Chapter 17
DS Malcolm Kennedy was having the kind of day that made him want to quit the force and open a pub somewhere quiet, maybe in the Highlands, where the most complicated thing he’d have to deal with was for the locals asking for a lock-in.
The problem was Detective Constable Sophie Boyd.
Not Sophie herself – she was a good officer, thorough and dedicated, with the kind of loyalty to her colleagues that made her both an excellent partner and occasionally a stubborn pain in the arse.
The problem was what Sophie had been saying about Louise Grant’s death, and her absolute refusal to accept the official findings.
Kennedy sat in his car outside the Kirkcaldy station, engine idling, rain pattering softly against the windscreen.
He was trying to decide whether Sophie’s concerns warranted the conversation he was about to have – a conversation that would involve asking favours from people who valued their privacy and discretion above almost everything else.
The sensible part of his brain – the part that had kept him alive and employed for twenty-three years – told him to let it go.
Grant’s death had been investigated thoroughly, ruled an accidental overdose and closed.
The family had been informed, the funeral had been held and the force had moved on.
Reopening questions about it would only cause problems, dredge up painful memories and potentially embarrass people who’d worked the case.
But the part that had made him join the police force in the first place, the part that still believed in looking after your own, was telling him that Sophie deserved answers.
Louise Grant had been her friend – not just a colleague but a genuine friend – and friends looked out for each other even after death.
During the brief lull between the morning briefing and the afternoon shift, Sophie had cornered him in the break room earlier that day. Her face had been tight with suppressed emotion, eyes red-rimmed in a way that suggested she hadn’t been sleeping well.
‘Mal, I need to talk to you about Louise,’ she’d said without preamble, voice low and urgent. ‘Somewhere private.’
They’d found a quiet corner of the station car park, huddled between two patrol cars where they couldn’t easily be overheard. Sophie had been holding a manila folder, clutching it like it contained precious evidence rather than just photocopied paperwork.
‘I finally got a copy of Louise’s post-mortem report,’ she’d said, opening the folder with hands that trembled slightly.
‘Took me three weeks of requests and two appeals to the records office, but I got it. And it confirms exactly what they said – heroin overdose. High concentration in her bloodstream, consistent with accidental injection, no signs of struggle or forced administration.’
Kennedy had waited, knowing there was more coming. Sophie hadn’t dragged him outside just to confirm what they already knew.
‘But Mal, I knew Louise. We went through training together and shared a flat in Dunfermline for two years after we graduated. We were close – not just work friends, but proper friends who told each other things.’ Sophie’s voice had carried absolute conviction.
‘She never touched drugs. Not even at parties when everyone else was having a good time. She was straight-edge, health-conscious and went to the gym four times a week. She barely even drank alcohol – maybe a glass of wine at Christmas.’
Kennedy had heard this before – colleagues unable to accept that someone they knew had hidden addictions, secret lives that existed behind carefully maintained facades. ‘People can be very good at hiding things, Sophie. Especially when they’re ashamed of them.’
‘I know that. I’m not naive, and I’m not in denial.
’ Sophie’s response had been sharp, defensive.
‘But this wasn’t Louise. I would have seen the signs – track marks, behavioural changes, money problems, anything.
We talked every week and had coffee at least twice a month.
She was happy, Mal. Excited about her career, talking about taking the sergeant’s exam next year. ’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m suggesting that someone killed her and made it look like an overdose.
’ Sophie had pulled out more papers from the folder.
‘Look at this. Three days before she died, Louise called me. Said she’d been going through old evidence logs for The Embalmer case – you know she was helping with the file organisation – and she’d noticed some inconsistencies. ’
‘What kind of inconsistencies?’
‘She didn’t want to talk over the phone, but she said it was probably nothing, though she wanted to check with someone first – someone who’d worked on the actual crime scenes and could explain whether certain procedures were normal.
’ Sophie’s voice had dropped even lower.
‘She said she was going to meet with this person to get clarification. Then, three days later, she’s dead.
And suddenly everyone’s ready to believe she was a secret heroin addict. ’
Kennedy had felt the familiar chill that came with sensing something genuinely wrong beneath the surface of an apparently straightforward case. ‘Did she tell you who she was planning to meet?’
‘No. Just said it was someone with expertise in crime scene procedures, someone who’d been helpful with previous questions.
’ Sophie had looked directly at him. ‘The thing is, Mal, I went back through Louise’s phone records after she died.
There’s a number she called repeatedly in the week before – someone she’d never contacted before.
But when I tried to trace it, the number was disconnected. ’
‘Could be a prepaid phone.’
‘Exactly. Which means whoever Louise was talking to didn’t want to be traced.
’ Sophie had closed the folder. ‘I can’t prove anything.
The investigation was thorough, the evidence all points to accidental overdose, and everyone wants to move on.
But I know Louise, and I know she didn’t do drugs.
Which means someone killed her and was good enough to make it look accidental. ’
Kennedy had studied Sophie’s face, looking for signs of obsession or paranoia, but all he’d seen was grief and frustration and the stubborn determination of someone who knew they were right but couldn’t prove it.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to talk to someone off the record. Someone who can look at this objectively, someone with medical expertise who can tell me if I’m being paranoid or if there’s really something suspicious about Louise’s death.
’ Sophie’s eyes had been pleading. ‘You know people, Mal. People with connections, people who owe you favours. Someone who might be willing to give an honest opinion even if it contradicts the official findings.’
Kennedy had thought about it carefully. There was someone he could ask – someone with the right expertise to evaluate whether Grant’s death was truly accidental or whether it could have been staged. Someone with a reputation for spotting details that others missed.
‘There’s somebody I know,’ Kennedy had said carefully.
‘We’ve worked together on a few difficult cases.
He’s good at spotting things that might be overlooked in standard examinations and is willing to give off-the-record opinions when situations warrant it.
I could ask him for his opinion. I can’t say who it is, but I’ll speak to him on the quiet. ’
Sophie had looked genuinely relieved, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.
‘Thank you, Mal. I just need to know I’m not crazy for thinking something’s wrong.
If he says the findings are solid and that there’s nothing suspicious, I’ll accept it and move on.
But I need that reassurance from someone who knows what they’re looking at. ’
‘I’ll call him tonight and schedule a meeting for tomorrow morning.
’ Kennedy had taken the folder, tucking it under his arm.
‘But Sophie, you need to be prepared for the possibility that he’ll confirm the original findings: that Louise really did have a hidden addiction, and this really was a tragic accident. ’
‘I know. And if that’s what he says, I’ll believe him. I need to hear it from someone I trust.’
That conversation had been eight hours ago, and Kennedy had spent the afternoon working up the nerve to make the call.
The contact was particular about confidentiality and valued his reputation for discretion above everything else.
But he owed Kennedy a favour from a case three years back – something involving a misidentified body and a near-catastrophic error that he had caught before it became official – and he was calling it in now.
He’d made the call at six o’clock, standing in the station car park where he couldn’t be overheard, rain soaking through his jacket while he explained Sophie’s concerns.
The man had listened carefully, asked several pertinent questions about the circumstances of Grant’s death, then agreed to review the post-mortem report.
‘Bring it to my office tomorrow morning,’ he had said, his voice calm and professional. ‘Early, before my official day begins. Eight o’clock sharp. I’ll thoroughly review it and let you know whether your colleague’s suspicions have merit.’
Kennedy had agreed, feeling relieved that he could give Sophie some closure one way or another.
Tomorrow morning, they’d get answers. Either his friend would confirm that Grant’s death was indeed accidental, allowing Sophie to find some peace, or he’d spot something that warranted further investigation. Either way, they’d know.