Hi, guys,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for DCI Niven.’

‘That would be him,’ Scott blurted out before Niven could speak. His smile was back at full wattage.

The woman ignored him and nodded to Niven. ‘I’m Dr Wilde. River Wilde. I know, I know. Hippy parents.’ Clearly it wasn’t the first time she’d introduced herself thus. ‘Forensic anthro. Lucky for you, this is the day I work out of Gartcosh. I understand you’ve got human remains?’

Niven straightened up. ‘I’ve not got up close and personal, Doc. It’s not what you’d call easy terrain. But there’s a human skull that looks like it’s emerged from the broken lip of the motorway, so I’d say yes, that’s what we’ve got.’

‘Unless it’s a shop window dummy,’ Scott said brightly. Niven scowled.

‘The only dummy round here is you, Scott.’ He gave River a tight smile. ‘Can’t get the staff, Doc. What’s the plan, do you think?’

‘Let’s go and take a look.’ She turned away and set off towards the tent.

Niven followed her, Scott in his wake, sighing. ‘There go my best loafers.’

As they approached, Niven thought it resembled a scene from 1917, the last film he’d seen in a cinema before Covid hit. Which made it maybe the last film he’d ever see in a cinema. These days, he’d lost the desire to sit in a confined space with a lot of strangers at close quarters. Why bother when you could wait for it to show up on Netflix, in the comfort of your own living room with a beer and the chance to pause for a pee whenever you felt the need without missing a crucial plot point? Still, this reminded him of that last visit. A sea of mud, torn clumps of grass, random bits of rock, aggregate and tarmac, all mashed up around the forensic tent. The men picked their way across the morass, taking exaggerated care not to trip. River, in sharp contrast, moved with swift assurance and disappeared inside. ‘Bloody mountain goat,’ Niven muttered.

By the time the two police officers made it into the tent, River was already crouched by the body. It was more like a golem than a human form, with its thick coat of dark brown mud streaked with yellow and black like an abstract painting.

She looked up. ‘It’s hard to be absolutely certain till we get the remains cleaned up and examined properly but given the height and the relative breadth of shoulders and hips, I’d say it’s a man.’ She delicately moved the head. Flecks of white appeared through muck as thick as flesh and they could make out the catastrophic damage to the side of the skull that had been lying in the mud. ‘And I’m in no doubt that he didn’t die a natural death.’

‘Murder?’ Niven asked.

‘It’s the obvious conclusion. A remote possibility that it could have been an accident or suicide that someone was determined to cover up. But either way, you’re looking at a crime.’ She straightened up. ‘These are skeletal remains. Far be it from me to tell you your job, but I’m thinking this is one for the Historic Cases Unit.’

Niven felt a burden shifting from his shoulders. Everybody knew that the ACC (Crime) loved the publicity the HCU garnered. The Fruit Gum never put DCI Pirie in front of the cameras to deliver the soundbites. He always seized the limelight for himself. If he could sideline Niven and give the case to KP Nuts, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

With a bit of luck, Niven might get home in time to catch the second half of the European Cup game. ‘Good thinking, Dr Wilde,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to Mr Rowntree right away.’