McDermid, Val: Trick of the Dark

This book is dedicated to the memory of Mary Bennett (1913–2005) and Kathy Vaughan Wilkes (1946–2003) — friends, teachers and supporters. I'm still walking through the doors they opened.

This book has deep roots. It started with Mary Bennett and her colleagues at St Hilda's College, Oxford, who spotted something that deserved a chance. By delightful coincidence, I was writing it when the present Governing Body appointed me to an Honorary Fellowship, a distinction of which I am more proud than I can say.

Specifically, I owe thanks to Manda Scott and Leslie Hills who talked me through various climbing scenarios; to Professor Sue Black, whose powers of explanation and description were invaluable as always; my editor, David Shelley, whose insights show me how to make it better; Stephanie Glencross, whose instinct for story is second to none; my copy editor, Anne O'Brien, who keeps me on the straight and narrow; and my agent Jane Gregory and her team.

I don't think I could do this without my wife Kelly and my son Cameron. I suspect I am no fun at all when I'm in the thick of it, but still they give me their love, indulgence, support and most importantly, their laughter. Only another thirty-five to go, guys…

What's your earliest memory? I don't mean something you've been told so many times it feels like a memory. I'm talking about the first thing you remember through your child's eyes. A knee-high memory, a don't-understand-the-words memory, an honest-to-god slice of emotion that can still fell you like a tree.The recalled moment that is the key to what shapes you for ever.

Mine has narrow wooden bars running vertically through it. A cot or a playpen, at a guess. I can't picture what I'm standing on. I can see my hands clutching the bars tightly, small fingers still chubby like toddlers' are supposed to be. My nails are crusted with dirt and there's a very particular smell. Over the years, I've worked out that it's a mixture of stale urine, marijuana, alcohol and unwashed bodies. Even now, when I walk among the homeless who inhabit the invisible hinterland of the world's great cities, I feel comforted by the smell that repels most people. The homeless smell like home to me.

I'm stalling. Can you tell I'm stalling? Because the heart of the memory still makes me shiver to my soul.

In front of me is a movie cut into slices by the bars. My mother is wearing a bright tangerine blouse and the man has the front of it bunched in his fist. He's shaking my mother like one of the dogs would shake a rat or a rabbit. He's shouting at her too. I don't know what he's shouting, it's just a jagged cascade of violent sound. She's sobbing, my mother. Every time she tries to speak, he slaps her hard with his other hand. Her head jerks like it's on a spring. There's a thread of blood trickling from one nostril. Her hands try to push him away, but he doesn't even notice, he's so much stronger than her.

Then one of her hands slips down and presses against the front of his trousers, stroking him through the stiff dirty denim. She lets herself fall against him, close so it's harder for him to hit her. He stops shouting but he doesn't let go of her shirt. He pulls up her skirt and pushes her down on the floor and carries on making her cry. Only in a different way.

That's my first memory. I wish it was the worst one.

Tuesday

Under normal circumstances, Charlie Flint would have consumed all the media coverage of the trial of Philip Carling's killers. It wasn't quite the sort of murder that was right up her street, but there were good reasons why this particular case would have interested her. But nothing was normal right now. Her professional life was in shreds. The destruction of reputation, the prohibition against doing the one thing she'd ever been any good at and the continued threat of legal sanction alone would have been enough to distract Charlie from the news stories. But there was more.

The headline news in Charlie Flint's world was that she was in love and hating every minute of it. And that was the real reason she was oblivious to all sorts of things that normally would have fascinated her.

The needles of the power shower on her shoulders and back felt like deserved punishment. She tried to change the subject, but neither mind nor heart would play along. This morning, like every morning for the past six weeks, Lisa Kent was the only item on Charlie's mental bulletin. As the day wore on, Charlie could generally drag her attention back to the things that actually mattered. But first thing, before she'd hammered her defences into shape again, top of the dial was Lisa bloody Kent. And here are the bullet points, she thought bitterly. Bad timing, nothing in common, wrong bloody woman.

Seven years she'd been with Maria. Now, as if it wasn't enough to be wracked by guilt, Charlie had the additional mortification of living a cliche. The seven-year itch. She hadn't even known it needed scratching until Lisa had glided into her life. But this had gone far beyond an itch. It was a ferocious irritation, an obsessional derangement that had invaded her life indiscriminately. No apparently innocuous event or remark was immune from a sudden takeover by the image of Lisa's assessing eyes or the echo of her languid laughter.

'Fuck it,' Charlie said, savagely pushing her silver and black hair back from her face. She jerked the shower switch to the 'off' position and stepped out of the cubicle.

Maria caught her eye in the mirror of the bathroom cabinet. The sound of the shower had masked her entrance. 'Bad day ahead?' she asked sympathetically, pausing in the act of applying mascara to emphasise eyes the colour of horse chestnuts.

'Probably,' Charlie said, trying to hide her dismay. 'I can't remember the last time I had a good one.' What had she actually said out loud in the shower? How long had Maria been standing there?

Maria's mouth twisted in wry sympathy as she worked moulding paste through her wavy brown hair, a critical look on her face. 'I need a haircut,' she said absently before returning her focus to her partner. 'I'm sorry, Charlie. I wish there was something I could do.'

'So do I.' A churlish response, but it was all Charlie could manage. She forced herself to deal with reality as she rubbed the towel over her hair. The trouble with falling in love — no, one of the many troubles with falling in love when you were already in a loving relationship you didn't actually want to end — was that it turned you into a drama queen. It had to be all about you. But the truth was Maria had heard nothing more than the complaint of a disgraced forensic psychiatrist staring an uncertain future in the face. A talented professional who'd been shunted into a dead-end siding for all the wrong reasons. Maria suspected nothing.

Swamped by a fresh wave of guilt, Charlie leaned forward and kissed the nape of Maria's neck, obscurely glad of the shiver she could see running through her lover. 'Pay no attention to me,' she said. 'You know how much I love invigilating exams.'

'I know. I'm sorry. You're worth better than that.'

Charlie thought she heard a trace of pity in Maria's voice and hated it. Whether it was real or her paranoia, it didn't much matter. She hated being in a place where pity was possible. 'What's worst about it is that it's so undemanding. It leaves too many brain cells free to fret about all the things I would rather — no, damn it, should — be doing.' She finished drying herself and neatly folded her towel over the rail. 'See you downstairs.'