by Helen Fields
‘I’ll get Tripp on it,’ Callanach said. ‘Anything concrete regarding Mrs Hawksmith’s daughter yet?’
‘No death certificate,’ Ava said. ‘So either she’s still alive, is dead but wasn’t identified, or is dead but hasn’t been found.’
‘How are you going to persuade Overbeck that we need to investigate the Berry death as a possible murder?’
‘I’m not,’ Ava said. ‘I shall be engaging a secret weapon. You don’t need to worry about it.’
‘You’ve got a secret weapon you’re not prepared to share with me? That’s hardly fair.’
‘Believe me, you don’t want any part of it. And in case you’re wondering, Pax Graham’s team are proceeding on the assumption that the Bruce Jenson killing was committed by a staff member. Forensics has shown the initial blow to the glass door was from the inside and that afterwards someone hit the fractured area from the outside. They’ve concluded it was an attempt to make it look like an intruder.’
‘Motive?’ Callanach asked.
‘Nursing home killings often come from a build-up of frustration or work stress. Occasionally, there’s an underlying condition like Munchausen’s by proxy or angel-of-death syndrome that attracts carers into the profession in the first place.’
‘If that were the case, I’d expect there to have been other unexplained deaths there.’
‘Because we don’t have enough to deal with at the moment?’ Ava raised her eyebrows. ‘It could have been a new staff member, a temp. Other deaths could have been expected but just hastened, meaning there’d have been no postmortem. A lack of evidence doesn’t mean this is an isolated incident. It’s the hardest possible environment to make sure all deaths are natural. I’m only telling you so you can relax about it a bit. Graham’s a good detective. He’ll figure it out.’
Callanach nodded. ‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll start sifting through the Hawksmith information. Good luck with Overbeck.’
Back at his desk, he checked his emails. There were a few from Lance – responses to his article that should have gone straight to MIT but that had gone to him. There were a few adverts that had escaped the trash folder and some online bills. Below that was a bounce back from the email he’d sent his mother. He felt suddenly sick. The last time an email to his mother had bounced back was when she’d disappeared from his life while he was fighting the rape allegation. That time it had been deliberate. She’d needed to get away from the whole dreadful situation and the memories it was dragging up. But in Paris she’d seemed fine. They’d undone most of the damage and reclaimed the close relationship they’d enjoyed before. Now this …
Callanach read his original email, checking the address he’d entered carefully for typos. There were none. Hitting resend, he doubled it up with a text to her, explaining that he’d tried to contact her but failed, hoping there was nothing more serious going on. It was difficult enough to bring up the subject of Bruce Jenson’s death without worrying that his mother wasn’t coping again.
Sergeant Lively’s face resembled a punctured beach ball. Ava pointed at the empty chair opposite her desk as she finished typing a note requesting extended funding for forensic testing at Tantallon. It was a low trick to get Lively to request it for her, but it wasn’t as if Detective Superintendent Overbeck could complain publicly about it.
‘I need you to use your considerable influence with the super to get a full crime scene workout at Tantallon Castle,’ Ava smiled at him. ‘I’m just finishing my notes, then I’ll hand this straightforward administrative task over to you.’
‘The Tantallon file’s closed,’ Lively said. ‘Dr Lambert decided it was suicide gone badly wrong, but nonetheless suicide.’
‘Yeah, only that would make two in a row,’ Ava replied quietly.
‘Now hold on. The Berry case bears no resemblance to the Hawksmith case. The evil Overlord is going to be having none of that. I’m not going upstairs bearing that bouquet of poisoned ivy, thank you very much,’ Lively grumbled.
‘You don’t need to link the two cases unless she asks. I’m about to phone the pathologist and have that discussion with her, and I’m sure she’ll agree that we need to consider the similarities between the two cases.’
‘Similarities? One man, one woman, different ages. The first was a fall and the second was deliberate cutting in a warm bath.’
‘You’re starting to sound like her,’ Ava quipped.
‘With respect, ma’am, you can do one.’
‘I’m giving you a pass for that, Sergeant, but it’s the last one you’ll get. I’ve got two bodies that seem superficially like suicides, but neither is quite that simple.’
‘Two’s a coincidence, three’s a pattern. The superintendent won’t like it,’ Lively said. ‘And with respect, it’s not fair of you to use me like this.’
‘Is that your social conscience speaking out, only you’ve given your colleagues more crap over the years than any other officer I’ve known. It didn’t bother you before.’
‘I never used an officer who was in a relationship to try to gain an advantage,’ Lively said quietly. ‘You wouldn’t be asking if I were female.’
Ava stood up, hands on hips. ‘Are you accusing me of sexism?’
Lively took a deep breath. ‘Aye, I suppose I am. If your new constable, Janet Monroe, were seeing a man higher up the chain of command than you, you’d sooner poke out your own eyes than abuse her position with him to get what you wanted.’
‘Shit,’ Ava muttered. ‘I didn’t think of it like that. I’m sorry. Truly. Forget it, I’ll see Overbeck myself. For what it’s worth, you’re right. I wouldn’t have done that to a woman. It just didn’t occur to me …’ She wasn’t sure how to end the sentence.
‘That I might have feelings? Thanks for that, ma’am. I’ll be in the incident room if you need me for anything that actually constitutes my duties.’
He left without actually slamming the door, but Ava felt the impact as if he had.
Grabbing her notes, she strode to the stairs and did her best to run to Overbeck’s office, choosing action rather than considering how badly she’d misjudged Lively’s reaction, not to mention her own culpability. She’d expected Lively to give her some grief, complain about the assignment, but not considered the ethics of asking him in the first place. Police Scotland was a hotbed of ribbing and political incorrectness, but none of it was meant. When push came to shove, she was as sure as she could be that every one of the officers under her command had each other’s back. Lively had given out vastly more abuse than he’d ever had to take, which was why she hadn’t considered the appropriateness of her request. If anything, it had seemed light-hearted and trivial. Now, she saw it for what it was – an abuse of the knowledge of his relationship.
Detective Superintendent Overbeck was exiting her office as Ava approached.
‘If you want me, you’ll have to walk with me to my car,’ she said.
Ava turned on her heel and did so.
‘Give me the good news.’
‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ Ava said.
‘Sarcasm failure, Turner. Of course it’s not good fucking news. You’re coming to see me holding a file. Get on with it, then.’
‘I need to open a crime scene in a public place. Tantallon Castle, in fact, which will mean closing the castle to the public.’
‘Tantallon? I love it there.’ Overbeck smiled wistfully. ‘High fall, right? If I’m not mistaken, that case has been closed. Why are you seeking to reopen it?’
Ava explained as concisely as she could given the time constraints and Overbeck’s dislike of long speeches.
‘All right,’ the superintendent concluded. ‘You can have complete forensics from the scene, interview Stephen Berry’s nearest and dearest, and see if you can establish any other link between Berry and Hawksmith, but no other follies, got it? This is tenuous. Don’t start taking the piss.’
‘Yes. Speaking of which,’ Ava said as they approached Overbeck’s
car, ‘I did something I shouldn’t have.’
‘That’s unusually exciting of you,’ Overbeck laughed. ‘Come on then, shock me.’ She unlocked her car and slid into the driver’s seat.
‘I asked DS Lively to approach you to extend the funding. He quite rightly refused. He also … well, he accused me of sexism, and I’m afraid he was right. I wanted you to hear it from me rather than him. I’ve apologised.’
Overbeck’s face contorted, her mouth pursed, then she gave a huge guffaw, clutching the steering wheel as she got her laughter under control.
‘Chief Inspector, the only shocking thing about that is that it’s exactly what I’d have done in your shoes. Don’t get your knickers in a twist about it. It may be the first thing you’ve ever done that’s made me respect you, you devious little cow.’
Ava stared at her open-mouthed.
‘And he accused you of sexism, did he? He has been a bit snippy lately. If he were a woman, I’d think he was due his period.’
‘Oh God,’ Ava murmured.
‘Don’t worry about it, Turner. He’ll get over it. It’s me he’s pissed at, not you.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Ava said, and she meant it.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that her obnoxious but loyal sergeant had fallen very much in love with the superintendent.
‘He wants me to file for divorce. The problem is that I feel rather sentimental about my husband, blithering idiot that he is. I’m not sure I’m ready to take the next step. Isn’t that what the popular media calls it? Why on earth can’t men be happy with a quick shag? If I had a pound for every string that got attached, I sure as shit wouldn’t be doing this job.’ Overbeck closed her door but lowered the window. ‘And what’s happening on the other murder? That nursing home job.’
‘Most likely a member of staff,’ Ava said, wishing Overbeck would just get going.
‘Fine. Now, be a good girl and don’t upset any other MIT squad members with that nasty sexism of yours.’
She wheel-spun away, cackling at her own hilarity, leaving Ava feeling both relieved and upset. DS Lively was obviously at a low point, which made her attempt to use him all the more unfortunate.
Chapter Sixteen
8 March
Gilroy Western was weighing up the pros and cons of having an affair. At his age, the very use of the term ‘affair’ was a euphemism and he knew it. Not in the marital sense. That was pretty clear. He’d left his wife, in her sixties, at home in their apartment in Spain with her golfing buddies for company and with the endless consolation of the multitude of expat bars nearby. Sleeping with anyone else naturally constituted an affair, only this was more of a professional arrangement and he knew it.
The woman half his age who obliged him with sex in positions his wife had decided years ago hurt her back, and with the blowjobs his wife had never deemed appetising, would inevitably find herself too busy to see him on his return were he not so generous with his purchasing of jewellery, clothing and fine wines. A prostitute in all but name and he knew it. He also didn’t care. When you paid a fair price for a service, no one had any complaints, and that was how he liked his life.
He’d touched down at Edinburgh Airport the previous evening, had driven home to Moray Place, and was now just half an hour away from the warm, wet bliss of oral sex. His lover was expecting him and would hopefully be wearing some of the outrageously expensive lingerie he’d purchased for her during his last visit. He wasn’t due to be back in Scotland for long, having only returned when he’d been notified that his old business partner, Bruce Jenson, was dead.
They’d had limited contact for the last decade, but Bruce had apparently harboured some affection for him, having named him in his will. Western had been more than a little surprised. They’d sold Edinburgh Bespoke for a good price to a company that had filled half their factory with machines that could make furniture in a fraction of the time and at half the cost. Then they’d made some serious money letting their remaining industrial units go to developers who’d demolished and replaced them with luxury flats.
It was annoying that Bruce Jenson had opted for one of those horribly old-fashioned will readings with all the family gathered, mainly because it meant Western couldn’t reasonably avoid attending the memorial service later that day. The email from the solicitors had been vague about the cause of death, but Western was well aware that his former partner’s health had been failing for several years. To be brutally honest, the signs of dementia had been there long before the diagnosis. His memory had gone first. You had to have every conversation with him three times, and Jenson had never been good with names and faces.
The memorial service had been billed as a celebration of Jenson’s life and Western was grateful that there was no suggestion he should attend a burial or cremation. It was bad enough reaching the stage of life when every headache rang with the possibility of a brain tumour and the slightest bowel problem made him question the sense of having skipped his standard colonoscopy. The last thing he wanted was to watch yet another of his peers hitting the dirt. Recognising your own mortality was no fun at all.
He sat in his hire car and checked his watch. His lover didn’t like him to appear early. She’d made it clear on previous occasions that she considered it rude. He knew why but pretended he didn’t. She had more than just one ‘gentleman caller’, as they were laughingly labelled in the old days. Good for her. Gilroy Western wasn’t a happily-ever-after kind of man. His primary fantasy on the plane over had been that the diamond earrings he’d purchased as a gift for her might be just enough to persuade her to swallow for once.
He still had ten minutes to kill before he could leave. Staring up at his beautiful five-storey townhouse, he wondered how much it was worth at current market value. Part of a curve of terraced period properties, it defined classic Edinburgh architecture with its brown brick, arched ground-floor windows, wrought-iron balconies at the first floor and the basement flat he rented out.
In reality, he didn’t spend enough time in his home city to justify keeping a house there. Hotels when he visited would be cheaper, but there was something to be said for maintaining one’s investments. Property prices in the city were continuing to rise and Edinburgh was as popular with tourists as it had always been. It would be something to leave his daughter eventually and he was proud of his nationality.
Spain was all well and good, but Malaga had none of the cosmopolitan chic of Barcelona, nor the historic grandeur of Madrid. Edinburgh, in spite of the cold, the rain and the American-owned golf courses, was still home. He had enough cash to last him another ten years without dipping into any stocks or selling any of his properties. Enough to maintain his other ‘girlfriend’ he visited once a week in Spain and more than enough to buy his wife the trinkets that kept her from asking too many questions about what he got up to in his spare time.
All in all, life had treated him very nicely indeed. He’d earned it, too. Made tough decisions, been ruthless – which was what business required – made good calls when it came to buying in and selling out, which was why having a conscience about enjoying himself was foolish. What his wife didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, just as long as he avoided catching anything that required strong doses of antibiotics, or the regular application of unpleasant-smelling medicated creams.
He checked his watch again. That was enough waiting.
The engine turned over nicely, unaffected by the wet weather, and he set off humming to himself, imagining what awaited at the other end of his journey. He was hard before he’d even got out onto Doune Terrace, wondering exactly what Bruce Jenson had left him in his will. Jenson hadn’t done as well as him since they’d sold the business, but then his former partner had never been interested in long-term investments. He hoped to God Jenson hadn’t bequeathed him the collection of furniture he’d insisted on taking when they closed down Edinburgh Bespoke, accompanied by lengthy monologues about how the company had contributed to the city’s history o
f fine craftsmanship. Imagine the bonfire that would be needed to burn all those memories before he could get back on the plane to Malaga …
Western took a left onto Gloucester Street, revelling in the unusual lack of traffic. Even the rain had stopped for his well-deserved pre-memorial service fuckathon, aided by a hefty dose of Viagra that was handed out like sweeties by the expat community doctors. He’d be banging like an angry teenager on his first drum kit in no time at all.
Gathering pace down the narrow hill, he squeezed the brakes gently. There was a hollow thud as the pedal hit the floor, but no mechanical response from the brake pads. Lifting his right foot, he tried again, seeing the cyclist who came hurtling out from India Place just in time to swerve and avoid him. Western pumped the brakes again. He was up to forty-five miles an hour now, the gradient steep enough to be propelling him at an increasing speed.
Grabbing for the handbrake and losing his grip on the steering wheel, he veered left and hit the pavement. The car spun. He abandoned the handbrake to turn into the skid, straightening up, seeing traffic approaching at the Kerr Street intersection below. Fifty-five miles per hour. Bloody hire car. Why the hell did he bother coming back to Edinburgh? Sixty-five miles per hour and there was a woman with a pram crossing Kerr Street to his left where he needed to turn. Why fucking now? He grappled with the handbrake again, but his palms were slick with sweat and the car was moving erratically.
Kerr Street went downwards to his left and uphill to the right. Aiming for the right to kill the acceleration and avoid the pram, Western flew over a corner of pavement, lifting the driver’s side wheels off the ground. Another car clipped the end of his as it tried to brake, creating a seventy-mile-an-hour spin that threw the world into a slow-motion, anti-gravity cartwheel.
There was screaming. It sounded female but seemed to be coming from his own throat. Then he was falling. The whoosh-whomp of the airbag sounded simultaneously with an impact that was hard enough to leave his jowls struggling to keep up with his bone structure as his face rushed forwards.