The Skeleton Road by Val McDermid

so low down their collective totem pole. She loved Phil, but this nerve-shredding daily journey was doing her head in.
    There was an obvious solution. She still owned her own house on the edge of the town. After she’d moved in with Phil, she’d rented it out, but she could easily serve notice to quit on her tenants. She’d have no trouble selling it and with the proceeds she could put down a decent deposit on a wee flat within walking distance of work. The only thing holding Karen back from that decision was the fear that it might mean the end of the road for her and Phil. He was the only man she’d ever lived with and part of her was afraid that if they split up, that would remain true. Besides, she loved him.
    But that was in the future. Right now, she had to negotiate her way to a warrant that would force a bank to hand over information on one of its customers. She met the Mint off the Edinburgh train and together they walked through the Memorial Gardens and down to the familiar Scottish baronial-style turreted building that housed Kirkcaldy Sheriff Court. Karen sought out her favourite usher and checked who was on that morning’s bench. Relieved that the court seemed curmudgeon-free, Karen plumped for John Grieve. He always leaned towards the little guy, which didn’t always work to her advantage. But these days, getting one over on a bank definitely outranked putting the cops’ noses out of joint.
    They were ushered into Sheriff Grieve’s room, a square box in the modern extension to the court. He looked up from his desk, peering over his half-moon glasses. With his bushy grey sideburns and wing collar, he resembled a man auditioning for a role in a Dickens TV adaptation. ‘DCI Pirie. And DC Murray. I thought you’d relocated to Edinburgh?’
    ‘Ach, we’re all one nation now, hadn’t you heard?’
    His thin smile reminded her of a lipless lizard. ‘But which nation, Chief Inspector? That’s the question.’
    ‘We’ll all know the answer after the referendum, my lord.’ She laid the paperwork on the desk in front of him. ‘Right now, I’d settle for a warrant.’
    He gave the application a quick once-over. ‘You’re looking for information from FCB?’ He chuckled. ‘Braver men than you have tried and failed.’
    ‘It’s not like I’m asking for anything that could compromise their business. Just a wee bit of minor inconvenience to help me with a murder inquiry.’ Karen stressed the word ‘murder’. Even with sheriffs who dealt in serious crime as a matter of course, it never hurt to remind them what was at stake.
    Grieve smiled. ‘A day I can cause inconvenience to a banker is a day not wasted. After all, every one of us has to live constantly with the consequences of their cavalier attitude to our money. It’s really rather pleasant to have the chance to punch them in the metaphorical nose.’ A line appeared between his eyebrows as he read the warrant more carefully. She wasn’t worried. She’d made her case. Two minutes online had established which bank the sort code belonged to, and the specific branch. It was clear this was the primary lead on a murder. ‘And besides, this does seem to be an eminently plausible reason to seek their assistance. We do owe the dead a debt, I think.’ He uncapped an old-fashioned fountain pen and signed with a flourish. ‘There you go. Good luck with that, Chief Inspector. Any problems with the execution, don’t hesitate to come back to me.’
    And she was off. ‘I have no problem with executing this lot,’ Karen muttered under her breath as she drove off towards the head office of the Forth and Clyde Bank. The bank occupied a quartet of black glass pyramids that slouched ominously by the point where the road from the Forth Bridge divided into two dual carriageways, one heading for Glasgow, the other for Edinburgh. When the grand new complex had been unveiled in 2007, just before the banks drove capitalism to the brink of collapse, the chief