by Helen Fields
‘But you used your police badge,’ Graham noted. ‘You didn’t sign in. The nurse you spoke to got the impression you were there in an official capacity.’
‘My fault. I was somewhere between being lazy and being on autopilot. I’m so used to walking into places in Scotland and just showing the badge to gain access, I didn’t give it a second thought. Also, I’m pretty recognisable here. To my knowledge, I’m the only French officer in Police Scotland, so there was no way I was deceiving her about who I was. It was just quicker. I fully accept it was the wrong way to go about it, but she saw my name and would have been able to identify me just the same as if I’d signed the visitors’ book.’
Pax Graham flicked through a sheet of notes.
‘There will obviously be extensive forensic testing, both of the body and items in the room. Can you confirm what you recall touching, so we know where to expect to find your DNA.’
‘Sure. Door handles, the bin, the surface where the vase and paper towels were, the floor. I wiped his chin, so also Mr Jenson’s face. I leaned on the chair as I did that, so maybe the cushions, too. I also picked up the couple of photos that were on the bedside table, looking to see if any of them were older and might have gone back to the days of the factory, but they were all modern pictures of his family, I assumed.’
‘Why would you think the photos might have been of the old factory?’ Graham asked. ‘Isn’t that unlikely?’
Callanach was ready for it.
‘I was aware that with dementia patients, it’s good to remind them of their past, keep memories alive. I thought there was a chance the family might have been trying to give Mr Jenson a sense of who he was at times that were important in his history.’
He hated the real reason he’d picked those photos up. Looking to see if there was any family resemblance between you and the children of the man who might have raped your mother wasn’t something Callanach wanted to think about too hard.
‘There was also a severe injury to the victim’s testicles,’ Graham added. He rubbed his eyes, keeping them closed. ‘Anything you can tell me about that?’
‘What the fuck?’ Callanach leaned forwards, hands on the desk.
‘We have to ask all the questions, you know the procedure. If there’s any possibility that these injuries were caused by accident or innocently … well, we need to clarify the picture,’ Graham said.
Callanach sat back in his chair, grateful that DI Graham had mistaken his reaction for insult rather than shock. Who the hell would want to injure the groin of a man already in the grip of dementia that was going to prove fatal anyway? The only person it could be relevant to was him. The possibility that Jenson’s death was a coincidence was starting to fade and the truth – that he was being set up – was sinking in.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about an injury to his testicles. Not by accident or any other way. When I left Mr Jenson he was fine. Still breathing and completely uninjured. I didn’t see anyone else enter his room. I apologised for breaking the vase, asked if I could pay for a replacement, said goodbye to the nurse then left. After that I received a call from DCI Turner and attended the city mortuary regarding Stephen Berry’s death. I was with her all night.’
‘All night?’ Graham asked. ‘Literally all night?’ His tone was suddenly confrontational.
‘DCI Turner got injured while we were investigating up at Tantallon Castle. She required medical assistance and after that we were formulating a plan of action for the Berry investigation.’
‘At the station?’ Graham persisted.
‘No. My apartment,’ Callanach replied, wary of providing grist to the ever-ready rumour mill but knowing he couldn’t lie about such trivial details.
That was when stories started unravelling. There was every chance DI Graham would double-check his movements with Ava and their stories had to match. He knew it didn’t look good, them going to his place rather than to the hospital or the police station, but they’d done nothing wrong. Which was why it was strange that he felt so guilty about it.
‘We were both tired, cold and hungry, and DCI Turner needed someone to keep an eye on her given the head injury she’d sustained.’
‘I see. Well, I think we’re finished here. Obviously, if there are any more questions once all the forensic testing is completed, we’ll ask for a further interview. PC Monroe, could you give DI Callanach and me a moment please? I’m turning off the tapes. It’s not related to the investigation.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Can I get either of you a coffee? You’ve both been working flat out.’
Callanach smiled. Monroe was astute and a peacemaker. He liked her.
‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that,’ Callanach replied.
‘Nothing for me,’ Graham said, crossing his arms.
Monroe left.
‘You’re putting DCI Turner in a difficult position. I recognise that this is awkward. I’ve been in MIT and at your rank for just a couple of days, but I have to speak my mind. You should accept a voluntary suspension while the investigation continues.’
‘I have nothing to hide,’ Callanach said. ‘And yes, it is awkward. DCI Turner can take care of herself. She’s made her decision.’
‘Really? Has she thought through the impact of you making statements on tape that you spent the night together at your flat? Don’t play games with her career.’
‘You’re that concerned about her after just two days? It seems to me that I’m not the one being unprofessional here.’
‘Meaning?’ Graham asked, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
‘You know what? Let’s not do this. We’re going to have to work together in MIT for the foreseeable future, so we’ll let Ava make the decisions. I’ll make myself available to answer any questions you have and if at any time you have reason to believe I’m an active suspect, then I’m sure I’ll be suspended immediately.’
Callanach stood and made his way to the door.
‘You called her Ava,’ Graham said. ‘Is MIT’s chain of command really that informal?’
Callanach could have kicked himself.
‘I’ve got work to do,’ he said. ‘Good luck with the case.’
Chapter Thirteen
5 March
Ava broke the news to the assembled MIT squad that they were treating Fenella Hawksmith’s death as suspicious, sharing the disturbing details from the postmortem.
‘At the moment, knowing it would have been possible for her to have pulled the plug from the bath, I’m assuming that whoever inflicted the injuries on her stayed for the duration to watch her bleed to death, or at least until she’d passed out, to ensure that the water remained in the bath, preventing the wounds from clotting.’
‘But that could have been hours, right?’ Tripp asked.
‘Yes,’ Ava confirmed.
‘We’re looking for someone who could have tied her up, inflicted the wounds, debased the victim by inserting the knife inside her, who then watched her bleed out that slowly?’ a constable asked, sounding incredulous.
‘Aye, otherwise known as the hunt for another sick fuck,’ Lively chimed in.
Ava had made the decision to bring Lively back onto the Hawksmith case. Once the details hit the press, there was going to be uproar and she needed the most experienced team she could put together.
‘Tripp, do we have a family background?’ Ava asked.
‘Husband deceased, natural causes,’ he read from his notes. ‘Daughter is missing, or so a friend of the victim confirms. Long-term drug addict, who Mrs Hawksmith had spent years trying to reconnect with. We have no idea where the daughter is, or if she’s alive or dead. We’re gathering details on her right now.’
‘Put out a national alert. If the daughter is still alive, she either needs to be informed of her mother’s death or treated as a suspect. We’ll also need her known associates if she’s still involved in the drug scene. It’s possible Fenella Hawksmith was tortured to get money out of her. That would expla
in the bindings.’
‘There was also an ongoing dispute with neighbours about noise. Apparently, Mrs Hawksmith was in something of a community war, countering constant loud rap music by playing opera.’
‘Unlikely, but check it anyway,’ Ava said. ‘If this was murder, it was perpetrated by someone conscience-free and extremely well prepared. Neighbour disputes don’t usually fit that description. Door-to-doors in her area. I want all of her close friends or associates spoken to. Check her recent communications. And find the daughter as a priority.’
Callanach caught Ava in the corridor.
‘We should talk,’ he said quietly.
‘In your office then,’ she replied, detouring through a doorway.
Callanach closed it behind himself.
‘DI Graham interviewed me this morning. I had to explain that I was with you after I left the nursing home.’ He paused. ‘All night.’
‘We should have seen that coming. Don’t worry about it. We were working on the Berry case. Speaking of which, Ailsa has concluded that was either accident or suicide. He was taking an antidepressant, high levels of it in his blood. Backs up what Rune Maclure said about him being bipolar. Anything else?’
‘I was going to ask what you’re doing tonight. I thought we could both do with a diversion. Is there anything on at the cinema you want to watch?’
‘Actually, I’m going out with Natasha. You must be fed up with me by now. I’ve crashed at yours for the last two nights.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed last night. I feel bad about it.’
‘Don’t.’
‘But I do. You need your own space and it’s not healthy, working together and being such good friends. I could have taken a taxi home last night,’ she smiled. ‘I should’ve done. Let’s not talk about it again. I’ll cover it with DI Graham. Was everything okay between the two of you?’
‘Sure,’ Callanach lied. ‘So you met Rune Maclure. Did you like him?’
‘Yes, I did. Not so sure about his assistant, though. There’s something about getting a disapproving stare from a twenty-year-old that makes my blood boil,’ she laughed. ‘And I think that possibly Maclure gave me his number for non-professional reasons. I wasn’t sure how to handle it, to be honest, it’s been that long since anyone was interested in me.’
‘Are you going to call him?’ Callanach asked before he could stop himself. ‘I thought you two might hit it off.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Ava declared. ‘As if I haven’t got enough on my plate. We’ve got two active investigations, with new team members to train, and I look worse than I can ever remember.’
‘That obviously didn’t bother Maclure,’ Callanach noted.
‘Then the man’s an idiot and however attractive he might be, I don’t date idiots. Right, I need to update the queen of profanity. Wish me luck. I’ll take a raincheck on the cinema. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is playing from tomorrow as part of the midnight classics run up at York Place.’
‘Would I enjoy it?’ Callanach asked.
‘No, but I would. I’ve got to go. Organise the squad. We’re already three weeks behind whoever did this, so we’ll need to move fast.’
Callanach watched her go, wondering where she got her energy from. They hadn’t fallen asleep until 2 a.m., and she was up again at six to get home and change. He should have spoken to her about his concerns over the Jenson murder, but Ava had enough on her plate already.
Opening his laptop, he sat down to write an email that was long overdue since his vacation. His mother had a right to know that Bruce Jenson was dead, but he didn’t want her concerned over him being implicated. He decided to keep it short and simple.
Maman,
I’m writing to let you know that when I returned to England I decided to find Jenson and Western. I didn’t tell you before because I knew it would be upsetting for you. I hope it will help you to know that Bruce Jenson is dead. He had advanced dementia and died in a nursing home. I have no news on Gilroy Western. Busy here again, so forgive me if I don’t call in the next couple of weeks.
All my love,
Luc.
Hitting send, he realised how much he also needed to get out. Ava was going to be spending the evening with Natasha and contacting Selina was too complicated, so he texted Lance Proudfoot, a local journalist who’d proved to be not only a useful contact, but also a good friend over the previous year. Brighter than most people on their sharpest day, and more persistent than a salmon jumping upstream, Lance was semiretired and writing his own news blog, when he wasn’t helping Callanach out and getting injured in the course of semi-official police business.
They met up at seven in Sandy Bell’s on Forrest Hill, a new bar to Callanach, but Lance had made it easy to find, with its bright blue facade and the music that was issuing forth onto the street. Already at the bar and talking whisky, Lance was in his element. Callanach stood and watched him from the doorway for a few moments, noting that his friend was in his biking leathers, looking fit and well. He greeted Lance with a slap on the back.
‘Is there a pub in this city where they don’t know your name?’ Callanach asked.
Lance turned, hugging him warmly. ‘Not one worth spending your hard-earned in, I guarantee you that. Luc Callanach, you look like you haven’t slept for a month. You’ll ruin those boyish, European good looks if you don’t start taking care of yourself.’
In the corner, a folk band entertained the early crowd, strumming guitars and singing harmoniously about some long-lost sailor. The bar looked like a sanctuary for rare single malts and every seat was taken. Lance had saved a couple of bar stools for them by leaving his helmet on one and his gloves on another, which he shifted to the floor so they could sit.
‘Your ears must have been burning when you texted me,’ Lance said. ‘I was just talking about you.’
‘Good or bad?’ Callanach asked.
‘You’re too cynical, man!’ Lance bellowed. ‘Good, obviously. I was telling my neighbour how much more interesting my life has been since meeting you.’
‘Interesting perhaps, but you’ve also spent a lot more time at the hospital,’ Callanach grinned. ‘Have you been keeping out of trouble lately?’
‘Ach, the secret to life, Luc, is that it’s getting in trouble that keeps you young. My son finally moved out and got his own place, so I no longer have to listen to his girlfriend and him either rowing or doing God knows what else in my spare room. I love the boy, but there comes a time when you want to be able to watch the rugby, cook a curry and listen to the Beatles without anyone else criticising your choices. So what about you? How was your holiday?’
‘Complicated,’ Callanach replied. ‘Good to be back in Paris, though. I stayed away from France too long.’
‘Paris is always a good idea. Damn, what movie’s that from?’ Lance took a sip of whisky. ‘Sabrina – Bogart and Hepburn – that’s it.’
‘Not you as well. Ava’s obsessed with old films.’
‘Speaking of Edinburgh’s loveliest detective chief inspector, how is she?’
‘Infuriating, unstoppable and funny. Same as ever,’ Callanach said. ‘But I need to talk about something other than work. What have you been up to recently?’
‘Sticking my nose into other people’s business and hoping the rest of the world wants to read what I have to say about it. Now that I’ve got you here, what’s the story with the body on Easter Road a couple of days ago? The street was cordoned off for hours and the flat still has crime-scene tape around it.’
‘Suspicious death, can’t say more than that.’
‘Come on, off the record, and I won’t release it until the formalities are completed. The city’s been remarkably quiet this month. Give me something,’ Lance complained.
Callanach considered it. They needed to find Alice Hawksmith and after a day’s research, MIT had come up with nothing. Fenella’s daughter had a string of old convictions but had gone off the radar six years ago and not been he
ard of since. No benefit claims, no doctor on record, no income or tax payments. She wasn’t just going to turn up without a push.
‘All right. You can have this. I’m in charge of the investigation, so you can quote me. We’ll do it officially. We’d like to speak to a woman called Alice Hawksmith, now twenty-nine years of age, on a witness-only basis. She was last known to be living in the Aberdeen area. The body is her mother’s – that’s Fenella Hawksmith – and the daughter is believed to be her only living relative.’
Lance had his mobile out and was typing notes onto the screen.
‘If you’re in charge, it’s an MIT case,’ he said. ‘So this must be a murder, right? You’re not just looking for a relative to inform. What’s the real story?’
‘You can’t publish the rest of it,’ Callanach said. ‘So you’re probably better off not hearing it.’
‘This is me. I stood in the basement of a Glasgow pub with you, convinced we were both about to die, covering for a former colleague of yours who’d stolen from the mob, and I still didn’t write about it. Just how much more loyalty do you need me to show before you believe you can trust me?’ Lance grinned.
It was a fair comment. Lance had broken the law with him and for him. If ever a man knew how to keep a secret, it was him.
‘Nothing concrete yet. It’s a very disturbing set of circumstances, with shades of suicide, but much more abusive than you’d expect to see. The body had been there three weeks.’
‘Three weeks? That can’t have been easy to look at. Do you have any suspects?’
‘I can’t say at this stage. We can’t keep it quiet much longer, anyway. Officers were out making door-to-door enquiries today. Perhaps if you run the story and name the victim, it might trigger a memory and someone will come forwards.’
‘Cause of death?’ Lance asked.
‘I want to keep some of the details quiet for now, to separate useful information from the inevitable bullshit. My feeling is that it was someone who knew the victim. There were … personal elements to it.’