Val McDermid's Blog

The most recent book in the Karen Pirie Series

New Year’s Eve 2013
She’d never imagined a Hogmanay thrash like this, never mind that she’d be invited to it. Growing up in a lochside hamlet on the edge of the Trossachs, of course the year end had always been celebrated, though on a scale that reflected village life. But this? The midnight fireworks alone were legendary. She couldn’t conjure up a notion of what the everyday life of these people must be like, given this was what they considered a party should be.

For a start, there had been a queue of taxis and honestly, limos waiting at the gates to be admitted. There was actually a stretch Hummer. Even as she marvelled at it, the sensible part of her thought it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever seen on wheels. To get through the gates, she had to produce her invitation as well as the photo ID she’d been told to bring. She’d thought that was a joke. Fancy having to bring your passport to a party.

She’d leaned back in the taxi as it drove sedately down a wide gravel drive that swept between perfectly groomed waist- high hedges, with flaming torches set at regular intervals. The house itself was spotlit, its perfect symmetry making it look like a cut gemstone against the night. She was glad for their host that it wasn’t raining. To go to all this trouble and have that perfect vision smudged and blunted by a typical Glasgow drizzle would have gutted her, if it had been her party. As if. She stifled a snort of derision.

She smoothed her sheer scarlet dress over her thighs. She’d gone way over budget in that new Italian designer boutique in the Merchant City, but it would be worth it if she made the right impression on the right people tonight. If she could market herself so well, then surely they’d have to realise she should be given a role where she could market their business with the same flair? The year they were about to enter was being boosted as the Homecoming, heralding the upcoming referendum that would sweep Scotland out from under Westminster’s boot and usher in a new independent Scotland. A land of opportunity, equality and social justice for all, or so they promised. But Fraoch House wasn’t her home, not by any stretch of the imagination. Now she was on the threshold she was definitely feeling stage fright. What if she looked tarty? Or lumpy? Or just plain?

So many ways she could blow it . . .

The taxi drew to a halt and she fumbled with the catch on her new evening bag. She handed the driver a twenty, waited for the change then realised he was going to make her ask for it. She’d planned to give him a two quid tip; him expecting a fiver was taking the piss. But tonight, she’d left meek in the bathroom mirror. ‘I’ll take my change,’ she said briskly.

He turned to face her, a sneer on his thin lips. ‘What’s a few quid tip to the likes of you?’ ‘My bus fare to my work next week,’ she snapped, holding out her hand. ‘C’mon, you’re not the only working stiff here tonight.’

He grumbled something under his breath then counted out ten fifty- pence pieces. She had to cup both hands beneath the cut- out in the partition to prevent them falling to the floor. She absolutely wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her scrabbling on her knees for her money. She shovelled the coins into her bag and said, ‘You have a good new year when it comes.’

Before he could find a withering response, she was out of the cab and walking with every appearance of confidence up the wide stone steps. They led towards imposing glossy black doors, thrown wide for the evening. Two beautiful youths in glittering silver body suits held trays of champagne cocktails to greet the new arrivals and she swept in alongside a trio of perfectly groomed young women on impossibly high heels. She recognised one of them, an actress one step up from a non- speaking part in half a dozen minor Scottish TV dramas. It looked like she’d had a nose job since she’d last been a murder victim on River City.

She turned away and let herself be drawn into this exotic world. Marble floor, domed ceiling that could have given Govan Town Hall a run for its money, scantily clad statues in alcoves, a sweeping staircase with broad shallow steps, a Christmas tree covered in baubles and lights that wouldn’t have been out of place in George Square – it was like stepping on to a film set. Or it would have been if it hadn’t been crammed with people in their finery clutching champagne flutes and whisky tumblers and talking at a volume designed to disguise the fact that they had nothing to say worth listening to.

She moved through the throng, slipping easily between groups of strangers, trying not to make it obvious that she only knew the other guests from screens, sports pages and TV debates. The politicians were there to give faux gravitas, she thought. They looked too eager, unlike the beautiful people who knew they deserved to be there.

At last, she spotted a familiar face. The man responsible for her invitation. Billy the Kidd, a star of the comedy circuit on both sides of the border, was holding forth, showering those around him with observations and quips, taking no prisoners in his usual style. The admirers around him seemed not to understand they were the butts of his often cruel humour; she knew from her own experience of William Kidd that his victims seldom recognised themselves in his slights. They told themselves his jibes were aimed at some other rich entitled tossers.

She knew better. She liked William in spite of his cruelties, not because of them. But then, he’d never used her for target practice. She wasn’t important enough. Yet.

Absently, she checked out his audience. The usual hoorays and yaahs, she thought. Then one of them snagged her attention and her eyes stuttered back to him. He was watching her, a knowing smile twitching one corner of his mouth. She knew who he was. Everyone who was here tonight would know who he was. This was home turf for him, king of the high- end parties – Lord Haig Striven- Douglass, younger son of the Marquess of Friockheim, record producer and chairman of one of Scotland’s leading conservation charities. She could never quite square those different elements of his profile, but he seemed to steer a passage through the gap without turbulence.

William came to the end of his excoriation of the Scottish Labour Party, his current bête noire, and gave a mocking bow to his audience before swinging round to face his host. ‘Haig, my man, take me to the powder room.’ Haig slung an arm round his shoulders and steered him towards a side corridor. But before they reached the corner of the passageway, he turned and caught her eye. ‘Chloe?’

Until her invitation had arrived, she’d had no idea Kidd had even noticed she existed, never mind that he knew her name. She’d just been an insignificant intern on a BBC radio comedy programme when she’d started out. But somehow she’d made an impression and he’d remembered her.

William slid out from under Haig’s arm and his face lit up, like he was genuinely pleased to see her. She’d seen that look too often to take it seriously. ‘Chlo, the finest marketing assistant in the biz. Come away with me and His Lordship and we’ll show you how the stars party!’

His Lordship grabbed him in a headlock. She’d seen plenty of that kind of horseplay before, so it didn’t bother her. ‘Ignore him, he’s a pleb,’ Haig said. ‘Come and join us, escape the hoi polloi and have a drink somewhere you don’t have to shout to be heard.’

William fought his way out of Haig’s grip. ‘Though you can scream if you like. Walls this thick, it’s like Alien. Nobody can hear you.’ ‘We are the boys to be with,’ Haig said, eyebrows raised, mischief in his expression. William was a known quantity. She knew he could help her build her career; he had a genuine streak of kindness. Haig Striven- Douglass she knew less about. Except that he had some of the keys to the kingdom she was ambitious to enter.

Why not? she thought.

It was a question that would be answered soon enough.

 Spring 2025
Detective Chief Inspector Karen Pirie hated doing her expenses. Crafting a narrative that would justify the bundle of receipts she’d forgotten she’d even incurred was the worst aspect of running Police Scotland’s Historic Cases Unit. When she’d first recruited Detective Sergeant Daisy Mortimer, she’d tried to convince her that doing the DCI’s expenses was now her responsibility. Daisy had grinned and said, ‘Good try, boss.’ So the ringing of her phone was a welcome relief. But only for as long as it took her to read the screen.

In Karen’s experience, a call from the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) never brought tidings of comfort and joy. Nevertheless . . . ‘Sir,’ she answered brightly. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I wanted to talk to you about a bit of reorganisation.’

Karen’s heart sank. ACC Rowntree – aka the Fruit Gum – had announced himself as the new broom when he’d arrived at Police Scotland a couple of years before. If his predecessor had heard that line, she’d have gutted him at his first morning briefing. Ann Markie had been convinced she was the face of the future when it came to policing; the reality was that her brand of coppering was rooted in a historic world view that Karen thought had gone out with the abolition of slavery. If Markie had had a whip, she wouldn’t have let a day go by without cracking it. Rowntree, on the other hand, liked to claim he was frank and open with the lower ranks. Karen had soon realised that only applied to the trivial stuff.

Trying to keep her tone upbeat, Karen said, ‘What did you have in mind, sir?’

‘I think I’ve made it clear what an asset I believe your team is to Police Scotland, Karen.’ He paused for praise.

‘You have, sir.’ Because we get the kind of results that produce great media reactions and you like getting your name in lights.

‘So I hope you won’t take what I have to say as a criticism.’ Another pause.

That was a question that demanded only one answer. She was damned if she was going to play his game. ‘I have no problem with constructive criticism,’ she said. That was mostly true. Most days.

And enough to tip him slightly off his stride. He gave a fake laugh. ‘I’m under pressure to make sure Police Scotland gives great value for money. Which of course, the Historic Cases Unit continues to do.’

Karen could hear the ‘but’ all the way across the city. ‘It’s always a consideration, sir.’

‘So in the interests of economy of scale, it’s my intention to move your unit from the furthest recesses of Gayfield Square to an office space more commensurate with your prestige. How would you like to be based at Gartcosh?’

Another question that demanded a single answer.

She knew he wouldn’t appreciate her knee- jerk response that she’d rather slam the car door on her fingers. ‘I’d welcome the chance to give the suggestion careful consideration. Why don’t I call your secretary and make an appointment to see you later in the week? Then we can discuss it fully.’

‘I don’t know that there’s—’

She bulldozed straight over him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve got to go now, I’m due at a meeting. Thanks for the suggestion, and we’ll talk soon.’ And she ended the call. Karen squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. The Fruit Gum might like to appear a different species from Ann Markie, but some days she thought you couldn’t get a cigarette paper between them. Nobody wanted to work out of Gartcosh, the Bermuda Triangle of Central Scotland. Bounded by motorways on all sides, convenient for absolutely nothing and nowhere except itself, a desert with insufficient parking. She’d fight this one and she’d win. Probably.

‘I swear to God we never had tropical downpours like this when I was wee,’ Detective Chief Inspector Pete Niven complained, pulling the hood of his raincoat closer to his narrow face. ‘Can we get a fucking tent up here?’ he shouted at the crime scene technicians battling the howling wind and the sheeting rain to erect a shelter over the collapsed section of the M73. A massive mudslide had careened down the hillside when the heavens had opened during the night, shifting enough mud and previously unseen rocks to bite a chunk out of the motorway. Bad enough that it had completely blocked one lane, destroyed the hard shoulder and caused mayhem on the morning commute, but when the road crew had finally turned up, the traffic problem swiftly morphed into a very different one.

The torrential rain had dislodged more than the steep bank beside the road; the layers of roadway had shifted downwards and sideways to reveal unmistakably human remains. DCI Niven had been dragged away from his warm office at the nearby Police Scotland Crime Campus to contemplate the grim sight of a skull grinning up at him out of the mud. Recovering the body would be a logistical nightmare in this weather, never mind figuring out how to secure the most chaotic crime scene he’d ever seen.

Niven glared at the body as if it was a personal insult directed at him. His dark thoughts were disturbed by his bagman, DS Richie Scott, who announced his arrival with a typically tasteless comment. ‘Found Jimmy Hoffa, then, boss?’ He leaned over the crime scene tape. ‘Makes a change from all the stories about Glasgow gangsters bricked up in the Kingston Bridge.’

‘Give it a rest, Scott. We don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman.’

‘So you’ve not PLE’d it?’

Scott was, as usual, grating on Niven’s nerves. ‘I have done this before, you know. I have not only pronounced life extinct, I’ve spoken to the Fiscal’s office. They think there’s someone over at Gartcosh who can come across and formally confirm it so we can get the body removal under way.

’ Niven turned away and headed for the shelter of the police Land Rover. Scott climbed in alongside him and the two men waited for the crime scene techs to secure the scene. A few minutes of silence passed, then Niven said,

‘When was this bit of motorway built?’

‘Not a scooby, boss. I don’t remember it not being here.’

Niven rolled his eyes. ‘Of course you don’t remember it. You’re just a bairn, Scott. Which means you’re supposed to be a fucking genius with the technology. Get your phone out and do some research.’

Scott sighed, his cheerful expression swept away like rain under the windscreen wiper. ‘Aye, right.’ His chubby fingers stabbed his phone as if he was trying to injure it. At least, thought Niven, it shut him up.

Time trickled past and the crime scene tent slowly took shape through the downpour. Then two things happened at once. The rain stopped as abruptly as if someone had turned off a tap. And their Land Rover door opened to reveal a diminutive woman who had materialised outside. She was sensibly clad in waterproofs, fisherman’s waders and a bucket hat. A thick comma of dark auburn hair had worked its way loose in front, a single drip worming its way downwards towards an eyebrow. ‘Hi, guys,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for DCI Niven.’

‘That would be him,’ Scott blurted out before Niven could speak. His smile was back at full wattage.

The woman ignored him and nodded to Niven. ‘I’m Dr Wilde. River Wilde. I know, I know. Hippy parents.’ Clearly it wasn’t the first time she’d introduced herself thus. ‘Forensic anthro. Lucky for you, this is the day I work out of Gartcosh. I understand you’ve got human remains?’

Niven straightened up. ‘I’ve not got up close and personal, Doc. It’s not what you’d call easy terrain. But there’s a human skull that looks like it’s emerged from the broken lip of the motorway, so I’d say yes, that’s what we’ve got.’

‘Unless it’s a shop window dummy,’ Scott said brightly. Niven scowled.

‘The only dummy round here is you, Scott.’ He gave River a tight smile. ‘Can’t get the staff, Doc. What’s the plan, do you think?’

‘Let’s go and take a look.’ She turned away and set off towards the tent.

Niven followed her, Scott in his wake, sighing. ‘There go my best loafers.’

As they approached, Niven thought it resembled a scene from 1917, the last film he’d seen in a cinema before Covid hit. Which made it maybe the last film he’d ever see in a cinema. These days, he’d lost the desire to sit in a confined space with a lot of strangers at close quarters. Why bother when you could wait for it to show up on Netflix, in the comfort of your own living room with a beer and the chance to pause for a pee whenever you felt the need without missing a crucial plot point? Still, this reminded him of that last visit. A sea of mud, torn clumps of grass, random bits of rock, aggregate and tarmac, all mashed up around the forensic tent. The men picked their way across the morass, taking exaggerated care not to trip. River, in sharp contrast, moved with swift assurance and disappeared inside. ‘Bloody mountain goat,’ Niven muttered.

By the time the two police officers made it into the tent, River was already crouched by the body. It was more like a golem than a human form, with its thick coat of dark brown mud streaked with yellow and black like an abstract painting.

She looked up. ‘It’s hard to be absolutely certain till we get the remains cleaned up and examined properly but given the height and the relative breadth of shoulders and hips, I’d say it’s a man.’ She delicately moved the head. Flecks of white appeared through muck as thick as flesh and they could make out the catastrophic damage to the side of the skull that had been lying in the mud. ‘And I’m in no doubt that he didn’t die a natural death.’

‘Murder?’ Niven asked.

‘It’s the obvious conclusion. A remote possibility that it could have been an accident or suicide that someone was determined to cover up. But either way, you’re looking at a crime.’ She straightened up. ‘These are skeletal remains. Far be it from me to tell you your job, but I’m thinking this is one for the Historic Cases Unit.’

Niven felt a burden shifting from his shoulders. Everybody knew that the ACC (Crime) loved the publicity the HCU garnered. The Fruit Gum never put DCI Pirie in front of the cameras to deliver the soundbites. He always seized the limelight for himself. If he could sideline Niven and give the case to KP Nuts, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

With a bit of luck, Niven might get home in time to catch the second half of the European Cup game. ‘Good thinking, Dr Wilde,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to Mr Rowntree right away.’

Val says: ‘It’s a gripping drama provoked by my long fascination with the death – and the life – of the electrifying Elizabethan theatre pioneer Christopher Marlowe. Without Marlowe, it’s fair to say Shakespeare would have struggled longer and harder to find his extraordinary voice, and what we know of the shoemaker’s son from Canterbury is tantalisingly incomplete. The myth of his death is that he died in a pub brawl over the bill. And that’s not just untrue — it makes no sense of what we do know about the dashing and brilliant playwright whose lines are part of the landscape of our lives – ‘Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?’ ‘Come live with me and be my love.’ ‘Whoever loved that loved not at first signt?’ I’ve been struggling to write this play for more than forty years, obsessing with finding the language and the structure to tell the story. And finally it’s going to be seen by an audience! You can see it for yourself at Pitlochry Festival Theatre on Monday 18th August at 2.30 and at the Edinburgh International Book Festival on Tuesday 19th August at 8pm in the Spiegeltent. It’s directed by Philip Howard and I’m hugely grateful to Deborah Dickinson and her team at Pitlochry and to Tam Zimet and her colleagues at Edinburgh International Book Festival for making it happen. But mostly, to Alan Cumming whose generosity and vision as the incoming director at Pitlochry has lit a fire underneath my words. I can’t wait.’

Lauren Lyle will be returning as DI Karen Pirie as the cast dive into the 1980s in a series based on A Darker Domain.

It seemed like an unsolvable mystery at the time: a wealthy heiress and son kidnapped in Fife, then a botched payoff, leaving her dead with no trace of the child. So when, over twenty-five years later, a possible clue is discovered by a journalist in Tuscany, cold case expert DI Karen Pirie doesn’t hold much hope of unravelling the infamous enigma.

She’s already investigating a case from the same year. At the height of the miner’s strike, Mick Prentice broke ranks to join ‘scab’ strike-breakers down south. But new evidence suggests Mick’s disappearance may not be as straightforward as that – and Karen’s investigations take her into a dark domain of secrets, betrayal and the ultimate violence! Past and present intertwine in a novel of taut psychological suspense that explores the intersection of desire and greed.

The latest Karen Pirie thriller Silent Bones is publishing October 2025, pre-order yours now!
Publication date UK: 23 October 2025 (Little, Brown Book Group)
Publication date US: 02 December 2025

More info about Silent Bones.

THE MASTERFUL NEW THRILLER IN THE KAREN PIRIE SERIES, NOW A MAJOR TV SERIES

The truth is buried just beneath the surface . . .

When torrential rain causes a landslide on a motorway in Scotland, it reveals a crime scene: someone hid a body in the tarmac eleven years before. Journalist Sam Nimmo had been the prime suspect in the murder of his fiancée when he disappeared, and now DCI Karen Pirie and her Historic Cases Unit must find out who buried him, and why.

Meanwhile in Edinburgh, new evidence reopens a closed case and the accidental death of a hotel manager starts to look like murder. But what did Tom Jamieson’s book club have to do with his demise – and what will they do to keep their secrets?

Karen and her team begin to untangle a web of lies, one which connects their murder cases with Scotland’s rich and powerful. They will be tested to their limits – and possibly beyond . . .

Publication date UK: 23 October 2025 (Little, Brown Book Group)
Publication date US: 02 December 2025

Pre-order now!

DIVA Writer of the Year award
At the end of April, I took a couple of days off from working on SILENT BONES to go down to London for the DIVA Awards Dinner. It’s always a great night but this year was especially uplifting — following the egregious Supreme Court judgement and its potential impact on the ability of trans people to live their lives, the love and solidarity in the room was palpable. It was wonderful to see so many friendly faces, but for me the evening was transformed by the joy of winning the DIVA Writer of the Year award. I was genuinely gobsmacked — it was such a strong shortlist, I thought I had no chance! Such a vindication to win this award in the year I will publish my 40th novel. (Yes, 40th! How did that happen?)  Find out more…

I finished the first draft of Silent Bones at the beginning of the second week of May — a bit later than usual, but so it goes… Now it’s gone off to my editor, my agent and my US editor and I’m in that blissful state of having completed the draft but not yet having had my notes… Time to enjoy the sunshine!

Thrilled to be part of the Theakston Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival 2025.

Find out more

We reveal a criminally good Special Guest lineup for the Theakston Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival 2025.

We’ll celebrate global icons, TV talent and fan favourites as we reveal the star-studded Special Guest authors for this July.

You can follow us on Bluesky, TikTok and sign-up to our newsletters for all the latest events and updates!

The Radio Bremen Crime Prize 2024 has been awarded to Val McDermid. One of the most prestigious crime prizes in Germany, Radio Bremen has been recognising excellence in the crime writing community since 2001, with previous winners including Max Bronski, Anne Holt, and Elisabeth Hermann.

The judges said: “In her almost 40 crime novels, [Val McDermid] takes a stand that is as clear as it is entertaining and exciting. The fight against homophobia, misogyny and the abuse of privilege are central to her work. At the same time, she addresses current social developments: from Brexit to Scottish independence efforts, from Covid-19 to upheavals in the media landscape. Her books form a unique chronicle of the past three decades.”

Lauren Lyle, Emer Kenny, Chris Jenks and more are returning for the second season of Val McDermid’s Karen Pirie TV series for ITV. A three-parter based on Val’s novel A Darker Domain, this season sees Karen reopen the investigation into the unsolved kidnap of a wealthy young heiress and her baby son back in 1985. It will be directed by Gareth Bryn (Line of Duty) and Amanda Blue (The Gathering).

Karen Pirie launched with 6.6m viewers and averaged 5.9m across the series making it one of the most watched new dramas on ITV last year.

Harrogate International Festivals has launched a new prize for authors, the McDermid Debut Award, open to full-length debut crime novels by UK and Irish authors.

Harrogate International Festivals said: Named in recognition of world-famous crime writer Val McDermid, who co-founded the Theakston Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival in 2003 and whose dedication to fostering new voices in crime fiction through the New Blood panel is legendary, this new award seeks to continue her legacy, celebrating and platforming the best debut crime writers in the UK.

The Mystery Writers of America has announced the nominees for the 2024 Edgar Allan Poe Awards, honouring the best in mystery fiction, non-fiction and television published or produced in 2023.

Val McDermid’s novel Past Lying has been nominated for The P. G. Putnam’s Sons Sue Grafton Memorial Award, which recognises the Best Novel in a Series Featuring a Female Protagonist. The winners will be announced in May 2024.