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Perfect Prey: The twisty new crime thriller that will keep you up all night
Helen Fields


‘Without doubt, this is one of the best detective series I have read.’ Woman’s Way MagazineYour new addiction starts here: get hooked on the #1 bestselling series. Perfect for fans of Karin Slaughter and M.J. Arlidge.Welcome to Edinburgh. Murder capital of Europe.In the middle of a rock festival, a charity worker is sliced across the stomach. He dies minutes later. In a crowd of thousands, no one saw his attacker.The following week, the body of a primary school teacher is found in a dumpster in an Edinburgh alley, strangled with her own woollen scarf.D.I. Ava Turner and D.I. Luc Callanach have no leads and no motive – until around the city, graffitied on buildings, words appear describing each victim.It’s only when they realise the words are being written before rather than after the murders, that they understand the killer is announcing his next victim…and the more innocent the better.






















Copyright (#u2aa842e3-11d7-57ce-9f73-ea7107b1cc48)







Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Helen Fields 2017

Cover photographs © Alamy (http://www.Alamy.com)

Cover design © Black Sheep 2017

Helen Fields asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008181581

Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008181598

Version: 2018-02-08




Dedication (#u2aa842e3-11d7-57ce-9f73-ea7107b1cc48)


For Brian and John - the dads and grandads - reading their newspapers in the great beyond, and wondering what all the noise down here is about. With love from those who will never forget you.


Table of Contents

Cover (#u0e798093-a2a8-55d2-81d3-4957b49ce156)

Title Page (#u315235f6-6d58-59ec-b205-0569ecc2e9a9)

Copyright (#u8bac56a4-3a73-545f-8322-8aa20e76ef95)

Dedication (#uaf709fb2-a525-5848-ac43-950533118da8)

Part One (#ua1c0ad78-0bfb-5750-9aea-2567ed0a9ca9)

Chapter One (#u668f7941-6bf8-56b7-988f-34f341c8b0a3)

Chapter Two (#u3341d23b-019b-579b-962a-8b55ef501971)

Chapter Three (#u1f42a9ac-6584-528d-9144-d20484546da0)

Chapter Four (#u8bccb095-d563-5be0-8890-770fb080325e)



Chapter Five (#uc7f77f93-4aae-51ae-b8f2-69f6c1c524ee)



Chapter Six (#u8e3edc46-0ff8-5bf8-b489-084a72ba76f9)



Chapter Seven (#u06dd5221-f95f-5fa3-ae19-e57d56df4012)



Chapter Eight (#u0ca438de-fa65-5568-999d-51a3d99ccc3e)



Chapter Nine (#u9b7c6502-f37f-5895-86c9-0acd35fa9f66)



Chapter Ten (#u7a8b569f-a590-50cb-96a6-60775e486a09)



Chapter Eleven (#u3e7f460e-44f7-54f8-a103-076b7aedf82d)



Chapter Twelve (#u1a11ee53-d80c-511b-ab00-0661ecd5afd9)



Chapter Thirteen (#ud24da2e1-ff21-509d-b76c-27446904162c)



Chapter Fourteen (#ua1520f99-6555-553e-9319-72897ca7ee47)



Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Seventy (#litres_trial_promo)



A Few Words on the Darknet (#litres_trial_promo)



Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)



PART ONE (#u2aa842e3-11d7-57ce-9f73-ea7107b1cc48)




Chapter One (#u2aa842e3-11d7-57ce-9f73-ea7107b1cc48)


There were worse places to die. Few more terrifying ways of dying, though. It was an idyllic summer backdrop – the cityscape on one side, the ancient volcano Arthur’s Seat silhouetted in the distance. The music could be felt before it was heard, the bass throbbing through bones and jiggling flesh. Sundown came late in Edinburgh in early July and the sky was awash with shades of rose, gold and burnt orange. Perhaps that was why no one noticed when it happened. Either that, or the cocktail of drink, drugs and natural highs. The festival was well underway. Three days of revellers lounging, partying, loving, eating and drinking their way through band after band, bodies increasingly comfortable with fewer clothes and minimal hygiene. If you could take a snapshot to illustrate a sense of ecstasy, this would have been the definitive scene. Washing through the crowd, jumping as one, as if the multitudes had merged to create a single rapturous beast with a thousand grinning heads.

Through the centre of it all, the killer had drifted like smoke, sinuous and light-footed, bringing a blade to its receptacle like a ribbon through air. The slash was clean. Straight and deep. The extent of the blood loss was apparent on the ground, the wound too gaping for hands to stem the flow. Not that there had been time to get the victim in an ambulance. Not that anyone had even noticed his injury before he had almost completely bled out.

Detective Inspector Luc Callanach stood at the spot where the young man had taken his last breath. His identity had not yet been established. The police had pieced together remarkably little in the hour since the victim’s death. It was amazing, Callanach thought, how in a crowd of thousands they had found not a single useful witness.

The young man had simply ceased his rhythmic jumping, crumpling slowly, falling left and right, forwards and backwards, against his fellow festival-goers, finally collapsing, clutching his stomach. It had annoyed some of them, disrupted their viewing pleasure. He’d been assumed drunk at first, drug-addled second. Only when a barefooted teenage girl had slipped in the pool of blood did the alarm ring out, and amidst the decibels it had taken an age for the message to get through. Eventually the screams had drowned out the music when the poor boy had been rolled over, his spilled entrails slinking closely in his wake like some alien pet, sparkling with reflected sunshine in the gloss of so much brilliant blood.

The uniforms hadn’t been far away. It was a massive public event with every precaution taken, or so they’d thought. But making their way through the throng, police officers first, then paramedics, and clearing an area then managing the scene, had been a logistical disaster. Callanach looked skywards and sighed. The crime scene was more heavily trodden than nightclub toilets on New Year’s Eve. There was enough DNA floating around to populate a new planet. It was a forensic free-for-all.

The body itself was already on its way to the mortuary, having been photographed in situ for all the good it would do. The corpse had been moved so many times by do-gooders, panicked bystanders, the police, medics, before finally being left to rest on a bed of trampled grass and kicked-up dirt. The chief pathologist, Ailsa Lambert, had been unusually quiet, issuing instructions only to treat the body with care and respect, and to move him swiftly to a place where there would be no more prying cameras or hysterical caterwauling. Callanach was there to secure the scene – a concept beyond irony – before following Ailsa to her offices.

In the brief look Callanach had got, the victim’s face had said it all. Eyes screwed tight as if willing himself to wake from a nightmare, mouth caught open between gasp and scream. Had he been shouting a name? Callanach wondered. Did he know his assailant? He’d been carrying no identification, merely some loose change in his shorts, not even so much as a watch on his wrist. Only a key on a piece of string around his neck. However swiftly death had come, the terror of knowing you were fading, of sensing that hope was a missed bus, while all around you leapt and sang, must have seemed the cruellest joke. And at the very end, hearing only screams, seeing panic and horror in the sea of eyes above. What must it have been like, Callanach wondered, to have died alone on the hard ground in such bright sunlight? The last thing the victim had known of the world could only have been unalleviated dread.

Callanach studied the domed stage, rigged with sound and lighting gear, and prayed that one of the cameras mounted there might have caught a useful fragment. Someone rushing, leaving, moving differently to the rest of the crowd. The Meadows, an expanse of park and playing fields to the south of the city centre, were beautiful and peaceful on a normal day. Mothers brought their toddlers, dog walkers roamed and joggers timed the circuit. Strains of ‘Summer is A-Coming In’ sounded in the back of Callanach’s mind from a screening of the original version of The Wicker Man that DI Ava Turner had dragged him to a few months ago. He’d found Edward Woodward’s acting mesmerising, and the images of men and women in animal masks preparing to make their human sacrifice had stayed with him long after the projector had been switched off. It wasn’t a million miles away from the circus in the centre of which this young man had perished.

‘Sir, the people standing behind the victim have been identified. They’re available to speak now,’ a constable said. Callanach followed him to the edge of the field, leaving forensics constructing a temporary shelter to protect the scene overnight. Leaning against a tree was a couple, wrapped together in a single blanket, their faces tear-stained, the woman shaking visibly as the man comforted her.

‘Merel and Niek De Vries,’ the constable read from his notebook. ‘A Dutch couple holidaying here. Been in Scotland ten days.’

Callanach nodded and stepped forward for quiet privacy.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Callanach with Police Scotland,’ he said. ‘I know this is shocking and I’m sorry for what you witnessed. I’m sure you’ve explained what you saw a few times now, and you’ll be asked about it many more. Could you just run over it for me though, if you don’t mind?’

The man said something to his wife that Callanach couldn’t follow, but she looked up and took a deep breath.

‘My wife does not speak good English,’ Niek De Vries began, ‘but she saw more than me. I can translate.’

Merel rattled off a few sentences, punctuated with sobs, before Niek spoke again.

‘She only noticed him when the girl screamed. Then Merel bent down to shake him, to tell him to get up. He was on his knees, bent forward. We thought he was drunk, sick maybe. When Merel stood up again her hand was covered with blood. Even then, she says, she thought maybe he had vomited, ruptured something. Only when everyone stepped back and we laid him out, did we see the wound. It was as if he had been cut in two.’ Niek put one hand across his eyes.

‘Did you see anyone before he fell, near him, touch him, push past him? Did anyone seem to rush away from the area? Or can you describe any of the people standing near you in detail?’ Callanach asked.

‘Everyone was moving constantly,’ Niek answered, ‘and we were watching the stage, the band, you know? We don’t have any friends here so we were not really looking. People were jumping up and down, screaming, going this way and that to get to the bar or the toilets. We were just trying not to get separated. I hadn’t even noticed the man in front of us until he fell.’

‘Did he speak at all?’ Callanach asked.

Niek checked that question with Merel.

‘She thinks he was already unconscious or dead when she first spoke to him. And anyway, the noise was too much. She would not have heard.’

‘I understand,’ Callanach said. ‘Officers will take you to the police station to make full written statements and then transfer you to your accommodation.’

‘Not British?’ Merel stuttered, addressing Callanach directly for the first time.

‘I’m French,’ Callanach replied, ‘well, half French, half Scottish. I apologise if my accent’s hard to understand.’

‘Le garçon était trop jeune pour mourir.’ The boy was too young to die, she said, continuing in French although Callanach found he was hearing it in English, so fast had his translation become.

Merel De Vries recalled one other thing. Above the music, a woman laughing in the crowd, so loud she could hear it even as she’d bent down to help the victim. What struck Callanach as odd was Merel’s description of it. That it wasn’t a happy laugh. In her words, it had echoed of malicious.




Chapter Two (#u2aa842e3-11d7-57ce-9f73-ea7107b1cc48)


‘The cut came from a single weapon, but the implement would have been customised by skilled hands,’ Ailsa Lambert said. ‘Two perfectly paired scalpel blades must have been bound together with a spacer between them creating a gap of four millimetres. The combination would have rendered the wound impossible to close or suture, even had he been in hospital when he’d been attacked. The twin incisions are …’ she paused as she picked up a flexible measure, ‘twenty-eight centimetres in length. They have pulled apart substantially, causing a gaping wound resulting in massive trauma. His organs then moved, sliding down and forward, so that much of what should have been in his abdominal cavity exited his body as he fell and rolled. Some of it even has identifiable shoe marks from those around him. Blood loss caused his heart to stop.’

‘I get it,’ Callanach said wearily. ‘Not much doubt over cause of death. Anything else I need to know?’

‘Tox screen will be a while. He has no other visible injuries, seems superficially healthy, his lungs tell me he wasn’t a smoker, good boy,’ she patted the corpse’s hand with her gloved one and smiled grimly. ‘But this weapon, Luc, this weapon wasn’t designed for self-defence. And you can’t pick it up at the hardware store either. Someone crafted it, adored it. The cut was deep, even, and yet very little force seems to have been required to puncture far into the abdominal cavity. Whoever did this took pride in it, thought about efficiency, understood the mechanics of it. This was no impromptu stabbing or weapon grabbed in the heat of an argument.’

‘An assassination then?’ Callanach asked, bending over the body and taking stock.

‘More like a ritual, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘This was dreamed up, practised and perfected.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Between eighteen and twenty-two, I think. Five feet, eleven inches. Active, no spare fat, good muscle mass but not one of those types who live at the gym. Size ten shoe. Brown hair, hazel eyes. No defence wounds. Never saw it coming.’

‘So he didn’t recognise his attacker as a threat when they came for him?’

‘Most unlikely. You don’t look well yourself, Luc. Are you sleeping?’ Ailsa asked as she peeled off her gloves and made notes.

‘I’m sleeping just fine,’ he lied.

‘Eating properly? You’re pale and you have broken blood vessels in your eyes.’

‘I’ll phone you tomorrow for the tox results,’ he evaded. ‘Anything before that and you have my mobile number.’

‘Give my regards to DI Turner, would you? I haven’t seen her for an age. I used to catch up with her mother regularly at an opera appreciation group but I haven’t bumped into her recently either,’ Ailsa said, stretching her back. In her mid-sixties, tiny and birdlike, she was a force to be reckoned with.

‘I’ll pass that on,’ he said, stripping off his own gown and dropping it into the bin outside the door.

On his return to the station, a grim welcome party sat around in the incident room. Callanach looked directly to Detective Constable Tripp.

‘Just following up a lead from a phone call, sir,’ Tripp said. ‘Young woman called in to say she and her boyfriend got separated at the festival. He hasn’t turned up yet. I’ve sent a car to pick her up.’

‘Did she give his name?’ Callanach asked, grabbing coffee as he sat at a computer.

‘Sim Thorburn,’ Tripp replied, pressing a couple of keys and waiting for a photo to load, one step ahead as ever. Some new social networking site popped up in seconds with a multitude of larger than life photos. In each one, the lad was smiling, laughing, his expression carefree and guileless. In the last, he was hand in hand with his girlfriend. Without a doubt, it was the same hand that Ailsa Lambert had been patting a short while ago.

‘That’s him,’ Callanach said. ‘So what do we know?’

‘At the moment, everything that’s on his home page. He didn’t bother with privacy filters, so it’s there for the world to see. He’s twenty-one, Scottish, lives in Edinburgh.’

‘Police record?’

‘Not that we can find.’ A phone rang behind Tripp and someone passed him a note. ‘The girlfriend’s here, sir. And DCI Begbie wants to see you as soon as you’re done.’

‘Of course he does,’ Callanach said, standing up. ‘Do you have any idea where DI Turner is, Tripp? Only Ailsa Lambert was asking after her.’

‘Off duty,’ DC Salter shouted from the corridor. ‘Said something about maybe being in late tomorrow too. Did you want me to get a message to her, sir?’

‘No thanks, Salter,’ Callanach shouted after her. ‘It’s nothing that can’t wait.’ Unlike Sim Thorburn’s girlfriend, no doubt already suspecting the worst but who’d be downstairs holding out for a miracle. She would be imagining some mistake, hoping perhaps that in spite of the evidence, her boyfriend had met some friends and wandered off without telling her. Any number of excuses for his disappearance would be going through her mind. Until she saw Callanach’s face, he thought. People knew the second they looked at you.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as soon as he saw her. Introductions were pointless. She wouldn’t remember Callanach’s name in a few seconds’ time, anyway.

‘You can’t be sure that it’s him yet,’ she whispered. ‘You haven’t even asked me about him.’

‘We found several photos on an internet site of the two of you together.’ He held out an example that Tripp had printed off in anticipation. ‘Is this Sim?’

She sobbed and took a step away from the photo as if the paper itself was a weapon.

‘Have you seen him?’ she asked. Callanach pulled a chair out for her and she sat.

‘I have. I’m sure it’s him.’

‘What … what …’ she couldn’t say the words.

‘He received a knife wound. It proved fatal. It would have been very fast. The ambulance didn’t have time to get to him.’

‘A knife wound? I thought maybe a ruptured appendix or a blood clot or … he was stabbed? It’s not him. No one would do that to Sim.’

‘He wasn’t in any trouble that you knew of? It might be something as simple as a family feud, money problems, someone settling an old score?’

‘Don’t be so stupid!’ the girl snapped. It was an understandable reaction given what she was going through. What she didn’t understand was how cold the trail would get with every passing minute. ‘He was a charity worker. He earned minimum wage and still spent every spare moment doing extra unpaid voluntary service.’

‘Can you tell me more about that?’ Callanach asked.

‘He worked in the homeless shelters, ran the soup kitchens in the city, organised fundraising. Sim was the gentlest, kindest person you could ever meet. He gave away every last penny. It was the only thing we ever argued about.’

‘And you didn’t see anything strange yesterday? No one following him?’

The girl shook her head, shock taking hold. Callanach knew he’d got all he was going to get from her by then. He handed over to Tripp to organise the formal identification of the body and obtain family details. Callanach had to get a lead, and fast. Somewhere, the man or woman who had slaughtered Sim Thorburn had undoubtedly already hidden the weapon and neutralised any incriminating forensic evidence.

‘Salter,’ Callanach shouted on his way towards the incident room. ‘Find out who’s controlling the footage from the concert. I want it available tonight. And try to keep the Chief off my back for a while, would you? I’ve got work to do.’

‘So have I, Detective Inspector,’ DCI Begbie said, appearing in the doorway. Lately he seemed larger every time Callanach saw him. It wasn’t healthy, putting on weight that fast. The Chief hadn’t been exactly slim when Callanach had joined Police Scotland, but now he was working his way towards an early grave, for no apparent reason. ‘Is something wrong, DI Callanach?’ Begbie asked. He realised he’d been staring at Begbie’s straining shirt buttons.

‘No, sir, just distracted.’

‘Frankly, that’s not very reassuring. What leads have we got?’ Callanach tried to find a way to express the completely negative nature of the case so far, and struggled to answer. ‘That good, huh? Well, somebody must have seen something. Thousands of potential witnesses and we’re stuck. Bloody typical. Have media relations organise a press conference. Might as well do it immediately. We can’t have people scared on the streets. There’ll be a rational explanation for this. No one walks up to a complete stranger and slashes them. Get answers, Callanach. I want someone in custody in the next forty-eight hours.’

‘Chief …’

‘Got it. You don’t like doing press conferences. Duly noted.’ Begbie walked off, puffing as he went. Callanach considered following to ask if his boss was all right, then recognised that for the career-ending move it would be and made his way back towards the incident room. He was starving, but the idea of a fish and chip supper being consumed straight from newspaper was making him queasy. There was no prospect of getting home for twelve hours and the healthiest food at the station was probably an out of date packet of crackers abandoned at the back of a cupboard. Callanach was getting his thoughts together to lead a briefing when someone thrust a carrier bag into his hand.

‘Stop looking at everyone else’s food as if they’re eating poison. It’s off-putting. You’re not doing anything to help your reputation for French snobbery,’ DI Ava Turner said, pushing a fork into his free hand. ‘Prawn salad. Not home-made, so you’re safe from my pathetic efforts.’

‘I thought you were off duty and not coming in until late tomorrow. Have you been demoted to the catering division?’

‘You can always hand it back,’ she said, checking her phone and frowning.

‘Too late.’ Callanach ripped open the packaging and tucked in. ‘Ailsa Lambert was asking after you. Do I take it that Edinburgh’s elite social circle is not functioning properly?’ he smiled.

‘How do you tell someone to shut up in French?’ she responded without looking up from her phone. Ava had spent much of her career trying to distance herself from the privilege she was born into. The expectation that she would become a doctor, lawyer, actuary or similar – at least until she settled down and produced grandchildren for her eager parents – had spawned a rebellion landing her in the grimy world of policing. But even at work she couldn’t escape the fact that her family’s closest friends included the upper levels of Police Scotland brass, politicians, CEOs and even the city’s chief forensic pathologist.

DC Salter interrupted, handing over two pages of A4 and checking her watch. ‘DCI Begbie said he knew you were busy so he’s organising the press conference for you.’ Salter was trying not to smile. Turner ruined the effort by laughing out loud. ‘I’ve written out some notes for you, sir. Media will be gathered in about an hour.’

‘Wow. Reduced to using the media circus already? This time tomorrow morning women will be swooning over your face on the front cover of every paper. So Police Scotland’s pin-up detective is getting back out there, is he?’ Ava said. Callanach had been with the Major Investigation Team in Edinburgh for eight months, and in that time Ava had never missed an opportunity to make fun of him. His distant career as a model made him a particularly easy target.

‘It wasn’t my idea,’ Callanach muttered. ‘Merde!’

‘Language,’ Ava admonished.

‘I thought you couldn’t speak French,’ Callanach said.

‘You’ve been mistaking my ignoring you for failing to understand you. It’s a different concept,’ Ava said.

‘Do you not have work to do?’ Callanach asked, shaking his head at her, watching the grin spread across her face. Ava was the sort of woman who left men wrong-footed. She looked innocent enough, her long brown hair a tangle of curls, with grey eyes that shifted colour depending on the light. But she could cut to the chase in a second. Being direct seemed to be the only way she knew. When he’d arrived from France his head had been a mess. Too much had happened for him to walk away unscathed emotionally. The last few months had been curative, and Ava had played a large part in that, mainly because with her he could just be himself.

‘Earth to Callanach,’ Ava said, waving her hand in front of his face. ‘I was only teasing. It’s that bad then? You’ve really got nothing to go on?’

‘Less than nothing,’ Callanach said.

‘DI Turner!’ Begbie shouted from the corridor.

‘I’m off duty, sir,’ Ava shouted back. ‘In fact, I’m not even in the building. You’re imagining me.’

‘Too bad for you I have such an active imagination. Get a squad over to Gilmerton Road. There’s been another murder.’




Chapter Three (#u2aa842e3-11d7-57ce-9f73-ea7107b1cc48)


The house in Gilmerton was an unpretentious semi-detached, with a plain but carefully tended garden and a Mini in the driveway. A high wooden gate allowed access to the rear garden. The upper windows of the property were small, but at one corner, presumably where the internal staircase ran, an unusual slit of window spanned both floors to look out over next door’s driveway. Two uniformed officers had been posted at the gates and the circus of forensics, pathology, and photography had yet to properly begin. The area was peaceful, the streets asleep.

‘What happened?’ Ava Turner asked the officer guarding the front door.

‘A neighbour heard some loud banging followed by a couple of screams, phoned it in. There was no answer when we knocked so we went round the back and found the kitchen door open. Body’s in the bedroom, ma’am. Do you want me to come in with you?’

‘No, stay put. And keep people off the garden. Who’s the victim?’ Ava asked.

‘Mrs Helen Lott, mid-forties, lived alone as her husband passed away a while back, apparently. Neighbour was quite friendly with the deceased. We haven’t told her what we found yet …’

‘Good. Where the hell are the rest of the team?’

‘All still over at The Meadows dealing with the murder at the festival. No one was expecting a second murder on the same night,’ the officer said, rubbing his hands together. Even in July, Scotland was no place to stand outside in the small hours.

‘Bloody right. That’s Edinburgh’s murder quota for the whole year. God almighty, the press will have a field day,’ Ava muttered, already making her way along the narrow path to the rear of the property.

The lock on the back door had been sliced through. If it was a burglar, then it was a highly professional job as opposed to the usual smash-and-grab, taking whatever was nearest to the window. The perpetrator had paid a lot of money for decent tools, and must have known what he’d need. Ava pulled gloves and shoe covers from her bag and made her way in through the kitchen door, careful not to disturb anything as she went. The lock had been broken, although there hadn’t been any chain or secondary security. She cursed how cheaply people valued their lives.

The house was dark, as it would have been when the intruder crept through. Ava kept the lights off, imagining how the killer had moved and navigated the property. There was enough light from a street lamp to make it easy. None of the stair floorboards were squeaky. There was every chance the killer had got all the way to Helen Lott’s bedroom without disturbing her at all. Dark smudges on the stair carpet and a glistening trail on the handrail were an insight into the scene that was about to unfold.

The smell of vomit was noticeable from halfway between floors, beginning as a sharp twang, growing riper and more meaty as she got closer. Something else, too, when Ava pushed open the door to the main bedroom. A rotten smell. Human faeces.

In the bedroom, she turned on the light to allow a detailed view, taking an involuntary step back from the carnage on the floor. The body was difficult to see at first, hidden as it was by a wooden chest of drawers. Clothes had tumbled out everywhere, hiding all but the woman’s right foot and right arm. Ava tiptoed across and peeled the corner of a jumper away from the face. Blood had erupted from her mouth, nose and ears. The vomit was already crusting on the carpet and in the wrinkles and folds of her skin. The victim’s eyes, a vivid and unusual shade of blue, bulged in their sockets, and stared somewhere over Ava’s shoulder as if watching, terrified, for her attacker to return. There was very little white remaining in her eyes, the haemorrhaging like crazing on an antique vase. Her neck and face were swollen solid, a deep shade of purple. It was as if she had been painted from the neck up by an angry toddler in all the colours of fury.

The chest of drawers, a broad, weighty piece, lay across her body. Its position there was no accident. Ava looked carefully at the damage. The chest’s back panel, which now faced the ceiling, had been smashed in, the sides caving inwards. Faint bootprints marred the floral pastel bed linen. The attacker had jumped from the mattress onto the chest, adding to the murderous crushing pressure that had squeezed the breath from the victim’s lungs as she’d lain terrified beneath it. Helen Lott’s visible leg was twisted to an unnatural angle, and the nails of her free hand were bloodied and hanging. Ava folded the hand upwards to where the nails would have made contact with the chest of drawers. Sure enough, corresponding scratch marks ran down the polished surface. The poor woman would have been conscious then, enough to have done all she could in those last desperate minutes to fight her way out. Death would have been the only kindness, Ava thought. Mrs Lott would have been grateful when the darkness finally swallowed her.

‘Oh, my dear,’ a small voice came from the doorway, ‘what on earth is this, now? I was just saying to Luc earlier how I was missing you. I certainly didn’t mean to see you under these circumstances.’

‘I need as much as you can tell me about the killer. Single assailant or a gang, was there a weapon? Just give me enough to get started, Ailsa,’ Ava said.

The pathologist, covered head to foot in a white suit, making her appear smaller than ever, opened her bag and withdrew a thermometer and a variety of swabs.

‘It’s a difficult scene, not much room. Keep your squad out until I’m done. Get me some decent lighting and I’ll need the photographer immediately.’

‘That’s fine,’ Ava said, as Ailsa knelt next to the body.

‘She’s still quite warm, so the attacker, singular or plural I can’t say, hasn’t gone terribly far yet,’ Ailsa said, photographing with her own tiny camera as she went, shining a light in Helen Lott’s eyes, ears and mouth. ‘Death was within the last forty-five minutes, that’s the best I can do for now. I’d put money on the perpetrator – if it was one person acting alone – being male and very large. This took an absolutely extraordinary amount of strength and overwhelming rage. No weapon other than this furniture was required to cause these injuries. Whoever it is must be covered in blood though. They’ll be keeping out of sight until they’ve cleaned up. This blow to the face, you see the swelling and discoloration here,’ Ailsa pointed to the side of Helen Lott’s head, ‘probably fractured the cheekbone, maybe the jaw too, and would have put her on the floor so that the furniture could be pushed on top of her. The weight of the furniture forcing the air from her lungs, combined with the fractured jaw would have prevented her from screaming. That might have been incidental or planned, no way of knowing. It’s an unusual crime scene. Very personal. I’ve never seen a crushing death outside of a car or industrial accident before. And these blood spatters here and here,’ Ava followed Ailsa’s eyeline outwards from the chest of drawers along the carpets to the walls and wardrobe, ‘suggest to me that the crushing wasn’t a single continuous force.’

‘Meaning what?’ Ava asked.

‘Meaning, I’m afraid, that whoever did this jumped again and again, causing individual injuries and almost explosive bleeds each time they landed. When we’ve moved the furniture and the body, we’ll see a star shape coming out around her.’

‘Bastards,’ Ava said, hands on hips, hanging her head.

‘I bet you don’t let your mother hear you speak like that,’ Ailsa said, smiling gently. ‘Now let me take care of Mrs Lott.’

Ava went back down the stairs, turning each light on as she went, issuing orders through her radio. Technicians were carrying lights and sheets in before she’d even reached the kitchen door. Ava walked out onto the street and looked around. It was a quiet residential area, devoid of CCTV and not wealthy enough for any of the residents to have invested in their own surveillance systems. It would have been obvious that the house was occupied, so late at night with a car on the driveway. The burglar – if it was a burglary gone wrong – would have been cautious about the residents.

‘Officer,’ Ava called to the uniform she’d spoken to on the way in. ‘Is there anything obvious missing or any sign of ransacking?’

‘Handbag with purse in it still on the kitchen table, ma’am. Other than that we didn’t want to disturb too much.’

She went back to her car and dialled Begbie’s number.

‘Turner here. It’s a bad one, Chief. Female victim, living alone. Crushed to death with a piece of her own furniture.’

‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding me,’ Begbie sighed. Ava could almost see him scratching his head as he tapped his pen on the desk. He sounded exhausted. ‘Sexual assault?’

‘No idea. And we won’t have confirmation until Mrs Lott has been taken in for a full autopsy. The torso and two limbs have been pretty comprehensively flattened.’

‘Suspects?’

‘Nothing yet. Pathologist’s still with her. Everyone was over at The Meadows so it’s taken a bit longer than usual to get going. Almost certainly a male attacker. Not sure if there’s more than one. It’s brutal, a lot of force. We have a bootprint. Officers are with the neighbour taking a statement. After the incident at The Meadows, the press will—’

‘I know, I know,’ Begbie said. ‘But they’ll have to be told. They’ll find out soon enough anyway. Better from us.’ Ava could hear the Chief’s heavy breathing down the phone. His chest sounded as if it was chugging between words.

‘Sir, nothing else will happen tonight. Maybe you should just go home. Callanach and I are both available to take calls.’

‘Don’t you start too, Turner. If I wanted another woman nagging me, I’d have committed bigamy long ago. Just seal off the scene and bring back some useful bloody info. The very least I expect is one hundred per cent more than Callanach’s turned up from The Meadows. Not that that’s setting the bar very high, mind you.’




Chapter Four (#u2aa842e3-11d7-57ce-9f73-ea7107b1cc48)


Callanach sat with an expressionless video editor, and tried to avoid the pile of newspapers that some helpful person had left on his desk. What he needed to do was sift through the footage from four different cameras and see if anything recorded might resemble a lead. Thankfully the timelines were such that the job, initially at least, was a limited one.

The first two tapes were from static cameras, no operators. They both covered the front areas of the crowd, and the place where Sim Thorburn had been standing was a distant blur. The remaining footage was more difficult to navigate. One camera operator had been moving around on the stage, intermittently filming the band and looking out at the crowd. The second camera operator had been on a cherry picker crane to give more dynamic angles. It was painfully slow to sit through, but finally the first glimpse of the thankfully tall Niek De Vries emerged amidst the masses.

‘Stop it there,’ Callanach said, leaning forward and peering hard at the screen. ‘That area, can you make the section larger?’

The editor pressed a few keys and leaned back, hands behind his head.

‘Is that it?’ Callanach asked. ‘It’s too blurry.’

‘Yeah, you know that stuff in films where they can suddenly zoom in and it all goes super-sharp and you can see inside people’s pockets and read what’s written on a note? That’s all bollocks,’ the editor said. ‘There’s one picture, it consists of a certain number of dots. You can see closer but then it gets less sharp. If I had a pound for every time I’ve had to explain that.’

‘Zoom back out then, left a bit,’ Callanach said. ‘That’s Sim,’ he said. ‘Play it from there.’

As the screen came to life, Callanach could see Sim bouncing up and down, in and out of the line of sight. It was sketchy, but unmistakably the victim. He was bare-chested, like many of the men in the crowd, having presumably shed his T-shirt in the heat of the sun and the crowd. Sim was singing along, one arm in the air pumping in time to the music. He looked relaxed and happy. Behind him and slightly to the right stood Merel De Vries.

‘He has absolutely no idea what’s coming,’ Callanach said to himself. The camera began to shift to the right, and Sim’s face edged towards the far side of the screen. ‘No,’ Callanach shouted. ‘It’s just about to happen. Freeze the frame or something.’ The editor tapped the space bar. Callanach searched the picture but found nothing new. ‘Let it play,’ he said. Another tap and away slid Sim’s face, about to shift fully out of frame as he seemed to bump into the body of someone passing in front of him. ‘Stop! Right there. That’s it.’

Callanach’s mind filled in the blanks. The subtle shift of a body through the crowd, slipping the knife out of a pocket, pulling off the sheath, sliding the razor-sharp blade along Sim’s naked stomach as they passed, ready with a cloth to clean up and avoid bloodying anyone else. Slipping quietly away before the victim had hit the floor. They would have moved in a zigzag through the crowd. Taking a straight course through the masses, directly out of the area, would have been too obvious.

‘Play it back again,’ Callanach ordered. On a second view, it was clearer that Sim’s head hadn’t even turned. There had been no distraction, no conversation, no recognition. Had there not been the movement of a few blurred pixels, dark in colour, vague in shape, passing just in front of the lower half of Sim’s face before he’d fallen, it might have been murder by ghost. ‘You’re going to tell me we can’t improve that section of the picture, aren’t you?’ The editor simply raised one eyebrow. ‘I need the best quality print-off you can get of all the frames when his face and that blur are in sight.’

Tripp entered, holding a document that he was reading as he walked.

‘Forensics, sir. Just came through by email. Nothing on it.’

‘What do you mean nothing?’ Callanach asked.

‘Only what you already found out at the autopsy. Victim had no drugs in his system, trace amounts of alcohol. Healthy, no previous injuries except what looks like a childhood broken leg. He was clean. Cause of death as you’d expect,’ Tripp said.

‘Any new information since the press conference?’ Callanach asked.

Tripp looked edgy. ‘You’ve not heard, sir? You turned your mobile off again, then, did you?’ Callanach’s hand went to his pocket and came out again clutching a black screen. ‘Someone started a media site, people have been uploading every bit of festival footage from their phones. There are thousands of hours to view. Other than that, no useful leads. Then there’s the public outcry. I think DCI Begbie may have barricaded himself into his office. Media relations have been trying to get hold of you. Some journalist wants an interview.’

‘Do you think it will help?’

‘Not my call, sir. But I think one of the papers dubbed you Police Scotland’s answer to Brad Pitt, so maybe you won’t want to …’ Tripp’s voice faded out.

‘That’ll be all, thank you Tripp. Is the DCI available?’

‘He said only for people with good news,’ was Tripp’s parting reply.

‘Seems like we’re all going to have a disappointing day then,’ Callanach muttered.

He walked into Begbie’s office to find the Chief handing a bundle of files to a plain-clothes officer he hadn’t seen before.

Begbie pointed to a seat which Callanach decided not to bother taking.

‘No idea how long we’ll be here, I’m afraid,’ the plain-clothes officer continued, ignoring Callanach’s presence. ‘Obviously we’ll be working with your regional squad. We may also need a few of your men for on-the-ground inquiries.’

‘I’m afraid that as of yesterday all my lot are taken,’ Begbie growled, eyes closed. ‘Unless Callanach here has some unexpected news for me.’ Callanach stared out of the window. ‘Well then, you can have what office space you need, all the facilities, local knowledge to your heart’s content. Manpower is your problem.’

The officer made a non-committal noise, which Begbie ignored as he flicked the switch on the small kettle he kept in his room, presumably to minimise the need to walk the few yards along the corridor to make tea. Callanach took the opportunity to study the newcomer. The accent was recognisable as upper-class English, and the corresponding attitude was clear from the tone of his voice plus the slight upward angle at which he held his head.

‘Right, I’ll be getting along then. We’ll review our requirements and revisit the manpower issue at a later date, DCI Begbie.’ He left without a thank you, not quite bothering to ensure the door was shut. Callanach finished the job for him.

‘Anything I should know about, sir?’ Callanach asked.

‘Not today,’ Begbie muttered. ‘Got a suspect yet?’

‘Dark hair. Short, slight build, but that’s a guess as the crowd wasn’t disturbed by the murderer passing through. Could be male or female. My best description would be something along the lines of Professional Grade Murderer.’

‘Thank you Detective Inspector, be sure never to repeat those words in front of another living being. DI Turner is currently in her office trying to organise an investigation into a man she has, much like yourself, already named inappropriately. You may have a Professional Grade Murderer on your hands; Turner has The Crusher. Almost certainly male, heavy, strong, brutal and a raving psychopath if the autopsy details are anything to go by.’

‘Two in one night? Isn’t that unusual for this area?’

‘Unusual? It’s a disaster of monumental proportions, is what it is! Do you know what the headlines said this morning?’ Callanach still hadn’t braved the papers. ‘No? Well, let me halve my burden by sharing it with you. “Not safe on the streets, not safe in our homes. Edinburgh’s Night of Monstrosities”. Not catchy but pretty bloody appropriate, don’t you think?’ Begbie threw himself into the chair behind his desk so hard that it skidded backwards half a metre. ‘And I don’t have the money in the budget to pay for any overtime for the remainder of the year! Do something about it, man. I’ve got two bodies in the morgue and I daren’t so much as answer the phone.’

Callanach didn’t wait to have Begbie vent any further. It sounded as if Ava was having an even worse day than him. He wandered in the direction of her office for some mutual bemoaning of fates, not bothering to knock. As he opened the door there was a sudden parting of bodies, Ava stepping quickly backwards and banging her hip on the corner of her desk, the man she was with looking more annoyed than embarrassed to have been interrupted. Callanach recognised him as the plain-clothes officer who had recently departed the Chief’s office.

‘Begbie didn’t introduce us. Seems he’s having rather a busy day. I’m DCI Edgar,’ he said.

‘Callanach,’ he replied, holding out his hand and shaking the detective chief inspector’s. ‘I interrupted. Apologies.’

‘No, you didn’t. What was it, Luc?’ Ava asked, brushing hair away from her face.

‘Thought I’d just see how you’re doing. The Chief said you’ve picked up a rough one.’

‘That’s the best kind, isn’t it?’ Edgar chipped in.

Ava made her way to the other side of her desk and sat down.

‘Joseph’s here from the National Cyber Crime Unit in London. An attack is imminent and there’s intelligence that it’s being organised from Edinburgh.’

‘Probably best to limit the spread of the information, Ava. I gather Callanach has matters of his own to worry about.’

‘I do,’ Callanach said, ‘so I’ll catch you later. Good to meet you.’ He closed Ava’s door, grimacing, and wiping the palm of his right hand on his trousers as he went.




Chapter Five (#ulink_bc756be2-804b-5525-8006-cb7307118094)


‘Some bastard leaked the autopsy summary!’ Ava yelled, slamming Callanach’s door and throwing herself into a chair. ‘Which means either someone in Ailsa’s office or a police officer here is responsible, as if this wasn’t bad enough already.’

‘Have you slept?’ Callanach asked.

‘Listen to this.’ Ava ignored his question, tearing open the newspaper she was clutching and beginning to read. ‘“Helen Lott, a forty-six year old palliative care nurse, was deliberately crushed to death in her own bedroom.” Of all the monsters I’ve ever dealt with, who would want to kill a nurse who looks after terminally ill patients? “Injuries included multiple fractured ribs and sternum, a collapsed windpipe and severe damage to internal organs, resulting in internal bleeding and asphyxiation. A neighbour alerted police after loud noises were heard coming from the property late at night. The autopsy report suggests that the murder was torturous and orchestrated to cause as much pain to the victim as possible. Mrs Lott will be sadly missed by work colleagues and patients alike, who have described her as nothing short of an angel who had dedicated her life to nursing.” Did you know there’s graffiti about the murders emerging on walls across the city? God only knows who started that off. And we’ve just been notified that concerned citizens are planning a Take-Back-The-Night-style protest march. Like we don’t have enough policing to do already. What the fuck is going on?’

‘Have you reported the leak?’ Callanach asked.

‘Of course I have. We’ve got two officers interviewing anyone with access to the information at the city mortuary, and a member of our technical services team is checking the digital route the document took from there to us to make sure the breach didn’t come from Police Scotland’s end. On top of that, all the usual media outlets have been contacted to see if anyone approached them offering the article for money. No joy there so far. Why is the first thing that happens always the last thing you need?’ Ava huffed.

‘You want coffee?’ he asked.

Ava shook her head. ‘Sorry about yesterday. With Joe. It was …’ her voice dwindled.

‘None of my business,’ Callanach said.

‘Joe and I were friends at University. He phoned me a few weeks ago to say he was likely to be posted here. You know how sometimes you just pick things up where you left them as if no time had passed at all …’

‘Forget it. You want to get something to eat on the way home? If I don’t get a shower soon my clothes are going to sue me for hygiene abuse.’

Ava looked down at her hands.

‘It’s fine,’ Callanach said, Ava’s unspoken plans hanging in the air between them. ‘I’ll catch you tomorrow. And don’t worry about the papers. New story every day, remember?’

That turned out to be good advice. In spite of the endless coverage afforded by two murders in one night, the media headlines the next day focused on an altogether different target.

The largest incident room was taken up with an array of well-dressed plain-clothes officers, freshly washed and scrubbed, who obviously had not been up all night watching endless mobile phone footage and scanning photos with no results.

‘Something happen overnight?’ Callanach asked Sergeant Lively as he passed by.

‘Fuckin’ snobby idiots strutting around, acting like they own the place. Hunting a bunch of nerds no one in their right mind gives a damn about. Makes you look almost like a frigging native.’

‘Look almost like a frigging native, sir,’ Callanach reminded him. Lively sniggered.

‘Aye, whatever.’ Lively wandered off, stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. Callanach and he hadn’t hit it off since day one. A long-in-the-tooth sergeant with decades in the job, Lively had his own preferred candidate pegged to fill the role of Detective Inspector when Callanach had transferred in. It was a fair assumption that Lively had overseen a campaign of piss-taking posters and nasty rumours that had undermined Callanach until he nailed his first case with Police Scotland. He and the detective sergeant had finally progressed from coming close to blows, to tolerating one another, although the verbal abuse hadn’t stopped. At least the influx of Scotland Yard’s finest had provided a favourable comparison.

Callanach’s phone was ringing as he reached his office. He took the call as he threw his jacket onto the desk. It was too hot for any sane person to be wearing more than shorts and a T-shirt. Shirts and ties were one of the drawbacks of promotion.

‘Callanach,’ he said.

‘DI Callanach, I’ve left several messages for you,’ was the opening line. ‘This is Lance Proudfoot. I’m the editor of an online news and current affairs blog. I was hoping to get a statement about the festival murder.’

‘How did you get this number?’ Callanach asked.

‘Switchboard put me through.’

‘That’ll be a career-shortening decision then,’ Callanach said, imagining the conversation he’d be having later with the idiot who had answered the phone. ‘No statements. You had everything we’re giving out at the press conference.’

‘To be fair to the young lady on your switchboard, I may have given the impression that I was a family member,’ Lance said. Callanach sighed. ‘And your media office occasionally forgets to invite the online press to your conferences, hence the need for a certain level of … inventiveness about sourcing information.’

‘I’m not sure you and I are equally content to supplement the word inventiveness for the term lying, Mr Proudfoot. And I’m afraid I have to get on with some work,’ Callanach said.

‘So you can’t comment on last night’s hacking scandal either then? Only I heard that Scotland Yard had sent a crack team of investigators to Edinburgh.’ The last phrase was heavily laced with sarcasm. It was all Callanach could do to stop himself agreeing. Instead, he opened a news site on his mobile and scanned the headline. A group calling themselves The Unsung had hacked into the accounts of various bankers and investors recently awarded some jaw-dropping bonuses, and transferred the funds. ‘Brilliant bit of anti-establishm‌entarianism,’ Lance continued.

‘Looks like plain old theft to me,’ Callanach replied.

‘I beg to differ. The hackers transferred the funds into the accounts of several good causes, anything from children’s hospices to animal shelters. Only took twenty-five per cent of each bonus, too, so they weren’t even greedy about it. They were just making a point about the obscenity of the highest paid compared to the desperate underfunding of non-profit-making causes,’ Lance said.

‘Well, it’s not a Major Investigation Team case, I’m afraid, so yet again, no comment,’ Callanach said, itching to put the phone down, only the journalist on the other end was proving remarkably hard to get rid of politely.

‘Ah, so they have called in the cavalry. Doesn’t surprise me at all,’ Lance said. Callanach mentally kicked himself for his indiscretion. ‘Take benefits away from single mums and the disabled and there’s not one politician available for comment. Nick some cash from a load of fat cats and the government mobilises.’

‘It’s still a criminal offence. We don’t get to make judgement calls about the morality of the crimes we investigate,’ Callanach said.

‘You’ve got to admit it was clever though. Now the losers have to report each unauthorised money transfer as a crime, which is how the press gets the details of the offences. Then the so-called victims have to ask for their money back from each charity. What would you do, DI Callanach? Say you got a four million pound bonus on top of already inflated wages, three million is still in your bank account. You going to make a spectacle of yourself and insist that the local war veterans’ society gives you your million back? Named and shamed doesn’t even start to describe how little love the public have for these guys. Quite some stunt, isn’t it?’

Callanach didn’t answer. Quite some stunt indeed. It certainly explained the peacocking going on in the incident room.

‘Anyway, I’m just after one comment on the record,’ Lance continued. ‘The public want to know that their city is safe. Will you not take the opportunity to reassure them?’

‘This is a murder investigation,’ Callanach said. ‘Not a game and not a publicity opportunity. Have some respect.’

‘Listen, I do this because I care about getting news stories out. I don’t work for a paper that’ll edit my words to meet the owner’s political agenda, or to maximise advertising revenue potential. I’m my own boss and I take responsibility for what I write. Do me a favour. Just one line. We’re not all bad, you know.’

Callanach brought up Lance Proudfoot’s online profile. His news blog had nearly one hundred thousand followers and it looked as if his feed was picked up by some of the bigger media outlets. He sighed. It was worth keeping the popular press onside. And there was always the possibility that it might actually prove useful.

‘Fine,’ Callanach said, feeling resigned. ‘But unnamed. An anonymous source inside the police. The festival attack appears motiveless. Whilst the majority of murders are committed by persons known to the victim, this does not appear to be the case. We ask the public to remain vigilant and for anyone with any information to come forward as soon as possible.’

‘That’s all?’ Lance asked.

‘Don’t push your luck,’ Callanach said. ‘Use my name and we never talk again.’

‘Does that mean I can call you if I have more questions?’

‘No, it doesn’t. And the next time you lie to switchboard to get put through, I’ll have you arrested.’ Finally common sense kicked in and Callanach hung up, flicking back to the news headlines and reading the hacking story more thoroughly.

Ava’s friend DCI Edgar was going to have his work cut out wading through the mire of public relations mud about to rain down. The Unsung may have committed grand scale fraud and theft, but it was hard to imagine many people condemning them. And it was a big enough story, just about, to deflect the media’s attention and provide some breathing space while they made headway on the murders. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, Callanach thought, wondering how long Joe Edgar would be using Edinburgh as an investigative base. He reached for his coffee and for an unlit Gauloises cigarette to suck.




Chapter Six (#ulink_411926ee-4c9d-552b-9f14-34d6b0faf145)


DC Christie Salter wished Callanach a quiet goodnight and went home to her new husband. She’d put off taking her sergeants exam for her wedding and honeymoon. When Callanach had advised against making the sacrifice, she’d laughed. Max Tripp went home to his twin brother with whom he was flat-sharing. The Chief went home to a wife who had tolerated him for no fewer than thirty years. Even miserable Sergeant Lively had someone waiting for him to get home so they could share a meal and stare at a mutually chosen television programme and forget the outside world.

Callanach retreated to an empty flat.

Scotland had been a new start for him, returning to the land of his long since dead father. But it had meant shedding the social circles and family comfort that had been at the centre of his world. He was trying, certainly. There was the gym, work, a good wine shop, places where people knew his name and greeted him with a smile. Beyond that, replacing old friends with new was time-consuming and soul-destroying.

He fired up the computer, waiting for his emails to appear and hoping desperately for contact from his mother. There was also the matter of checking that Astrid Borde had not been in touch. Since she’d falsely accused him of rape when they’d worked together at Interpol, then followed him to Scotland, he had worried every day that the nightmare might begin again. It hadn’t mattered that the rape allegation was entirely a figment of Astrid’s twisted imagination and a symptom of her obsession with him. The stigma of it had stuck. People he’d worked with for years avoided him. His closest friends grew guarded, then distant, finally disappearing altogether. Innocence, he had learned, was a technicality when sexual assault was involved. However many times he told himself to live in the moment, there was little escape from the impact of the past. Not when it still affected him as physically as it did.

Too restless to sleep and too tired to go out, Callanach checked out Lance Proudfoot’s online news blog again. He found a brief section outlining Proudfoot’s career history with publications in the US and Canada, as well as some of the larger British newspapers. His news coverage wasn’t bad. Less sensational than the tabloids, and less prone to navel-gazing than some of the broadsheets. There was an interesting editorial piece on the hacker thefts, with a side piece on the National Cyber Crime Unit, largely highlighting how far behind the offenders’ capabilities the police were, given the budget constraints and compared to the sort of money the gifted could earn in the private sector. DCI Joseph Edgar’s name popped up briefly and Callanach checked him out for something to do. Public school, followed by a law degree, chair of the debating society, with interests in cricket and rugby. Never married, steady career path. Callanach picked up his mobile to text Ava. He was halfway through it when there was a knock at his door. It was late, much later than he was used to being disturbed. Not that anyone ever knocked on his door.

‘Who is it?’ he called as he walked slowly through his lounge. There was no reply. Callanach peered through the spyhole. In the corridor he could hear banging then rattling, but no visible person. Searching for a blunt weapon, he selected a knife sharpener from the kitchen and made his way back to the door. More frantic noises came from the area just out of the visual field of the spyhole. Callanach slid the bolt back as quietly as he could and stepped out, weapon raised.

‘Please don’t hurt me!’ the girl in the corridor screamed, arms raised, falling backwards against the wall.

Callanach dropped the sharpening steel and raised his own hands.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m a police officer. Are you hurt? Was it you who knocked my door?’

The woman began to laugh, breathing fast, somewhere between terrified and amused.

‘Yes, that was me. You didn’t answer, so I assumed there was no one in. And no, I’m not hurt. I just moved into the flat opposite yours,’ she said, pointing at the only other door on the same level as Callanach’s in the converted house. His new neighbour was tall and slim, with blonde hair tied up in a ponytail and a broad smile. ‘All my fuses have blown. I’ve absolutely no idea where the fuse box is so I was trying the loft hatch in case the box is up there. I figured, if your layout was the same as mine you might be able to help me. I’m so sorry. I obviously scared you.’

‘No, I’m sorry. Just being overcautious. Of course I’ll help. The fuse box will be in your airing cupboard. I’ll fetch a torch.’

A few moments later he was inside the flat opposite his own, reaching into the top of the cupboard, flipping open the plastic cover, and there was light.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, thrusting a hand out towards Callanach. ‘I’m Bunny. My real name’s Roberta, but my little sister couldn’t say that when we were growing up. She called me rabbit, hence the nickname, and it kind of stuck. Thanks for helping. And I’m talking too much. Listen, I haven’t got much in, but can I at least get you a beer? Plenty in the fridge.’

‘I should go,’ Callanach said, glancing at his watch. ‘You should really get a chain put on your door.’

‘I will, especially living alone. What about you?’ Bunny asked.

‘I have a chain …’

‘No, I meant do you live alone?’

Callanach paused as Bunny opened the fridge door. By the time he’d figured out how to answer, she was pushing a cold bottle into his hand.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I live alone. But I’m not at home very often, so you should really make sure that you have proper security in place.’

‘I’ll remember that. Feel better knowing you’re just over the corridor though.’ She waited for him to say something and Callanach realised he hadn’t introduced himself.

‘Callanach,’ he said. ‘Luc.’

‘That’s foreign, right?’

‘French,’ he said.

‘Oh my God. My mates are just going to die when they meet you. Well, slàinte, good health, Luc Callanach,’ she said, clinking the neck of her bottle against his. ‘Here’s to many an evening spent with a beer in hand and a friend to share it with. So tell me about you. Lived here long?’

‘Not that long,’ Callanach replied, looking around. The apartment was full of boxes, most overflowing with clothes, electrical gadgetry and accessories. Unpacking was going to take a while.

‘Messy isn’t it?’ she said, following his eyeline and kicking a couple of boxes shut. ‘I’m so busy with work I couldn’t stop to unpack properly. I’m a hair and make-up artist. Anything from weddings to films. You should be an actor with that face.’

‘The police service doesn’t approve of moonlighting,’ Callanach said quickly. ‘And I’ve got to be back on duty in a few hours so I really should go now. Thank you for the beer.’

‘Being a policeman must be exciting. And those poor people killed this week. Awful, wasn’t it?’ Callanach made his way back out into the corridor. ‘Listen, we’re neighbours. Let me give you my number, in case you need anything.’ Before he could stop her, she grabbed a pen from her pocket followed by his hand and began scribbling on it. Callanach fought the urge to pull away. ‘There’s my number. I’m a terrible sleeper so call any time. It’s going to be fun living here, I can already tell.’ It took another ten minutes to get away.

There was an email from Tripp when he got back into his own flat. ‘Sir, on my way over. Couple of video files you might want to see tonight.’ It was timed fifteen minutes earlier. Callanach threw dirty plates into the dishwasher and closed some doors. He was waiting for Tripp to knock when he heard voices in the corridor. Evidently Bunny hadn’t shut her door since he’d left and had found Tripp before he’d had a chance to reach Callanach.

‘Constable,’ he said, sticking his head out. ‘I gather this is urgent. We should get on.’

‘Sorry, Luc,’ Bunny shouted. ‘We got chatting. He’s sweet, he is.’

Tripp looked like he didn’t know which way to run.

‘In you come, Tripp,’ Callanach instructed. ‘And you should shut your door, Bunny. It’s late.’

Safely inside, Tripp was a shade of beetroot.

‘New neighbour then, sir? She seems very, um, enthusiastic.’ Tripp raised his eyebrows and seemed to be struggling to control a grin.

‘Was there something important, detective constable? Only I was hoping to get some sleep for the first time in several days.’

‘Of course, yes. Couldn’t send the files over the internet. No time to securely encode them. Here you go.’ Tripp opened a laptop, and clicked on a folder in which two items sat. As the first played, Callanach could hear the now familiar song that the band had been playing when Sim Thorburn had hit the floor. The footage was taken from a few rows in front of the victim, on a mobile phone whose owner was obviously taking a selfie of herself singing along. For a split second, in the background, a shadow passed across Sim’s face. As the shadow cleared the screen, Sim could be seen slightly out of focus, looking down towards his stomach, his face registering confusion. Then he lurched to one side, out of shot.

‘Is that all?’ Callanach asked. ‘It doesn’t tell us any more about the attacker.’

‘One more piece of footage,’ Tripp said. ‘Top right-hand corner of the screen.’

Tripp pressed play. More mobile footage, this time obviously designed to show the scale of the audience, mobile held high in the air, turning around in a three-sixty loop. After a few seconds, Tripp pressed pause and pointed.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Only in shot for a second, but it’s clearer than in the previous footage.’

Callanach looked more closely. Sim Thorburn was hidden from view, but he could see Merel and Niek De Vries. To the left of them, walking in profile, was an adult with dark brown hair flopping over their face. The attacker was wearing large, dark sunglasses. Tripp let the video play to show the person’s sudden change of direction away from the camera and into the crowd.

‘Male or female?’ Callanach asked.

‘Can’t be sure,’ Tripp replied, closing the lid of the laptop. ‘But not that tall, slim and therefore able to move about relatively unnoticed. Caucasian. Hair could be natural or dyed. Might even be a wig. Clothes didn’t stand out to anyone, so no help there.’

‘Perfect camouflage,’ Callanach said, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes.

‘Could it be someone from one of the homeless shelters, do you think?’ Tripp asked. ‘Sim would have come into contact with plenty of people suffering mental health problems. No one keeping tabs on them, no one to recognise them.’

Callanach shook his head.

‘I wish I believed that, Max,’ he said. ‘Because sooner or later the person you’re describing would get arrested for something else, have a breakdown and confess, get drunk and show someone the knife. This took planning. It needed care and consideration. More than that, it needed nerves of fucking steel. Can you imagine the psyche of a person who can walk through a crowd of thousands, take out a weapon, cut hard and deep and precisely, then not rush away? To walk on slowly through the crowd, certain you’ve done such a good job that you have the time to get out of there, whilst putting the knife out of sight, making sure you don’t emerge from the crowd covered in blood. This person knew how to cut. They may be a psychopath but they’re not mentally ill, not in the way we think of it. This is someone who feels nothing at all. No panic, no fear, no sense of danger. Nothing at all.’

‘How do we catch them then, sir, if they’re that good?’ Tripp asked.

‘You know what, Tripp? I don’t have a fucking clue.’




Chapter Seven (#ulink_48990755-066b-5b05-9f03-22ce0a0bdef0)


Begbie’s complexion was waxy and grey. Callanach saw Ava’s expression as they went in for a briefing, and knew she was worried too. Ailsa Lambert joined them seconds later.

‘For Heaven’s sake, what have you been eating, man?’ Ailsa screeched, walking over to the chief and staring closely at his skin, suffering none of Ava and Callanach’s reticence.

‘Don’t start on me, Ailsa,’ Begbie said. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got time to get on the running machine.’

‘You’ve enough time to consume high levels of fats and sugars by the looks of it. How much are you drinking?’

‘Can we not do this in front of my detective inspectors, if you don’t mind? We’ve other matters to discuss,’ Begbie grumbled.

‘You won’t be discussing anything unless you make some changes. The next conversation we’ll be having will take place with you lying motionless on a slab and me speaking into a voice recorder,’ Ailsa said.

‘You’ve had your say. Now would you take a seat?’ Begbie pointed to a chair.

Ailsa mumbled to herself but sat anyway, pulling a tablet out of her bag and tapping it furiously. ‘Morning, you two. Seems like we’ve been here before. Who wants to go first?’ Neither of them had time to answer before she continued, ‘Helen Lott. Crying shame. I know some doctors she’d worked with. Great loss to the city, this one. There aren’t many who can do her job. Vast amount of force used, trauma unlike anything I’ve ever seen deliberately caused. Horrible way to die, she’d have felt all of it. The good news is that we believe we have his DNA.’

Ava muttered what might have been thanks to some unidentified deity, then cut in, ‘Has it been run through the system?’

‘It has. No hits I’m afraid, but we can tell you that it’s from a male Caucasian. At least if you arrest any suspects, we’ll be able to confirm a positive identity. Other than that the crime scene was clean. No fingerprints. Gloves were definitely worn. No hairs that we’ve found,’ Ailsa said.

‘Where was the DNA?’ Ava asked.

‘On her forehead, just at the hairline. There was a droplet of saliva mixed in with a little blood. At some point, he leaned over her face, was obviously overexcited, and dribbled or spat, possibly whilst talking to her or watching her. I suspect he’d bitten his tongue or cheek, hence the blood cells. Definitely wasn’t from the victim and it was fresh, so it was from someone in the room with her as she died.’ The pathologist pulled out duplicate copies of photographs and handed one bundle to Ava and another to Begbie. ‘You can see from the photos that it was a frenzied attack, but I’d say planned in advance. Killer probably lost control in the middle of it. Initially, she received a blow to the face, hard enough to cause her to fall and prevent her from defending herself. Then the chest of drawers was placed on top of her, and I mean placed rather than randomly pushed. It was central to her body, well balanced, stopped her from getting up. The positioning caused maximum damage to her vital organs. Looks as if her ribs broke first, then her sternum was fractured when additional weight was applied. The pressure to her stomach made the poor woman vomit, adding to the asphyxia she was already experiencing from being unable to draw breath into her lungs. She had a variety of other limb fractures, and body-wide contusions. One of the broken ribs pierced her right lung, speeding up death and by then she was probably grateful for it. Her internal organs were fatally damaged at that stage. Internal bleeding was extensive, as you’d expect. She lost control of her bowels pretty much as she died. Just moving the drawers would have taken a tremendous amount of strength. You’re looking for someone very large, possibly who weight trains, works out regularly. Someone who was there for the specific purpose of making his mark.’

‘I’m not sure this one could be much worse,’ Ava said, rubbing a hand over her eyes.

‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Ailsa noted.

‘So no good news at all?’ Begbie asked.

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a pathologist. When I walk through your door, I’m never bringing good news.’

‘I meant in terms of identifying a suspect,’ Begbie said.

‘It’s someone so physically large that they won’t blend into a crowd, if that helps. And he’d have had her blood, and probably vomit on him as he left. He didn’t leave any clothing or gloves at the scene, so somewhere there is very damning evidence. If you’re willing to risk the public response, you can ask if anyone’s husband, son, brother, landlord, whatever, arrived home stinking, exhausted and bloody on the night in question. I guarantee there’s an evidence trail,’ Ailsa finished.

‘And the festival death?’ Begbie asked, quiet again. He was slumped in his chair, his chin almost to his chest.

Ailsa took another long look at him before answering.

‘Only confirming what you already know. The incision was just above the waistline of his shorts, which were, I think the phrase is, low-slung. He wasn’t wearing a T-shirt, so the flesh was accessible. Incredibly skilled work, if you’ll forgive how extraordinarily distasteful that is as a concept. The attacks are polar opposites of each other. Odd on one night, but isn’t it true that the least likely coincidences are always bound to happen? That one’s going to take some old-fashioned boots on the street police work.’

‘And with one less person than you normally have on your team, Callanach,’ Begbie added. ‘DCI Edgar needs a detective with local knowledge to work with his men. They’re stepping up the investigation since the cyber attack.’

‘Sergeant Lively,’ Callanach responded immediately. Finally Ava gave a tiny smile. ‘He knows the city better than anyone.’

‘He’s also the least tech-savvy member of the squad. Even I’d have more chance of understanding the cyber crime unit briefing than him. I’m moving Max Tripp over. You said yourself you’ve no leads at present. You’re all just sitting around waiting for divine intervention. And Tripp gets all this digital stuff. You can do without him for a couple of weeks.’

‘Sir, not Tripp. He’s a good DC. I need him.’ Tripp was Callanach’s go-to detective constable, arriving early, leaving late, who even managed to signal exhaustion with a bright smile. He was occasionally wearying to be around, but a welcome antidote to the older officers’ cynicism.

‘It’s done, Callanach. Get some results and you can moan to your heart’s content. Under those circumstances I might actually listen. And the media department is up in arms that someone gave a statement to the press yesterday without going through them. Find out who it was and bollock them for me.’

Begbie’s phone rang and as one, they took it as their cue to leave.

Ailsa caught Ava’s arm in the corridor as they were parting. ‘How are you doing, dear?’ she asked.

‘Getting on with it,’ Ava replied.

‘And your parents? I’m dreadful about keeping up with old friends. Not enough hours in the week and all that. You’ll apologise for me, will you?’

‘Not necessary, Ailsa, they know how busy you are. Which is why I’d better let you go.’

‘Forgive me, Ava, but you know how people speculate.’ Ailsa took a step closer, dropping her voice a notch. ‘Your mother has missed several of the clubs she usually attends. Our mutual friends are concerned. Some have contacted me to ask if I know why.’ She let the question hang, her face showing nothing but compassion and care.

Ava wanted to lie, knowing that the truth was the opening of a gate that meant she would have to talk about what was happening to increasing numbers of people. And talking about it meant having to think about it even more than she already was.

‘She has cancer, Ailsa. She’s getting treatment. Everyone has been wonderful.’

‘Poor her,’ Ailsa said softly. ‘And poor you. I won’t ask you any more. Not here. But I’ll be thinking of you all. And if there’s anything I can do …’ she finished.

‘I know that. And I won’t hesitate, I promise,’ Ava said, closing the conversation down as politely as she could.

‘All right then. Now call if you have any questions. And be careful with this case. Whoever killed Helen Lott is operating beyond the extremes of violence that even we are familiar with.’

Ava was dealing with a terrible case, Callanach thought. Close-up police work, dealing with levels of extreme brutality, could be too much for anyone. He pretended to be busy looking through the Sim Thorburn autopsy photos that Ailsa had left for him, but studied Ava peripherally. She was tired and not herself. Her best friend Natasha was away, spending a semester at a university in the States as a guest lecturer. Ava didn’t have her usual support network available and Callanach had been too distracted to notice. If he was honest with himself, avoiding Ava might be closer to the truth. He waited until Ailsa left.

‘We still haven’t christened that fishing rod you gave me,’ Callanach said. ‘When this is over and you and I finally get some time off, how about I take you up on your offer of showing me the lochs?’

‘I’m not sure I can think about that now,’ Ava said. ‘Too much going on.’

‘I understand,’ Callanach said. ‘Then how about a movie tonight? We could both do with thinking about something else for a while.’

A figure appeared beside them. Callanach hadn’t been aware of being watched whilst he’d been talking to Ava, but DCI Joe Edgar had obviously caught the gist of their conversation.

‘That’s nice. Always good to see work colleagues supporting each other. I’m afraid Ava and I are having dinner with her parents tonight though. I haven’t seen Percy and Miranda for years. Can’t wait to tell them what I’ve been up to,’ Edgar said. ‘And I’ve moved that young DC of yours over to my incident room. He’ll do better mixing with my team full-time. He’ll have to buck up though. We keep pretty high standards. Hope it won’t be too much of a shock for him.’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Callanach said, a tiny muscle at the corner of his lower jaw flexing. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate Tripp.’

‘Good, we need them bright and on the ball for the stuff we have to deal with. See you later, darling,’ he said, giving Ava a pat on the shoulder. ‘Callanach,’ he nodded on his way out.

Callanach shoved his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath as he watched Edgar leave.

‘He’s just a friend,’ Ava said, shaking the shoulder Edgar had touched.

‘Dinner with your parents? Thought you couldn’t stand that sort of thing. Or them, for that matter.’

‘What the hell would you know about me and my parents? God, could you just not comment? For once? You know, Luc, you’re the most closed-off person I’ve ever met and you’re lecturing me on my family relationships. You’ve got some nerve.’ She paused, staring at him. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

Callanach stood still until she’d walked round a corner. Keeping a steady smile on his face and his pace measured, he went back to his office and shut his door. Then he slammed one foot hard into the base of his desk. The wood splintered. His toes ached. He grabbed his coat and headed out into the city.

It was a long way to The Meadows from the station but he needed the air.

There was a greater uniformed police presence on the streets than usual. Understandable in the circumstances. Of course, if there was another attack, the chances of the police being in the right place at the right time was still highly unlikely, but people felt better when there were uniforms around. The reality was that for all the protests and outrage, life went on. Though not for Sim Thorburn’s girlfriend, not for a while, anyway. And not for Helen Lott’s extended family, who’d made statements on the news about her terrible passing.

Perhaps the most visual scar left on the city was the graffiti. It had started with one scrawling that an eagle-eyed news reporter had captured the day after the first murder. Callanach made his way to it – a pilgrimage of sorts. Near the centre of the city, where Guthrie Street emerged onto Cowgate, on the curved wall of a hostel in bright blue paint had been left the immortal words, ‘A Charity Worker!’ The fact that the enraged graffiti artist had bothered to punctuate the phrase spoke volumes. The press had embraced the simplicity of expression and adopted the image as their own banner of social indignation.

Sim Thorburn wasn’t a drug dealer who’d sold one tab too many. This was no illegal immigrant with an unpronounceable name, or prostitute long since unrecognisable to friends and family. This was a symbol of Scotland’s heart and soul. The very innocence of the victim was a crime in itself, the press had made that clear. Callanach walked until he found the tag. Below it was the statement, ‘A hospice nurse’, no punctuation this time and the writing was smaller, in red.

From there the copycats had taken over, using the walls in every part of the city to vent their fury at the violation of their peaceful lives. Callanach couldn’t blame them. Such violence was shocking. He’d investigated many terrible cases – child sex trafficking, drugs tested on Eastern European orphans, weapons experiments dressed up as religious wars – they had all come down to money. But this felt like something else. Perhaps just the sheer hell of it. That was what he saw in the words left on the city walls. Futility.




Chapter Eight (#ulink_650fdd8a-7cbc-5c8e-8b4d-81695bcf9972)


At home, a note had been stuck under his door.

‘Knock for me. Made way too much sausage casserole. Will keep it warm. Bunny.’

Callanach contemplated slipping into his apartment silently, before realising he’d spend the whole evening feeling guilty and rude, and opted for the path of least resistance. Bunny opened the door as he was knocking it.

‘Brilliant timing!’ she said. ‘I was just coming to see if you were home yet. Did you get my note? Of course you did, silly me, that’s why you’re here. Come on in. I was opening a bottle of red. Much nicer not to be drinking alone.’

Callanach murmured something noncommittal about how tired he was feeling but by then Bunny was pulling out a chair for him at a small table and putting a glass in his hand. The wine was cheap but drinkable. He was a grape snob – part of the French culture he’d inherited from his mother – but the food smelled good and he was hungry after walking miles around the city.

‘So I finally tidied up, thank goodness. Still got a few boxes to go, but it’s looking more like home. There’s tomato sauce if you want it. I can’t eat without it.’

‘I’ll pass,’ Callanach said. ‘So you’re settling in then?’ he managed, remembering his manners and the need to make small talk.

‘Oh yeah, been at it all day. And I’m having a flat-warming party next Saturday. I can introduce you to my friends. You free?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Callanach said, deciding to be at work whether he was needed or not. ‘I’m pretty much always on call. Never know what’s going to come up. Sounds like fun though.’

‘Oh, but I’ve told them all about you,’ Bunny said, piling more sausages in a beefy tomato sauce onto Callanach’s plate, and telling him every detail of her best friends’ lives as they made their way through dinner. ‘God, I nearly forgot. Some woman was at your door earlier. I did wonder what was going on, as she didn’t knock or anything, just stood there like she was trying to figure something out. She jumped a mile when I put my head out.’

Callanach’s stomach tensed. He put down his fork. If Astrid had reappeared he’d have to move. There was no way he could face being constantly followed again.

‘Did you catch her name?’ Callanach asked Bunny.

‘She didn’t really say much. Muttered something about how it wasn’t important. She’d see you tomorrow.’

‘Can you describe her?’ Callanach asked.

‘Sure, average height, longish brown curly hair. Grey eyes. Size eight to ten. I was wondering if it was your girlfriend.’

‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ Callanach said, regretting the admission as soon as he’d made it.

‘I’m single, too,’ Bunny said, holding out her glass to be chinked. ‘That’s good. We can keep each other company.’

‘I should find out who that was at my door,’ Callanach said, already sure it was Ava and wondering what had prompted the visit. ‘But thank you for dinner, although you shouldn’t have worried about me.’

‘Oh, it’s no bother. We should make it a regular thing.’

‘I’m out a lot,’ he said. ‘Regular doesn’t work for me. I’ll bump into you occasionally though.’ Bunny’s face dropped and Callanach felt clumsy. He could have been kinder about it, not that kindness was necessarily the best way to put women off.

Back in his flat, he checked his mobile for messages. There was nothing. If Ava had been calling round about an urgent police matter she’d have left a text or voicemail. He glanced at his watch. Presumably she’d be at dinner with her parents and Joe Edgar by now. Still, Callanach thought, if she’d come looking for him it must have been important. He kicked off his shoes and dialled her number.

Her mobile rang only twice before she answered. He could hear conversation in the background, and a distant high-pitched voice making their disapproval of the fact that she was taking the call obvious to everyone.

‘Turner,’ Ava said. ‘Hold on please.’ A door closed and footsteps echoed on wood.

‘Ava, it’s Luc,’ Callanach said. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ she was terse. ‘Has something happened I need to know about?’

‘No,’ Callanach felt like he was treading through mud. ‘I just …’

‘Oh, right, the girl told you I’d been round,’ Ava said. ‘It was nothing. Just wanted to have a word with you about …’ she paused momentarily, ‘the Chief. I’m worried about him. Nothing that can’t wait until I next see you.’

‘Was that it?’ Callanach asked. ‘Sorry, I went to The Meadows to walk the scene again.’

‘No need to explain, and I apologise if I made things awkward with your neighbour. She told me she was waiting for you to get home for dinner.’

Callanach rolled his head backwards from one shoulder to the other.

‘She just moved in. I think she’s lonely. I really don’t …’

‘Well, I’m at my parents as you could probably hear, so I can’t chat. Catch you soon.’ Ava hung up. Callanach threw his phone onto the sofa and poured himself a more palatable glass of wine.

‘Fuck,’ he said, stripping off his suit and going to shower, running the water as hot as he could bear and climbing in with his glass still in hand, held just out of the stream.

He should have been able to walk away from work and relax. He wound back the clock inside his head and replayed memories of easier days in Lyon. He’d lived in an apartment he’d loved, with a terrace overlooking the park near Interpol’s headquarters. There had been girlfriends. Not that he’d flitted from one to another, but always someone to share a good meal, to hop in a car for a weekend away, to travel to the coast and waterski or sail. And there had been sex. Not like his early twenties when the fever to sleep with women had, at times, consumed him. When he’d used his model looks and intellect to charm and then entice any woman he’d wanted. Easy sex, without the emotional noose that tightened when he thought about it now. Astrid Borde and her false accusation of rape had finished him, both as an Interpol agent and as a man.

He turned his face up into the steaming spray of water and slid a hand down to his penis, willing it hard, trying to remember the last time he’d been with a woman. He conjured images of days and nights he’d spent intent on nothing but physical pleasure – sex on sand dunes, in planes, on boats, in hotels across the world. But now there was nothing. It was as if the muscle he’d once taken so much for granted had simply ceased to exist, leaving a useless flopping length of pitiful flesh to taunt him.

Then there was a flash of another face in his mind, a woman he’d tried not to think about. With it came the jolt of a feeling he’d all but given up on, his muscles performing no more than a spasm in his hand, a quickening inside before it evaporated.

Callanach grabbed the handle of the shower door, squeezing the metal as if he could crush it, growling aloud with the effort of trying to drag the life back into himself. But it had gone. That fleeting hope that he could be normal again.

‘Merde!’ he shouted, smashing a fist into the shower glass, getting nothing in return except bruised knuckles and a dull thud. ‘Je suis pathétique.’ He reverted to French as he always did when he lost control, although the message was the same in any language. He was pathetic. But his muscles had flared into life, if only for a second. It was proof, as if he’d needed it, that there was no physical damage. ‘Enough,’ he said, snatching a towel and throwing it over his shoulders.

As he walked through his bedroom, he paused to stare in the mirror. He was still in good shape, rarely going more than two days without punishing himself at the gym, naturally eating cleanly, always aghast at the piles of chips, pastry and white bread that seemed to flow through the doors of the station. He hated to feel bloated and heavy. His mother had lectured him about diet from before he could talk back. Fruit, vegetables and protein. Everything else was just excess. She’d long since stopped lecturing him. Had not communicated with him at all since his brief spell of incarceration before he’d been bailed pending trial. He got his olive skin from her, and his dark hair. No matter how long he lived in Scotland, his skin was never going to pale enough for him to pass as a native. It was as if his father’s Scottish genes had passed him by.

He ran a hand through his hair, pulling his shoulders back and inspecting his muscle tone as if he were buying a piece of meat. He’d let his head rule his body for too long, trying everything except therapy, save for those few embarrassing obligatory sessions with the Interpol psychologist before he’d served his notice.

Determined to move on, he opened his laptop and skipped through a variety of websites until he found one that looked vaguely professional, then he pulled his wallet from his jacket. In less than a minute he’d purchased a drug without prescription and left his credit card details online. It wasn’t clever but it wasn’t going to get him in serious trouble, even if he was caught. What worried him more, having finally made the choice to buy the drug that might offer him relief, was finding someone with whom he could use it.




Chapter Nine (#ulink_861eb429-77f7-5ea3-8870-419d632fd57f)


Three weeks had passed since Sim Thorburn’s murder. Twenty-one days when each morning was marked by the increasing quietness and frustration of Callanach’s team. Today the atmosphere was different. Not in his incident room, but certainly across the hall. A body of men and women was massing at the station. The way they were dressed and the palpable excitement could mean only one thing. Callanach realised they were on a pre-raid briefing. DC Tripp caught his eye, and Callanach managed a nod in response before his purloined detective constable looked back at the whiteboard where DCI Edgar was pointing at the blueprint of a building and barking instructions. However much money the hackers had stolen, or ‘relocated’ as The Unsung had released a statement to explain, was enough to justify a huge public expenditure to ensure they were caught. Callanach wondered what the difference in governmental financing was between the hackers’ case and his investigation into Sim’s murder. Probably best not to know, he thought. That way lay only bitterness and disillusionment.

He had begun to accept that the trail to Sim’s killer had run from lukewarm to cold. It seemed more likely than ever that it was just some random attack, perhaps mistaken identity, perhaps someone Sim had crossed unknowingly. Since the funeral, his girlfriend had left Edinburgh and returned to her parents’ house in Newcastle, leaving only a forwarding address and a message to say how disappointed she was that there had been no progress. Callanach could sympathise.

Since then, he’d lost two more squad members to an attempted rape outside a nightclub, and even Begbie hadn’t asked for a progress report for a couple of days. Callanach watched as DCI Edgar’s team trotted out of the incident room and down the corridor like an army squadron given the go for a secret mission, albeit carrying warrants and laptops instead of guns. Tripp looked half-embarrassed, half-bored as he kept pace in the line towards the stairs.

‘Sir,’ Salter said, coming up behind him. ‘We’ve had this passed on from the uniformed team on duty. An elderly gentleman, missing all night. Wife is distraught. He’s never failed to come home before.’

‘The Major Investigations Team is doing missing persons now, is that right?’ Callanach sighed.

‘Seems likely to be more than that. His mobile and wallet have been found on a park bench on top of a pile of books. Name is Michael Swan. This morning he missed a community awards ceremony. He was due to be recognised for the child literacy programmes he’s set up across the city. Wife said he’d been looking forward to it for weeks.’

‘Sounds more like he’s had a breakdown and run away. Come on then, Salter. That’s if DCI Edgar has left any vehicles for the rest of us.’

They headed east across the city towards Craigentinny golf course. The expanse of greenery would have been visible from Michael Swan’s bedroom window, Callanach realised, as his wife described how her doting husband had always dreamed of retiring next to a golf course. Ironically, he’d then become so consumed with what began as a part-time librarian’s post that he’d barely picked up a club since.

‘Has he been unwell, or acting out of character at all, Mrs Swan?’ Salter asked, sipping the coffee that had appeared courtesy of an adult daughter who was comforting her mother.

‘No. My husband was a creature of habit. He came and went at certain times. Had clothes for work and clothes for the weekend. He always told me if something was bothering him. And I could tell, you know. It’s like that once you’ve been married long enough. But to leave his wallet and phone in a public place? He’d never be so careless.’ The daughter handed her mother more tissues from the box rapidly being used up and Callanach checked his watch. The library wasn’t normally open until later but the caretaker had agreed to meet them there and open up. If Michael Swan had left a note anywhere, it was likely to be on his desk.

At the library it was confirmed that Michael Swan had checked out with his swipe card at 8.37 p.m. the previous day. Salter immediately radioed through to the station for a CCTV check of the route he’d have taken to the point where his wallet and mobile had been abandoned. Callanach moved forward at the caretaker’s beckoning and looked through the documents left on a modern reception desk.

‘Is this where Mr Swan would have spent most of his time?’ Callanach asked.

‘Aye, here to check books in and out. The building is on two levels. Library down here, meeting rooms upstairs, used for educational programmes and whatnot. Sometimes authors come here to talk about their books. Other evenings it’s used for community meetings, you know, the local historical society, a dieting club,’ the caretaker leaned down to whisper in Callanach’s ear, ‘and the local alcohol and drug addiction service is in on a Wednesday, but we’re not supposed to talk about that. Bit sensitive for those attending, you know.’

‘And this is everything? He has no employee locker, no personal area?’ Callanach asked.

‘There’s a little staff area behind that glass there. Used for administration, but also for coats, mugs, a place to concentrate without being pestered.’

The caretaker unlocked another door into a thin room at the side of the main library hall, half wall and half obscured glass, with desks lining one side, and full of the sort of mess that busy, hard-working people leave in their wake.

‘Here you go, laddie. This was Mr Swan’s mug. I’m sure it’s all just a terrible mistake. He’s a good man. No harm’ll have come.’ The caretaker picked up a well-used, slightly chipped mug bearing the legend, ‘Eat well, drink well, read well’, clutching it to his chest rather too tightly.

‘Thank you,’ Callanach said. ‘We’ll have a quick look round and let you get on with your day.’ Across the main hall of books was the entrance hall where they’d come in. Steps leading upwards were signposted to education rooms. Another side door bore no marker. ‘What’s through there?’ Callanach asked the caretaker.

‘That goes down into the basement. Holds books not currently on the shelves, ones that need mending or replacing, old posters, redundant furniture. More of a storeroom than anything.’

‘Did Mr Swan have a key to that as well as to the front door?’ Callanach asked.

‘Not on his own set, although there’s one kept on the keys in the desk so the staff can get in if someone asks for a book that’s not on display.’

‘Could you get it for me please?’ Callanach asked.

‘I’m not sure why he’d have left anything in there, particularly. But I’ll open up anyway.’

The caretaker walked ahead and Callanach followed, checking the time. He was due in a meeting with the press liaison officer to give another useless update on the Sim Thorburn case, but he should at least phone and say he’d be delayed. The heavy door swung open and the caretaker reached around the side to flip on the lights. Nothing happened.

‘Fuse box?’ Callanach asked.

‘I’ll go and see,’ the caretaker said. ‘Give me a moment.’ He wandered off back into the main hall as Callanach stepped inside, taking the few steps down into the basement. The door had been heavier than he’d anticipated and it swung shut behind him. The area was effectively windowless, with a dim pane of glass glowing green-brown with moss and mud from decades of a lack of cleaning, and only the faintest vein of light from beneath the door at the top of the steps. Something rotten hung in the air, as if the basement had been built too close to a sewer pipe, polluting with its sulphurous putrescence.

Callanach took out his mobile and switched on the torch app that would drain the battery in no time, but it would do for him to get his bearings and stop wasting any more minutes. He walked between rows of books, all neatly stored, with boxes at the end of each line containing the expected jumble and junk. Children’s toys, some costumes, ageing furniture that no one had decided what to do with. He turned a corner, letting his phone shine at the floor, sensing rather than seeing obstacles as he walked away from the neat rows of books. There was a noise behind him. He spun round, disoriented. One foot flew out from beneath him and he threw a hand to the side to grab what he could to stabilise himself. His other foot followed the same fate, slipping on the floor, and his free arm shot up rather than out, clutching at the first thing it touched. It was a textile, smooth and slippery, wet on one side. Callanach shouted as he fell, landing on his back as whatever his hand had found loosened in his grasp. He closed his eyes as pain shot through his coccyx. A few moments later he repositioned his mobile and shone the light upwards.

Above him was, without a doubt, the body of Michael Swan. He had been suspended horizontally from a metal structural beam by his neck and his bound ankles. Callanach could only see fragments as the beam of torchlight moved, shakily, along the length of the corpse. Whoever had hung him had almost entirely skinned Swan’s face. Callanach had read numerous articles about it but never seen a case where it had been done. An incision had been made around the outer circle of facial skin, starting at one side of the lower jaw, heading up around the cheekbone, across the forehead and back down the other side. Finally, like a perfectly skinned rabbit, his face had been peeled.

Callanach felt the stickiness in his palm and knew that the resulting flap of skin had been what he’d grabbed as he’d slipped. He didn’t need the torchlight to confirm the pool of blood he was lying in.

‘Police officer, put down your weapons,’ Salter shouted from the doorway, no doubt assuming an assault and possible injury.

‘I’m all right, Salter. There’s no one else here.’ He may not have checked every inch of it, but Callanach was sure the assailant had left the building the night before, taking Swan’s mobile and wallet with them.

‘The fuse box is fine, the light bulbs must all have blown.’ Callanach could hear the caretaker’s voice getting closer.

‘Salter, get everyone else out of here right now. Close down the scene. Contact the pathologist immediately and call forensics in. Do not enter. I’ve already compromised the evidence.’

He could hear urgent instructions being given and the sound of footsteps disappearing away.

‘You sure you’re not hurt, sir? It sounded bad,’ Salter called.

Callanach unlaced his boots and left them where he’d trodden so as not to spread any more evidence around the room.

‘Missing person confirmed deceased. I’m uninjured. It’s going to be a difficult crime scene to process. I want an absolute lockdown on communications going out of here.’ Callanach moved gingerly towards the door, feeling his lower back as he went. He’d cracked it hard as he went down and parts of his legs were numb.

‘What the fuck?’ Salter said before she could stop herself. She started forwards to grab him, but Callanach raised a warning hand.

‘Don’t touch me,’ he said. ‘If there were trace fibres or evidence on the floor, they’re on me now.’

‘God, sir, you’re covered in it. Are you sure you didn’t injure yourself? Only that looks like too much blood …’ her voice trailed off.

‘Take a breath,’ Callanach said, ‘then call Begbie for me. He needs to see this for himself. I want the whole building sealed off. No one touches anything. Make sure the caretaker doesn’t re-enter this part of the building.’ He could hear his own voice shaking.

‘How bad is it, sir?’ Salter asked. Callanach just stared at her. ‘Will I send uniforms round to notify Mr Swan’s wife?’

‘That’ll be our job, I’m afraid, but this will take a while,’ he said. Sirens were approaching at a pace. Salter made her way out of the building to ensure that the scene was protected from the outside of the building in.

Callanach stayed as still as he could, knowing every item of his clothing would need bagging and testing. He tried not to think about the gore dripping from his trouser legs and hands. He had witnessed horrors before, but the gruesomeness of this was its staging, the dreadful dramatic love with which it had been conceived. Even to the point of smashing the light bulbs, he now realised, so that the full effect of the killer’s creation could only be witnessed in torchlight. Michael Swan’s face reduced to a horror mask, still dripping with bloody gore, would forever be a scream in his memory. He felt dizzy, sick, made himself take air and get a grip.

Technicians appeared carrying swathes of plastic sheeting and battery lights by which to work. They said little as Callanach described the scene so that they could properly equip themselves, both practically and mentally.

Ailsa Lambert arrived looking concerned, issuing businesslike orders.

‘You’re holding your back,’ she said, looking Callanach up and down.

‘I’m fine,’ Callanach said. ‘Just a slip. Ailsa, this may be the worst …’

‘I’m going to organise a car to take you home, Luc,’ she said, pulling out her mobile.

‘There’s no time,’ he said.

‘Then you’ll have to consent to a paramedic assessing you for shock. If you try and drive in the next two hours I’ll have you disciplined myself. Understand?’ Callanach considered arguing but didn’t. ‘Good,’ Ailsa said. ‘Now this. Is it torture?’

‘Yes. Not sure if it was pre or post mortem. He’s strung up parallel to the ceiling.’

‘My job would be easier if human beings had evolved without imaginations. Right, strip off – I’ll have someone bring you a suit. They’ll have to swab your hands and face as well. We’ll need every fibre,’ Ailsa said.

‘What happened to you?’ Begbie roared, storming towards them, almost bursting out of the crime scene coveralls he was wearing. ‘Has this whole city gone mad?’

‘You’ll achieve nothing like that,’ Ailsa told him gently. ‘And my crime scene needs minimal disruption so go in easy, if you don’t mind.’

‘And we’ve no idea who we’re looking for, is that right?’ Begbie aimed at Callanach.

‘Not as yet, sir,’ Callanach responded. The Chief was already pushing himself through the doorway into the basement that was still in the process of being lit.

Callanach heard a string of expletives bellowing from the storeroom in an ever more guttural and breathy Scots accent. Begbie was both furious and bewildered, a combination of emotions with which Callanach could sympathise. There was a pause, a loud groan, then a thud. Other voices called out. Ailsa and Callanach went running. DCI Begbie was on his side on the floor, one hand clutching his chest, feet paddling furiously against the pain.

‘Call the paramedics,’ Ailsa shouted to the nearest scenes of crime officer. The Chief’s breathing was more reminiscent of a marathon runner than someone who had recently made a trip of a few hundred yards from a car, hauling air in and chugging it out. Ailsa removed his tie and loosened his shirt while Callanach grabbed a torch from a passing officer. The additional light showed Begbie’s face as ashen but slick with sweat. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes wide. Callanach took hold of Begbie’s right hand, half expecting rejection. The Chief squeezed Callanach’s in silent reply, gripping hard, holding on. Blood trickled from his knees and hands where he’d hit the floor and he looked unexpectedly like a victim. Confused, scared, helpless.

‘Help me sit him up,’ Ailsa said to Callanach. They sat the Chief with his back against a stack of boxes while a technician fetched a blanket. ‘George, these are aspirin. I want you to chew them slowly,’ she said, pushing two small pills into Begbie’s mouth. He grimaced but made the effort, his hands shaking as he steadied himself. ‘By God, man, I’m not supposed to be here looking after you. Have I not got enough to be getting on with? Quite the shock you gave me!’

Begbie did his best to issue a response, but managed nothing other than a breathless wheeze, and went back to chewing. Ailsa checked him over for other injuries, wiping her face when the Chief closed his eyes for a moment. If Callanach didn’t know better he’d have thought she was wiping away tears.

The paramedics were inside before anyone could get crime scene suits on them or even shoe covers. It took only a couple of minutes for them to get Begbie onto a stretcher with an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose, but in that time Callanach saw the look on Ailsa’s face turn from deep concern to complete frustration. Bloody footprints ran all the way across the floor. Begbie had fallen into the middle of the key forensics area, followed out of necessity by the men saving his life. Everyone stopped, hands on hips, shaking disbelieving heads at how much more complicated and unlikely to yield results their tasks had just become.

‘I’ll follow him to the hospital,’ Callanach said. ‘Would you mind calling Ava, please Ailsa? She’s friendly with the Chief’s wife. Someone ought to pick Mrs Begbie up.’




Chapter Ten (#ulink_3fd3a9ed-3d59-5b01-951e-bffb8ec90046)


Callanach’s mobile rang just as he arrived at the Royal Infirmary.

‘How’s the chief?’ Ava asked.

‘I don’t know yet. We won’t get anything out of the doctors until they’ve run tests.’

‘What the hell happened? Where were you?’

‘At a crime scene,’ Callanach said.

‘You’re kidding. Must have been one hell of an incident to have got the chief that worked up.’ There was an empty silence. ‘Right, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’ve already had the superintendent on the phone asking what’s going on. She’s on her way too, so make sure everything’s under control.’

Callanach’s lower back flared into a ball of agony. ‘Got to go,’ he said, grabbing a door handle to keep upright and breathing hard.

‘Sir, are you feeling all right?’ a nurse asked. Callanach tried to nod, thinking he should make a joke to reassure her so she could move on. What came out was a wail as he finally lost control of the pain. ‘I need a bed,’ the nurse shouted. An orderly came running, taking Callanach’s weight, slipping one arm around him as the nurse pulled back a curtain to reveal an unused cubicle.

A doctor was with him in moments, stripping him and rolling him onto one side to press gentle fingers down the length of his spine.

‘Could you just give me some painkillers?’ Callanach snapped. ‘I’m with the man who’s just come in with a heart attack. And the superintendent is due any minute. I really can’t be on my back when she arrives.’

The doctor wrote a couple of notes whilst managing simultaneously to look completely bored.

‘Have you had a bad fall?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Callanach said. ‘I slipped, but it wasn’t that dramatic.’

‘It was dramatic enough that it appears to have fractured your coccyx. You must have landed on the edge of it pretty hard. The injury won’t limit normal activities, but it’s going to be painful for six weeks or so,’ the doctor said.

A voice that was authoritative and impatient in equal measure echoed down the row of cubicles.

‘I appreciate the fact that I am not family but I do have an amount of authority here. DCI Begbie became ill at a crime scene for which I am responsible, in the capacity of his immediate superior representing his employer. And where’s Detective Inspector Callanach?’

Callanach rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth as the doctor pressed more firmly against the base of his spine to complete the diagnosis.

‘Sorry, who?’ a nurse beyond the curtain asked.

‘Ugh,’ Superintendent Overbeck groaned. ‘Police officer, French accent, tallish, popular with the ladies.’

‘Oh, I know,’ the nurse replied. ‘He’s with the doctor, too. Just in this cubicle. You can visit him once the doctor has finished.’

‘Finished like hell,’ Overbeck said, ripping the curtain aside and walking in.

‘I’m with a patient,’ the doctor said. Callanach frantically but ineffectually tried to cover his backside with the edge of the sheet he was lying on.

‘Discharging him will solve that problem,’ Overbeck snapped. ‘Begbie’s having a heart attack and you’re in here getting a free back massage, Callanach. Get some clothes on, man. Unless you’re actually dying I want a debrief immediately.’

‘This patient has a fractured coccyx. It’s badly damaged and he’s in a lot of pain. I need to ask you to leave,’ the doctor said.

‘It’s all right,’ Callanach muttered. ‘I’ll be straight out, ma’am.’

The nurse handed him a gown.

‘You need medication, rest and further investigations. There’s no way you’re fit for work,’ the doctor said. ‘I’m signing you off from duties.’

‘Am I right in thinking there’s another body on its way to the mortuary, Detective Inspector?’ the superintendent asked. Callanach nodded. ‘Then are you fit for duty, or shall I have someone wheel you out in a nice comfy blanket?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Callanach said.

The doctor stared at him. ‘I’ll give you a shot to kill the pain. You’ll need a prescription to get you through the next couple of weeks. Avoid sitting for too long. No cycling, rowing, weightlifting or other sports that put a strain on your tailbone.’

‘What’s happening?’ Ava asked, appearing around the corner of the curtain. Callanach sighed.

‘Apparently the detective inspector needed a nap,’ the superintendent said. The doctor threw her a look that would have shamed most people. Overbeck seemed to take it as a compliment. ‘I’m going to express my sincere concern to Begbie’s wife. What’s her name again?’

‘Glynis,’ Ava said.

‘That’s right. You two, with me in five minutes.’ She stalked off, leaving the doctor to fill a hypodermic syringe. Ava turned her back as it was administered.

‘How’s the chief doing?’ Callanach asked.

‘Stable. It was more of a warning than full-blown cardiac arrest. He won’t be going home tonight and his wife’s very upset, but he’ll live.’

‘I’m sure the Super will make the Begbies feel much better,’ Callanach muttered. Ava smirked. The doctor cleared the room and pulled the curtain across to give them privacy. Ava kept her back turned as Callanach put the forensics suit back on.

‘You decent now?’ Ava asked after a minute.

‘More than I was when Overbeck walked in without any warning. She didn’t even break stride. Just stood there with me half-naked.’

‘Some day you’re having,’ Ava said. ‘Listen, Ailsa phoned me back. She told me what you walked into. It’s no wonder the chief reacted the way he did. Are you okay? Only I can make your excuses with Overbeck, get a car to take you home …’

‘I don’t think I’d have a job to come back to in the morning,’ Callanach joked. ‘A drink after work would be good though, if you’re not busy. It’ll be more fun than just taking painkillers.’

Ava paused before meeting his eyes. ‘That sounds like a good idea. I’ll meet you back at the station. We can go on from there.’

It was two in the afternoon before Callanach left the hospital, and his next stop was the mortuary. Ailsa was waiting for him with coffee as he walked into her office.

‘You’re walking strangely,’ she said.

‘I fractured my arse,’ Callanach replied.

Ailsa burst into a fit of laughing he hadn’t expected.

‘I’m sorry, dear, I shouldn’t be laughing. Alternate hot and cold compresses. Make sure you have a soft enough mattress. It’s painful. Was that when you slipped under poor Mr Swan’s body?’ He nodded. ‘I needed the laugh. It’s been quite a day and I’m afraid it’s not over yet. Drink the coffee. Take some painkillers if you need them. We have to go and spend some time with the body.’

Callanach had known he wouldn’t get away with simply being given an oral report. He’d viewed hundreds of dead bodies in his time, witnessed scores of autopsies, but this one was going to leave an indelible memory. He did as suggested and swallowed tablets before getting a gown and going in.

‘Has Mrs Swan been in for a formal identification yet?’ Callanach asked.

‘She has indeed, although I wish we could have spared her that,’ Ailsa said. ‘I replaced the skin over his face and did my best to make her husband look as he had in life, but there was very little softening the blow. I think Tuscany would be nice to retire to, don’t you? Warm climate, olives trees, good food. Have you been there?’

‘I have,’ Callanach said. ‘But I didn’t know you were retiring, Ailsa.’

‘Neither did I, Detective Inspector. But today, for perhaps the first time, it occurred to me that there is more to life, to what’s left of mine anyway, than this. Now, here we are. Look closely at the incision marks around the face. We pulled the edges of skin back together and took some photographs to make it easier to see. These are the marks close up.’ She moved back from the corpse to a computer and pressed a button. Immediately an image filled the screen that would have been impossible to understand had Callanach not been told what he was looking at.

The skin was grey either side of the wound, the central gash a line of black. The skin on the right-hand side of the incision was smooth, but on the left there were minute tags regularly along the path of the cut. Ailsa pointed along the uneven side.

‘Caused by the blade,’ Ailsa said. ‘The weapon was extremely fine and extremely sharp. What you’re seeing wouldn’t have been visible to the naked eye. We had to enlarge the image multiple times to pick this up.’

‘Why only along one edge of the wound?’ Callanach asked, walking away from the screen and back to the body to see if he could detect the difference on the skin itself.

‘Think of it like a bullet, with micro detail that links it to having been fired from a specific gun,’ Ailsa said. ‘All blades leave different impressions if you look closely enough. Find me that blade and I’ll be able to tell you if it’s a good match for this incision.’

‘That helps with evidence at trial but it doesn’t identify the attacker,’ Callanach said. ‘So who am I looking for?’

‘Someone who knows their way around the human body, who is not the least bit squeamish. A person who enjoys the spectacle. But that’s not why I got you here. Look at this.’ She tapped a key and another image popped up. The same smooth line ran down one side, a microscopically jagged edge along the other.

‘I see the same markings.’ Callanach walked back to look down at Michael Swan’s face. ‘Which section of the wound is that picture from?’

‘None of it,’ Ailsa replied. ‘You’ll be needing to look at Sim Thorburn’s injuries for that.’

Callanach stood still and let it sink in.

‘But that was a double blade. It can’t have been the same weapon as was used on Thorburn,’ he said.

‘Not the same weapon, but possibly scalpel blades manufactured in a single batch, all with the same minuscule flaw. The first two blades were used to home-craft the weapon that killed Thorburn. The next one became part of a more traditional knife. Without seeing the blades themselves I couldn’t swear to this in court, but between us, I’d say whoever killed one, killed the other. And there’s more than that. Come here,’ she said, beckoning Callanach over to Michael Swan’s body. ‘The scalpel’s point of entry is at the left lower jawbone and the victim needs to be lying down for this to work. The only way to get such a clean cut would have been for the killer to have been sat at the crown of the head, like so.’ Ailsa positioned herself behind the top of Swan’s head and held her pen as if it were the knife. ‘Starting at the left jaw and pulling backwards means the killer was using their left hand. It didn’t occur to me with Thorburn until I was doing this autopsy today, but the draw of the blade on Sim was from his right to his left. The video footage you have shows the perpetrator passing in that direction. I think the killer chose the direction of walking specifically to allow them to use their left hand.’

‘Anything else?’ Callanach asked. His mind was full of possibilities. The links between Thorburn and Swan. The description of the killer from the festival who was short and light, hardly a good candidate for hauling a grown man up to a ceiling beam. A growing sense that this was a beginning and that there was worse to come. ‘What could be worse than this?’ he asked aloud.

‘If you want the worst,’ Ailsa answered, assuming the question was for her, ‘then you’d best have it all at once. It was the loss of blood that caused heart and brain function to cease for Michael Swan, just as for Sim Thorburn. Swan was alive when he was skinned. And he took a while to die. It was torture of a degree that I find difficult to describe adequately. I see no evidence that he was drugged to make him compliant whilst the procedure was undertaken, although the toxicology screen will take a couple more days. Who’ll be taking DCI Begbie’s place while he’s on sick leave?’

‘We’re answering directly to Superintendent Overbeck on the current open murder cases,’ Callanach said. ‘She’ll need to be copied in on the autopsy report.’

‘She’ll have it tomorrow. You’ll be needing to rest your back now. No point aggravating it any further.’

‘It’s potentially a serial killer getting started then, Ailsa, that’s what you think?’ he asked quietly.

‘It’s a possibility we cannot afford to ignore. You and I have seen enough to recognise the signs. When people enjoy killing to this degree, there’s very little that stops them until they’re captured or dead.’

‘Ailsa, about the leaking of the autopsy report on Ava’s investigation into Helen Lott’s death …’ Callanach began.

‘I know what you’re going to say and I agree it would be disastrous for that to happen here. But it was no one in my department, Luc. If you find that I’m wrong, I’ll take full responsibility, but my staff respect what we do here, no matter how long the hours they work and how difficult the circumstances. No one does this job for the pay or the glory, and those who don’t like it leave pretty damned fast. Everyone my end has been interviewed about the leak and our procedures have been security-checked for weaknesses. We’re clean.’

‘I can’t believe it’s anyone at the station,’ Callanach said. ‘No one could have accessed it who didn’t have proper security clearance. I don’t see what there was to gain.’

‘Don’t get too distracted with it now,’ Ailsa cautioned. ‘I’d say you have more than enough on your plate. I believe you have two dead by the same hand.’

‘Even so,’ he said. ‘Would you keep this offline? Do it the old-fashioned way. No emailing of reports, typed-up paper versions only. I can’t take the risk of this getting into the public domain.’

‘If you feel that strongly about it, then of course,’ Ailsa said. ‘Now off you go and protect the good people of this city. They’re having a very bad month indeed.’




Chapter Eleven (#ulink_8672de49-ab26-5fcf-9f28-1581a1f9eb4e)


‘Tripp!’ Callanach yelled as he limped down the corridor towards the briefing room. He stopped. Tripp wasn’t there, of course. Borrowed to become one of DCI Edgar’s hacker hounds, Tripp was no use to him now. He found DC Salter and waved at her to come to his office once she’d finished her phone call. He bundled up his coat to act as a cushion and sat down very slowly indeed. His fractured coccyx was producing a stabbing pain that made concentration difficult.

‘What’s the news?’ Salter asked as she came through the door.

‘All bad. There must be some CCTV footage between the McDonald Road Library and Regent Gardens where Michael Swan’s belongings were found. Find something. I know it was probably dark, but I need you to compare it with the footage from The Meadows killing.’

‘But that was a totally different thing, sir. Surely you don’t …’ Salter stopped. Callanach met her stare with a direct look. ‘Oh shit. All right, then. I’ll get on it.’ She looked pained. Callanach felt the same way.

‘Not a word to anyone else yet, Salter. Get started. I’m calling a briefing for this afternoon but this cannot get out.’

As Salter left his office, DCI Edgar entered.

‘Sir,’ Salter greeted him, with a polite nod of her head.

‘Fetch me a cup of tea if you’re not busy, Constable. Strong. No sugar,’ the Detective Chief Inspector added.

Callanach gritted his teeth and stood up, feeling the fractured halves of his coccyx grate as he moved. He fought the desire to notify Edgar that DC Salter was, in fact, very busy indeed and that the addition of the word please would have made such a request more palatable.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ Callanach muttered, reaching in his pocket for another dose of painkillers.

‘Came to see you about DC Tripp. He’s not got the training my squad have, but all the same he’s a worker. Thank you for the temporary transfer.’

Callanach wondered what he was supposed to say, and more importantly, when he’d be able to sit back down.

‘How did your raid go, sir? I gather you had a firm lead on your hacker,’ Callanach said when it was clear Edgar was in no mood to disappear.

‘It was a useful exercise. Cutting off his exits, reducing his options. He knows now that we’ve discovered one of his bases. He’ll find it increasingly hard to get into his system without us realising he’s online and picking up a trace.’ Edgar picked a non-existent piece of fluff off his sleeve. ‘You know, I think you’re putting DI Turner in a somewhat difficult position, phoning her when she’s not at work. She needs to be able to switch off. I encourage my team to find friendships beyond work colleagues.’

Callanach sat down. He obviously wasn’t going to be invited to sit. Nor was he prepared to be given a lecture on how to choose his friendships whilst standing to attention.

‘I’m surprised DI Turner finds herself incapable of making that plain to me in person,’ Callanach said.

‘I’m surprised you want her to suffer the humiliation of having to do so,’ Edgar said, straightening up. ‘She and I go back a long way. We’re extremely close. Intimate friends, you might say. You’ll appreciate she’s been able to confide in me about her need to distance herself from certain … aspects … of her work life.’

Callanach wasn’t in the mood for DCI Edgar’s little chat and he certainly didn’t have time for any more prevarication.

‘Meaning me?’ Callanach asked.

‘Ava thought you might get aggressive about it. Perhaps that’s why she hasn’t mentioned this herself. I don’t know if it’s a French thing, Detective Inspector, or an Interpol thing, but women here like to have their personal distance respected.’

The gloves were off then. Callanach stood back up, determined not to let the pain caused by the move show in his face.

‘And I don’t know if that was a racist thing or a jealousy thing, Chief Inspector, but I have nothing other than respect for DI Turner and she knows it. So it seems to me that perhaps you’re following your own agenda here, more than acting on her behalf.’

‘Careful now,’ Edgar said, leaning across the desk and into Callanach’s face. ‘You wouldn’t want me feeling the need to speak with your superior officer about insubordinate behaviour.’

‘Go ahead. DCI Begbie knows me well enough, even if I haven’t been here that long. I’m sure he has no more desire to have Scotland Yard’s away team here than I do,’ Callanach replied.

‘I’m sure you’re right, but Begbie’s not here. He’ll be lucky to get declared fit this side of Christmas. I think you’ll find that Superintendent Overbeck and I see eye to eye on most things. Certainly, she wouldn’t want one of her DIs claiming sexual harassment against another of her DIs. Can you imagine what a public relations nightmare that would be?’ Callanach laughed out loud. DCI Edgar waited until Callanach had finished, then walked to the door. ‘Laugh all you want, but a man with your past should be more prudent about his future.’ Edgar waited for his point to hit home, his gaze drifting down to Callanach’s hands which had involuntarily rolled themselves into fists at his sides. Edgar rewarded himself with a grin before exiting.

Callanach stared at the wall ahead, breathing hard. Ava would never make such an allegation. She’d know how much that would hurt him, from her more than anyone else given how much he’d confided in her about the false rape allegation. But then he wouldn’t have expected her to have shared the details with her new boyfriend, either. He wondered how that conversation had come about. Not in the office, he was sure. That was a late-night intimate discussion, conducted in low tones with no one else around to interrupt. He picked up a stapler and lobbed it at the far wall.

A uniformed officer walked in with a large, overly bright greetings card in one hand and a pen in the other.

‘Did you want to sign the chief’s get well soon card, sir?’

‘Out!’ Callanach shouted, slamming himself back down into his chair. ‘Fuck,’ he yelled, standing straight back up, the pain a firework shooting through his backside. He grabbed the painkillers he’d been preparing to take, threw them into his mouth and chewed them dry. The bitterness was good.

Of all the people Ava could have told about his past, why DCI Edgar? Callanach had never asked her to keep quiet about it, and the bare bones of the story had already reached some ears at the station, but it could have been left to fade into history. Was it possible that she really felt he was pursuing her? They’d seemed to have become friends, spent time together, sometimes with other people, occasionally alone. If Ava felt intimidated by him, how come he’d never sensed that from her?

Salter appeared holding a cup of tea.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘DCI wanted a cuppa. Is he coming back, do you know?’

‘Not into my office, he’s not,’ Callanach said. ‘I’ll take the tea.’

Salter handed it over carefully, taking a few quiet paces over to the wall and picking up pieces of broken stapler from the floor. ‘Er, did you maybe want some biscuits with that?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said, slamming the cup down onto his desk, ‘but thank you,’ he managed. ‘Come on Salter, get someone else to carry on where you’ve left off with the CCTV. You’re coming back to the McDonald Road library with me. And phone Ailsa Lambert, see if she’s got some free time to meet us there. Tell her it’s urgent. I’m sick of waiting. Let’s see if we can’t figure out a bit more about our killer.’

‘All right, sir. Give me five minutes. I’ll drive,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t look to me as if you’ll be up to using the clutch.’

Callanach glared at his laptop screen. He was angry. Fed up with fighting a past he hadn’t asked for and that wouldn’t let go. Perhaps it was finally time to draw some lines under it all. Maybe that’s what it would take to move on. He had a couple of minutes before Salter would be ready. More than enough time to write the one email he’d thought he’d never have the heart to write.

‘Maman,’ he began, writing in French, speaking English in his head, forcing himself to move forwards and adopt the country of his birth as the place to build a future. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of emotion as he wrote. There had been too much of that. Too many months of grief and regret. His mother had slowly removed herself from his life as the months passed when he was awaiting trial in Lyon. Finally, with the trial date just days away, she had disappeared. His efforts to contact her had ended in changed mobile numbers and letters returned unopened. There had been no attempt by her to explain her reasons. Her absence alone was enough content for a novel. She had no faith in him. It had been too great a test even for a mother’s love. ‘Mum, It seems you’ve decided to have no more contact with me. I will leave you in peace. Luc.’ He clicked send, shut the laptop, and put on his jacket.




Chapter Twelve (#ulink_d37d3813-cd41-5d03-adff-d0deeebe55f7)


By the time Callanach and Salter reached the McDonald Road library to the north of Edinburgh city centre, Ailsa was outside waiting for them, eyes on her watch.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be at work today,’ she said, greeting Callanach with a pat on the shoulder. ‘Is it sore?’

‘Haven’t noticed it,’ Callanach lied, looking up over the building’s exterior.

‘I do like a bit of creative stoicism,’ Ailsa smiled. ‘I’ll be down in the cellar seeing what sort of shape the crime scene is in. Meet me down there, and don’t be too long about it. My clients may not be able to complain, but I still don’t appreciate keeping them waiting.’

The library was a stunning old three-storey construction, with a round turret on the corner. ‘None of the windows were broken and no locks were forced. The ground level doors were alarmed. So how did the killer get in?’ Callanach asked Salter.

‘Maybe they hid,’ Salter said. ‘Waited until everyone else was out and then reappeared.’

They walked past the police officers still protecting the crime scene, ducked the crime scene tape, and entered. Callanach studied the layout with fresh eyes. Beyond the front door was a foyer with a staircase to the right leading up to community rooms. The door past the stairs led into a large studio area. Straight ahead was the central section of the library. Extraordinarily light, with architectural glass ceilings and tables for reading and working, the main body of the library had notices that proclaimed the watchful eyes of its CCTV system. Callanach called over one of the CSIs working onsite.

‘What’s the last you found of Michael Swan on the CCTV?’ Callanach asked.

‘I can show you,’ she said, opening up a laptop. A fuzzy black and white picture came into view. ‘This is the victim here. He leaves the central library room from the staff area and walks towards the front doors. We’re assuming that was him intending to leave for the night.’

‘Run it back a bit,’ Callanach said. The footage reversed for a couple of seconds at high speed and Callanach hit the space bar to stop it. ‘Play it from here.’

Michael Swan could be seen from the camera at the rear of the main room walking towards the staff area at the right-hand side of frame. He paused once, turned his head. Walked out of frame, then came straight back, walking out towards the main doors. The latter part was the shot they’d watched initially.

‘He’s not carrying anything,’ Salter said.

‘Actually, if you look carefully you’ll see he has his keys in his hand when he walks back across. That’s what makes it obvious that he’s about to leave,’ the CSI said, sighing as she spoke.

‘How often do you leave work after a whole day with nothing in your hands?’ Salter responded.

‘It’s summer,’ the technician replied, brushing hair out of her eyes and adopting a tone of voice midway between stroppy and defensive. ‘He hardly needs a coat. I don’t see how this is evidentially important.’

Salter clearly had more to say. She looked at Callanach before continuing. It wasn’t like her to get involved in an argument, but he could see she wasn’t done yet.

‘Have you had another member of the library staff show you Mr Swan’s personal effects?’ Salter asked, ignoring the challenge and following her own line of thought.

‘Of course. There’s the usual work paraphernalia, mugs, pens, notes, a book he was in the middle of reading. Some other random personal correspondence. We’ve followed procedure. Everything’s been bagged and tagged.’

‘Could we see it, please?’ Salter asked. The tech called a uniformed officer over, who promptly disappeared then returned with a large clear plastic bag containing several other smaller plastic bags, each containing a single item. Every bag had a label with a unique reference number, time, date and location on it. Callanach and Salter looked through each one.

‘Here,’ Salter said, holding up one particular bag with a thick piece of card, bearing gold leaf edging and italic printing. Michael Swan’s name was written in pride of place. Salter read it out. ‘“You are hereby invited to attend Edinburgh City’s Community Achievement Awards.” This was being held the morning after his death. And it says very clearly that the invitation must be produced at the door for entry.’

The tech officer had stopped looking stroppy and was fiddling with her laptop instead.

‘So he forgot it,’ she snapped.

‘I don’t think so,’ Salter addressed Callanach directly. ‘His wife told us he’d been looking forward to that. It would have been on his mind all day. I don’t believe he was ready to leave when he went towards the door.’

Salter rewound the CCTV footage again and hit play.

‘You see here, sir,’ she said, pointing at Michael Swan’s face as he turned mid-walk. ‘He hears something or is distracted by something. We know then he picks up his keys and goes towards the front door. I reckon he opened the door for someone else to come in. Not for him to get out. That’s why he hadn’t picked up the invitation yet.’

Callanach watched the footage one more time, then looked back at Salter.

‘Remind me again why you missed the last round of sergeant exams, DC Salter,’ he said.

‘I was on honeymoon, sir,’ Salter said.

‘Make sure you’re available to take them next time. That’s an order,’ Callanach said.

‘I might be too busy in six months’ time,’ Salter said. ‘I could get talent-spotted by a Hollywood agency or appear on Masterchef and end up opening my own restaurant.’

‘I doubt that,’ Callanach said. ‘I’ve tasted your toasted sandwiches. Seriously. You’d have passed the exams at the last sitting. Don’t let it wait.’

‘Detective Inspector,’ Ailsa Lambert shouted from the doorway. ‘You only have me for another few minutes. There are reports of an incident across the city. My team will hold the scene for me briefly, but it’s now or never. I’ve a full day ahead.’

They walked down into the basement, hastily donning white crime scene overalls, shoe covers and gloves. The scene was entirely different to the snapshot Callanach had of it from when he’d fallen. The area was now lit from all angles. Michael Swan’s body had, of course, been taken down but he was still suspended there in Callanach’s mind.

‘Two questions,’Callanach said. ‘How did the killer get Mr Swan to come down here, and how did they get him into position hanging from the overhead metal beams?’

‘If he let the killer into the building voluntarily,’ Salter said, ‘it must either have been someone he recognised or someone who seemed non-threatening.’

‘Okay, assuming either case, once in the building they persuaded him to open the basement and come inside.’

‘Easy enough if they were armed,’ Ailsa noted, pulling a thick wad of A4 photos from a folder. ‘Showing a knife or a gun would have the desired effect. Getting the man seven feet into the air makes less sense. The killer would have had to put down their weapon. No way of tying these knots without two hands.’ Ailsa paused to point out close-ups of the knots. Both were tied in the same way, one binding the hands, one binding the ankles, then another rope had been passed through the ankle knot, through the hand knot and looped around his neck.

‘What damage did the rope around his neck do?’ Callanach asked.

‘Very little in real terms, and it certainly wasn’t strangulation that killed him. The rope would have been useful to keep him still whilst his face was skinned. Of course, he’d have been on his back whilst that was being done. Other than that, once he was hoisted up to the ceiling, it simply held his head in place until he was found. There’s virtually no internal damage to the neck or throat area, only external bruising and chafing of the skin.’

Callanach moved to stand in the area where he’d fallen, directly below the space that Michael Swan’s face had filled.

‘So he stood still whilst his hands and feet were tied. The killer at that point holding no weapon. Mr Swan is then restrained by the additional rope fed from ankles to neck, and is laid on his back and skinned whilst still conscious.’

‘No drugs in his system, no blow to the head. I’m as sure as I can be that he was conscious when it started. I would guess he blacked out from shock and pain at some point, but he might well have come round again prior to blood loss stopping his heart and starving his brain of oxygen.’

‘So he must have been hoisted up,’ Callanach said.

Ailsa handed him a different photograph. This one showed Michael Swan in his final position, tied to the metal structural supports that ran across the ceiling, and facing down towards the floor. Somehow the photographer had managed to get high enough to capture the scene from parallel with the body. The image was ghoulish and dizzying.

‘So the end of the rope that ran the length of his body was then slung over the metal beams that ran perpendicular to the corpse, formed a final loop by passing back through the ankle knot to get his legs off the floor, and tied off at ground level at the base of the bookshelf.’ Callanach pointed to an old metal bookstand that must have weighed tons given the amount of paper on it. ‘Easily enough ballast to have stopped his body from crashing down. How much did Michael Swan weigh, Ailsa?’ Callanach asked.

‘A fraction under eleven stone. He was fairly slim so that would’ve helped. Still a lot of weight to lift that high though,’ she said.

‘Not necessarily,’ Callanach mused. ‘If the killer attached a weight to the free end of the rope it would have worked like a pulley system, the hanging weight hoisting the body up using gravity and thereby reducing the amount of pulling force required to lift him. Any reasonably fit adult would have been able to haul him up. It’s clever.’

Ailsa pulled her mobile out and tutted.

‘I’ve got to go. All I would add is that Mr Swan was pulled up there immediately upon the cut to the facial skin being completed. His legs were slightly higher than his head, helping the continued bleed from the facial wound. That’s why there was so much blood on the floor directly below the face. Keep that copy of the photos for reference.’ She handed them over as her phone beeped repeatedly. Ailsa swiped at the screen. ‘God knows what’s going on, I’ve got a hundred messages a minute coming into my phone.’

‘Thanks Ailsa,’ Callanach muttered, staring hard at the photos of Michael Swan’s face. The pathologist was nearly at the door when Callanach called back to her. ‘Ailsa! Is it possible that the killer cut round the edge of his facial skin, then hoisted him up to the ceiling, climbed on a chair or desk then pulled the skin flap down when he was already suspended?’

Ailsa stood still a moment. ‘Entirely possible,’ she said eventually. ‘It would explain the relative lack of blood on his clothes and the rest of his body. Unfortunately it also probably means that he was conscious after the cut and before being hauled up there. He might well not have passed out by that stage.’

‘Meaning Mr Swan might have watched his own blood pouring onto the floor, suspended there, waiting for death?’ Salter asked.

‘Whoever committed this crime is evil, and that’s not a word I use lightly. I think you should assume the very worst. If nothing else, it will give you more incentive than ever to catch the perpetrator,’ Ailsa said.

‘I think that image is rather more incentive than I need to do my job properly,’ Salter said as Ailsa left quietly.




Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_105ca3e4-50d4-567c-859b-383df5f2b228)


Callanach’s phone buzzed, displaying a number he didn’t recognise. Sending the call to voicemail, he walked slowly around the basement, getting a feel for how the killer and Michael Swan would have moved around and how complex it would have been to set up such an elaborate tableau. That was how it felt. As if the killer had been creating something akin to an art installation. Of the sickest mind and most foul imagination, but an installation it was. And about as far from an impulsive killing as it was possible to get.

Even with the bright crime scene investigation lighting it was hard to see clearly beneath the book shelves, between the stacked boxes and unused piled-up furniture at the sides of the room. Callanach set his mobile to torch and flashed it down at floor level as he crawled stiffly along, wincing at the pain in his lower back. It was always possible that the scalpel had been dropped and not yet spotted or that some tiny object had spilled out of the killer’s pocket whilst taking out gloves or a knife. The basement was a galaxy of DNA, passed across from chairs once sat in, books borrowed, shoes that had traipsed in and out over more than a century. The chances of the forensic team being able to isolate any evidence relating to the killer’s identity were lottery-worthy, which might well have been part of the attraction of the kill-site.

Salter looked washed out. The edge of her hairline was visibly damp and she was half covering her mouth with one hand. None of them were immune to the shock of such barbarity, no matter how long they’d been on the job.

Callanach stood up, suddenly feeling ridiculous for thinking he could magic evidence out of thin air. He took another look at Salter who didn’t seem to be recovering and pointed towards an old chair pushed against the wall.

‘Take a seat for a minute,’ he said. ‘Begbie’s out for the foreseeable future and I’m injured. I’m not prepared to take any more risks with my squad members.’ Salter plodded towards the chair, breathing hard. Callanach knew the sound of someone trying not to throw up when he heard it. His phone began buzzing in his pocket again.

‘Sir,’ Salter said.

‘Unrecognised caller again. Who the hell got hold of my mobile number? Those idiots on switchboard need—’

‘Sir!’ Salter repeated, pointing towards the wall.

Callanach looked up. His DC was pointing at an old corkboard that had been leaned against it. It contained ageing posters about library fun days, an advert for a meet the author event, some personal notices – people selling, buying, offering services – and, near the top, a photo. Nothing dramatic, just a woman walking towards the car in her driveway. Callanach disconnected the phone call and stepped closer to the photograph to pick out the detail. He sighed as he realised he recognised the tan-coloured bungalow with the wrought-iron front gate, and the woman in her sixties, face slightly obscured as her grey hair flew sideways in the breeze.

‘Michael Swan’s widow,’ Salter whispered.

‘Taken when she had no idea she was being watched. The killer knew the address, knew who his wife was, who knows what else,’ Callanach said. ‘Pinned there as a reminder to the victim throughout his ordeal. I guess it’s not hard to imagine why he didn’t fight.’

‘He had children and grandchildren,’ Salter said. ‘The killer would have known that too, if they’d done any research. How could anyone do that? Not just kill, but literally deface a man.’

‘Mrs Swan had no idea she was being watched,’ Callanach repeated, peering closer at the photograph. ‘That’s what makes it so scary. The killer could have been there hours, or watching for days. Get it logged as evidence, then have a copy taken. I need you to go directly to Mrs Swan’s house. If she can tell us when it was taken, maybe we can understand how long this was going on.’ Salter’s phone rang. She answered the call and walked a few steps away to talk, as Callanach proceeded to the exit to strip off his suit.

As soon as his feet hit the pavement, Callanach’s mobile began to ring too.

‘Yes,’ Callanach snapped.

‘This is Lance Proudfoot, we spoke before. I’m from the online news blogging site?’

‘I thought we’d concluded our conversation, Mr Proudfoot. I’m busy, so …’

‘Do you have a comment about the latest body, Detective Inspector? We’ve got the photos already, so if you could just give me a line or two about how Police Scotland plans to investigate, or what reassurance you can give the public?’

‘How the hell did you get photos of Michael Swan’s body?’ Callanach snarled. ‘You release those and I’ll have you in a cell before you can reach your door.’

‘Not Michael Swan. The young woman in the dumpster. The photos of her were emailed to me embedded in a downloadable file this morning. Me and the rest of the popular press, unfortunately. It’s not exactly an exclusive. Did you not know? A huge part of the city has been closed off. The police are everywhere.’

‘Salter, what have you got?’ Callanach shouted over to her.

‘Caucasian female murder victim, early twenties, probable strangulation. Body left in a large bin. Must be what the pathologist was called to, sir,’ Salter responded, putting her own hand over her mobile mid-conversation to answer. ‘DI Turner is at the scene and heading it up. They want us back at the station. Superintendent’s called her own briefing.’

‘Right Mr Proudfoot, no comment, but I’m sending officers over to your offices to inspect your computer. I want those files. Back up what you need. You’ve got about ten minutes,’ Callanach said.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. At least give me something I can print before you destroy everything,’ Lance moaned.

‘Police Scotland have no comment at the present time,’ Callanach said. ‘Print that.’ He hung up and shouted enough details to enable uniformed officers to find Lance Proudfoot and seize his hard drive. ‘Get the car, Salter. We’ll stop at the scene on the way back to the station.’

Twenty minutes later they arrived as close as they could get to Valleyfield Street. The crime scene boundary extended well beyond the two entrances of the road. Leven Street and Glengyle Terrace were both sealed off, and across Leven Terrace, where a footpath led into The Meadows, a police cordon enclosed a huge section of parkland.

Salter disappeared in search of other members of the squad. Callanach made directly for Ava who was deep in conversation with Ailsa Lambert, under the shelter of a temporary white awning designed to keep out prying eyes. Not that it would make much difference now, if photos really had been leaked to the press.

Ava saw him approach and beckoned him in. Within the confines of the tent was a blue dumpster. Callanach was handed a crime scene suit with accessories. He really shouldn’t have bothered taking the last ones off, he thought.

‘Cause of death?’ he asked Ailsa as he brushed past her to get a better look.

‘Barring us finding something more at autopsy, almost certainly strangulation,’ Ailsa said.

‘I need more officers down here, Luc,’ Ava said. ‘Can you tell the superintendent when you get back to the station? And the overtime restrictions will have to be lifted. This’ll take more man-hours than they’re paying for.’

There was a screech from the end of Valleyfield Street, a loud scuffling of feet, then a man could be heard shouting. Callanach drew his gaze away from the twenty-something young woman lying in the dumpster, the lower half of her body still concealed in a rough sack, as Ava stepped out of the tent and took control.

‘Stop right there,’ she ordered. ‘Officers, get control of those people.’

A woman barged through, frantic, wailing. Ava tried to grab her but momentum made her unstoppable. She pushed Ailsa aside and launched herself towards the dumpster, hands gripping the edge, peering inside. All the noise she’d been making instantly ceased. She sank to the floor. A second later and a man appeared behind her. He took one look at her face and stumbled, his knees hitting the pavement hard, falling into the woman’s side. They stayed there like that, rocking and shaking, until Ava sat down beside them.

‘Can you tell me who she is?’ Ava asked.

The woman tried to speak. Her mouth worked itself open and shut but nothing came from it. Uniformed officers appeared, Ava looking at them in a way that made it clear they should never expect promotion after letting members of the public burst onto a crime scene.

‘Move these people to somewhere private and secure. Look after them. Make sure they have access to medical assistance if required and ascertain their relationship to the deceased, please,’ Ava said. The uniformed officers wrapped blankets around the shoulders of the two obviously grieving people, and persuaded them gently towards a vehicle.

Ava pinched the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb, grinding her teeth.

‘Can we not get a frigging break? Bodies are piling up and we seem to be the last to find out what’s happening,’ she muttered. ‘How in God’s name did they know where to find us?’

Callanach pulled out his phone and internet searched the terms ‘body’, ‘Edinburgh’, and ‘breaking news’. It took just seconds. Various pages popped up with the story. As yet, not one news agency had been stupid enough to risk prosecution by posting the shared photos of the dead girl, but there was a clear description of both the girl and the crime scene, right down to the details of what she’d been wearing.

‘A young woman has been found dead in a Valleyfield Street dumpster,’ the first article began. ‘She is believed to be in her twenties, with long blonde hair and wearing a scouting uniform. Of particular note is the multicoloured, knitted scarf around her neck. Police have not yet issued a statement or confirmed her identity.’

‘Ma’am,’ a uniformed constable said, keeping his distance from Ava. ‘That’s Mr and Mrs Balcaskie. They’ve confirmed the deceased is their daughter, Emily. She’s twenty-four years of age and attended a scout meeting here last night in that building over the road. When she didn’t come home they assumed she’d decided to stay with friends in the city. It was the description of the scarf on the news reports that made them realise it was her.’

‘Thank you, Constable,’ Ava said. ‘I’ll be over to speak with them personally in a moment.’

Ailsa took photos as Ava and Callanach stared in at the corpse. The knitted scarf was wrapped several times around the girl’s neck, pulled so tight that the fibres were straining, the ends of it shoved hard into her mouth. Her eyes were bulging, the whites stained dark red from haemorrhaging.

‘What’s happening, Luc? Four murders in two weeks? It’s as if a pack of wild animals has been let loose in the city.’ Ava wiped a tear away, keeping her back carefully towards her squad. Callanach hadn’t known her long, as friendships went, but he never thought he’d see her emotional at a crime scene. She was a career police officer – a fiercely tough, professional one. He wanted to stretch a hand out, to give some comfort, but DCI Edgar’s words squirmed in his guts. Perhaps Ava did need some space, want to keep the boundaries of their friendship rigid and clear.

‘Sometimes these things all happen at once. There’s rarely an explanation,’ he said. ‘I’ll report to Overbeck for you. There’ll have to be a press conference soon and a lid needs to be put on media coverage. How did they get hold of photos of the body so quickly?’ he asked.

‘Didn’t you hear?’ Ava asked. ‘It was the press who reported the body. They alerted us. Even gave us the address. Someone wanted her found, and with as much media circus as they could rouse. Tell Overbeck I’ll call later to update her in person. And if you bump into Edgar, explain that I’ll be busy for the next twenty-four hours, would you?’

‘Sure,’ Callanach said, taking a step away, his mind made up about whether or not it was appropriate to offer support beyond the procedural or administrative. It was clear that DCI Edgar was already filling that gap. He left Ava making her way towards the couple who should never have faced the tragic indignity of hearing the news of their daughter’s death via the media, regrouped with Salter and headed back to the police station.

Callanach headed straight for Begbie’s office where Superintendent Overbeck had temporarily set up shop. She was on the phone when he entered, cooing a mixture of ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ into the mouthpiece in a reassuringly soothing manner. Five minutes later, she put the phone down and looked up.

‘Sit down, Callanach. I’ve got gridlock across a square mile of the city, the press want to hang me out to dry and I’m being chased by a team of American fucking documentary makers who want to do a two-hour special on the murder craze sweeping out of control on Edinburgh’s streets.’

‘Ma’am, I’ve just—’

‘Don’t speak, Inspector,’ she said, taking out a mirror and lipstick. ‘Your current job is to accompany me and not to bollocks anything up. We are going down to give a press statement now. The ladies and gentlemen of the media are to be regarded as our friends – the sort you exchange Christmas cards with but are always too busy to actually see in person. We will appear obliging whilst giving them precisely nothing. We have an opportunity with these cases. We can solve them quickly, providing justice and relief to the families of the deceased, and come out of this acclaimed and heroic. Or they will continue to blight Scotland, in which case you and DI Turner can take an endless vacation in the back of beyond as I scapegoat you for incompetence. Either way, I will not be made the whipping girl for any monumentally shit-storming failure to protect the general public from the lunatic killers currently rampaging unchecked. Do you get it?’ She applied liberal lipstick, raising one appraising eyebrow in her mirror. ‘Good. Off we go then.’

The conference room was buzzing. It was hard to imagine how any more cameras, microphones or bodies could possibly have been shoe-horned in. Unlike past press conferences with the well-worn figure of DCI Begbie at the helm, when Overbeck stalked in with her high heels, perfect hair, and an attitude you could use to cut sheet metal, there was an immediate silence. Introductions and formal announcement done, the superintendent began spinning.

‘I’m personally overseeing the Major Investigation Team in the absence of DCI Begbie, and I shall be relying heavily on Detective Inspector Turner and Detective Inspector Callanach to bring these cases to a swift and successful close. Rest assured that I will not allow my officers to sleep until these killers are behind bars. As you know, we now have four open murder cases and I will not tolerate anything but the highest of standards being applied. We owe that to the deceased and their families and loved ones, who are constantly in our thoughts. In the meantime, we appreciate your continuing support and may, at times, ask for your understanding and discretion. I’ve worked closely with many of you before,’ Overbeck managed a suitably sad-looking smile, ‘and I hope you know that where I can release information, I will.’

‘Superintendent, can you confirm the identity of the latest victim?’ the question was shouted across the sea of journalists’ heads.

‘Emily Balcaskie was found dead this morning. As you all know by now, her body was found in Valleyfield Street. She was a primary school teacher at Bonaly. Last night, in her capacity as a scout leader, she attended a meeting and failed to return home afterwards. We believe, although the investigation is in its most preliminary stages, that she was walking through The Meadows towards her car when she was approached. It seems likely that she was killed in the park and then her body was returned to Valleyfield Street.’

‘Are all four killings the work of one serial killer, Superintendent?’ a different voice yelled. Overbeck didn’t even blink, Callanach had to give her credit for that. Nor did she pause before answering in a silky smooth voice that wouldn’t have been amiss in a chocolate advert.

‘The methods used in the murders of Sim Thorburn, Helen Lott, Michael Swan and Emily Balcaskie have all been wildly varying, as have the places and times of death. We see no pattern between the four cases currently under investigation. Please do not disturb your readers with talk of serial killers. There are a number of possible explanations for these murders occurring so closely in time. As you know, drugs often play a part in violent murders and the variety of parties, celebrations and festivals throughout the city in the summer necessarily attracts some less wanted elements. We have yet to rule out whether or not any of the victims knew their attackers, as statistics tell us is the most likely scenario in cases of this sort.’

‘Why hasn’t Police Scotland released the details of how Michael Swan was killed yet?’ a man near the front asked. Callanach recognised him from an online search as Lance Proudfoot. He was balding, tall and sporting a T-shirt that proclaimed him an avid Rolling Stones fan.

‘We’re still liaising with Mr Swan’s family and there are some highly technical forensic issues. We hope to have a statement with you in the next forty-eight hours,’ Overbeck replied.

‘Was the police raid on a warehouse in Newington linked to the murders?’ a woman near the front asked. Callanach wondered how much more successful the investigation might be if all the journalists worked for the police instead of the media. They certainly knew more than he did about what was going on around the city at the moment.

‘Whilst I can’t give you any specific information about that, I can tell you that the raid you’re referring to was part of an ongoing investigation by a specialist team from Scotland Yard and nothing to do with any of the murders.’ That would be DCI Edgar’s hacker then, Callanach thought. That case didn’t seem to be progressing at any great pace either. He needed DC Tripp back. Callanach would have to talk to Edgar about when that was likely to be possible. ‘And now I’m afraid I’m required elsewhere,’ Overbeck went on. ‘Any other questions should be directed through the media liaison office and you all have the crime-line numbers to encourage the public to come forward with information. Please do remember to add them to your releases. Many thanks for your patience and your efforts to assist us.’

She stood up, pausing almost imperceptibly whilst the cameras caught her best side, then nodded to Callanach who followed her out, wondering why he’d been paraded through such a time-wasting farce.

‘Well done,’ she said, once they’d cleared the public area. ‘Always good to present a united front and let them see us working as a team.’

‘Talking of teams, we’re going to need more officers. Could you lift the restrictions on overtime? I suspect we’ll have to outsource some of the forensics to other areas. Ailsa Lambert’s team is flooded. We’ll get a bottleneck on return of crucial evidence if there aren’t more resources available.’

‘Submit requests in writing via email,’ Overbeck said, drifting away. ‘And I want a written update every twelve hours. Arrest someone, Callanach, or get on a plane back to Paris. And find a reason to delay releasing the details of Michael Swan’s murder, or there won’t be a hotel room in the city that’s not full of gutter press trying to turn Edinburgh into the horror capital of the world.’

Callanach returned to his desk. It was chaos. Not the physical wood and metal structure before him, but the random pieces of information he was pushing around. He grabbed a clean sheet of paper and a pen, and wrote the names of the four victims currently in limbo at the city mortuary. Death by strangulation, facial skinning, stabbing and crushing. The Meadows was the only location any of the killings had in common, but even that was different areas of the park. He added each victim’s age, job and address next to their name. Save for the use of related blades on Thorburn and Swan, there were no obvious links. It seemed to be a dead end. If forensics couldn’t bring them a lead through the national database then he’d have to find a different way.




Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_1f747660-0363-52dc-906a-a9b0ee93e3d4)


Callanach used his mobile call log to dial Lance Proudfoot’s number.

‘Detective Inspector! Goodness me, I hadn’t expected you to call. Are you phoning to gloat about the seizure of my hard drive as evidence? Only I’m having a bad enough day as it is.’

‘Tell me about the email you received with the photos this morning,’ Callanach said.

Lance sighed. ‘The email came in early. Initially I assumed it was one of those viruses hidden inside junk mail, you know? Then a mate from a newspaper phoned to check if I’d been sent the same thing they had. One of their interns had opened it, completely contrary to instructions, but seventeen-year-olds – what can you do? Anyway, the photos were in a downloadable file, return address didn’t work. No sender details. They were in colour, looked like they’d been taken using a phone camera. Horrible. And they’d been sent to every press outlet you can name. Three photos of the girl’s body from different angles, all taken once she’d been put in the dumpster, one of the outside of the dumpster, one of the road sign. The lighting is blown out, the edges are dark, so I’d say they were taken using flash at night rather than first thing this morning.’

‘Do you know who was first on the scene?’ Callanach asked.

‘No idea. Wasn’t me and you can be damned sure it wasn’t a police officer either. Whichever journalist downloaded them first would have made sure they got the story before calling it in.’

‘Leeches,’ Callanach hissed as he scribbled notes.

‘Can I quote you on that? Only your delightful superintendent may think that’s not a good example of promoting the police/press supportive working relationship,’ Lance laughed.

‘Do you ever want to get your hard drive back?’ Callanach asked.

‘Come on, Inspector, I was joking. For what it’s worth, I agree with your assessment that sometimes my colleagues’ ethical code is not all it should be. However, I’m running a different angle. Seems to me there’s not much left to explore from the victim perspective. That horse has well and truly left the stable. I’m covering the graffiti angle, gauging public outcry. I’ve been photographing the sites across the city. Do you have a comment on the words left on the wall in High School Wynd, near the junction with Cowgate?’ Lance asked.

‘I’ve got more pressing things to worry about than graffiti, Mr Proudfoot. Call the city council if you want something done about that,’ Callanach said.

‘Really? Only I took your call to me as a sign of desperation.’ Callanach had no response to that, other than to remind himself why he usually avoided private conversations with journalists. The experience most often resembled wrestling a snake. Had Proudfoot not been made a part of it by virtue of the emailed photos, Callanach would never have made the call. ‘I was on my way to photograph the High School Wynd graffiti when your boss called that last press conference. I went there afterwards, and what I found is deeply confusing. Concerning even. And I think it might just turn out to be important. Meet me there? I want to see what you make of it,’ Lance said.

‘Just tell me what—’ but the dead line tone was already an indication of how useless finishing the sentence would be. Callanach looked at his watch. He could be there in a few minutes and wouldn’t lose more than half an hour, and although he didn’t want to admit it, he was curious. Against his better judgement, he went to find Lance Proudfoot.

Callanach hadn’t thought about the address before he’d left, but it made sense now. High School Wynd was the short stretch of road from which you entered the mortuary car park. Cowgate ran through a stretch of the old city, from Grassmarket to Holyrood, and housed those historically uncomfortable bedfellows – extraordinary wealth and extreme poverty. The wall there had become one of the many sites of an ever-expanding canvas of graffitied social commentary since the killings began.

As he approached, an ancient, battered motorcycle pulled up beside him and the driver dismounted. He tugged off a helmet that looked held together more by stickers than substance, and greeted Callanach with an unexpectedly friendly slap on the shoulder.

‘You came,’ Lance said. ‘I’ve got to say, I wasn’t entirely expecting that. Quite refreshing to meet an open-minded copper.’

‘Truth is, I can combine this with a visit back to The Meadows. Also, it’s a first and final act of tolerance. I generally dislike people who try to win mystery points by putting the phone down while I’m speaking,’ Callanach said, staring with something that felt rather like envy at the old BSA Bantam. He hadn’t been on a bike in years. Suddenly, it looked and sounded like the definition of freedom.




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