‘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 façades. ‘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 somethingsuspicious 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 owedKennedy 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.
Kennedy just needed to get home, have dinner with Margaret, and help their daughter Rachel with her university application essay. Normal life was the kind that balanced out all the darkness and suspicion that came with police work. His daughter was applying to study veterinary medicine, following in her grandfather’s footsteps, and Kennedy had promised to proofread her personal statement.
He pulled out of the station car park, the folder with Louise Grant’s post-mortem report tucked safely in his briefcase in the passenger seat. The rain had eased to a drizzle, and traffic was light on the country roads that led home to Kinghorn. Kennedy found himself thinking about the weekend – Margaret hadsuggested they take a trip to St Andrews, have lunch at that seafood restaurant they both liked and walk along the beach. Everyday couple things that had nothing to do with dead officers and unanswered questions.
The drive home usually took twenty-five minutes, a journey Kennedy had made thousands of times. He knew every turn, every landmark, every spot where you had to watch out for deer crossing at dusk. Tonight, the roads were quiet, with just occasional cars passing in the opposite direction, their headlights bright in the gathering darkness.
He was fifteen minutes into the journey, passing through the wooded section near Auchtertool, when his vision started to blur.
Kennedy blinked hard, trying to clear his eyes. He’d only had one pint at lunchtime. Nothing that should affect his driving. And a few coffees at his desk in the afternoon. But suddenly, the road seemed to be moving, the white lines weaving in front of him like snakes. His hands felt heavy on the steering wheel, disconnected somehow, and his reactions felt sluggish.
What the hell was happening?
He slowed down instinctively, pulling closer to the verge, trying to maintain control while his brain struggled to process what was wrong. A stroke? His father had died of a massive brain haemorrhage at fifty-two, dropped dead while gardening on a Sunday afternoon. Was this how it started? But Kennedy was only forty-seven, in good health, and his last check-up three months ago had shown normal blood pressure, normal cholesterol and no warning signs of cardiovascular problems.
