Free The Skeleton Road by Val McDermid Page A

another. And that’s what happened here. Mr Bojangles obviously had his bank debit card snuggled up to his hotel room key. And some of the info rubbed off. It’s your lucky day, Detective.’
    ‘Have you got a name?’
    Tamsin shifted her chewing gum again, taking her time. ‘As good as. Just call me your fairy godmother, Detective. I’ve got a sort code and the first five digits of the account number. I don’t think you’ll need an expert code breaker to sort that one out for you when the banks open in the morning.’

9
     
    E ven Karen’s talent for bending the world to her will wasn’t enough to dig out bank details on a Sunday. She might be able to roust out a cooperative sheriff to sign a warrant, but that wouldn’t really speed anything up and she didn’t want to waste any favours owing on a pointless exercise. She knew River would be in the lab, interrogating the skeleton for information about its origins, but there was nothing she could usefully do there, and besides, River would let her know as soon as she came across anything that would provide a lead. Fraser Jardine’s free-climbing pal hadn’t returned her call. Maybe it was time to give him a wee kick up the bahookey, remind him that ignoring police officers wasn’t such a brilliant idea.
    She leaned against the bonnet of the sensible, inconspicuous Ford Focus she had chosen for its anonymity and called Ian Laurie. Just when it seemed the phone was about to go to voicemail, a husky grunt replaced the ring tone.
    ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Karen Pirie. Who am I speaking to?’ Karen didn’t have to pretend to sternness.
    Throat-clearing, rattle of phlegm. Phil had his faults, she thought. But at least he never made a noise like that in the morning. ‘Is this a wind-up?’ A deep, dark voice. Clearly Fraser Jardine had taken her seriously when Karen had told him to keep his mouth shut about his grisly discovery.
    ‘This is the police, sir. Are you Ian Laurie?’
    ‘Aye. But I’ve done nothing wrong.’
    ‘Nobody’s accusing you, sir. I left a message on your voicemail yesterday asking you to contact me as a matter of urgency.’
    A throaty gurgle of laughter. ‘You’re for real. Fuck. I thought you were one of my pals taking the mince. I’m sorry, officer. I’m not normally this much of a fuckwit. It’s just that I’m getting married in a week and my pals are ripping the piss out of me every chance they get.’
    Life in the fast lane, right enough, Karen thought. ‘I am for real, sir. And I do need to talk to you about a serious matter. I’m just down the road. If you’d like to give me your address, I can be with you in about half an hour. I won’t detain you long, but this is most definitely not a taking of the mickey.’ Her tone had an edge of ‘don’t mess with me’ that usually did the trick, particularly with the innocent.
    It worked. An hour later, she was toiling up an apparently endless flight of tenement stairs in Gorgie. Why did they always live on the top floor, she wondered, heart rate rising along with the altitude. At least this close was clean; she’d lost count of the number of times she’d tried to climb stairs while holding her breath because of the noxious brew of piss, decaying takeaway food and other things she didn’t want to think too closely about.
    The Mint waited by Laurie’s front door for her to catch him up and get her breath back. He looked as happy to have had his Sunday disrupted as she was to have him there. But although there was talk of changing the law, the Scottish system still demanded corroboration at every stage of an inquiry. If Karen walked into Ian Laurie’s flat alone and he confessed to an entire string of murders, it wouldn’t be admissible evidence. In the eyes of the court, she could have simply made it all up. And so she was stuck with sharing her Sunday with the Mint.
    Ian Laurie’s living room had a view of chimney pots and sky. Looking out of the window was