by Helen Fields
‘Movement on the top floor, ma’am. Officers have let another person onto the roof.’
Ava turned on the speaker connected with Monroe’s wire.
‘Stay away from me,’ Janet Monroe sobbed, her voice wavering with emotion, her Latina accent more pronounced as she fought the wind to be heard.
‘Not a problem,’ a man replied.
‘Who was that? The voice is familiar,’ Ava said.
‘Looks like the counsellor’s arrived. Middle-aged, I reckon.’ Tripp scribbled notes as he spoke. ‘Edinburgh accent.’
‘I won’t come near you until you say I can. Please don’t think I’m here to make things worse. My name’s Charlie Packham. Can I ask yours?’
‘No point,’ Monroe replied.
Ava wished she wasn’t making quite such an authentic job of sounding desperate. She turned the volume down on their conversation.
‘I’ve met Packham. He works for Reach You with a specialisation in military counselling. Not afraid of being blunt, if memory serves, but he’ll have been fully vetted before being allowed to work in mental health units.’
‘We’ve traced the path through the system, which shows that emergency services sent paramedics who requested specialist assistance. The call goes out to whoever the duty agency is in the city and they send their closest counsellor. It seems random. I can run Charlie Packham’s name through the police database anyway to see if we get any red flags.’
‘Sure. No other faces we recognise in the crowd?’
‘Two, actually, but not in connection with this. Uniforms have identified one male who failed to attend court last week on a robbery charge and a woman who’s in breach of a probation order. They’ll both be followed and arrested later. Other than that, I’m surprised at just how much of a crowd has gathered. There must be two hundred people at the base of the building and that’s not considering how many are watching from the windows of adjacent blocks.
‘Here you go, results are in. Charlie Packham has no previous convictions, not even a driving charge. He’s completely clean. Google reports that he’s a former Marine who works for both Reach You and at the Royal Infirmary on an ad hoc basis.’
A sudden movement of heads in the crowd, mouths opening, reminded Ava of the synchronisation of a flock of birds. She directed her binoculars back up to the top of the tower block. Janet Monroe had taken it up a notch and was suddenly much closer to the edge of the building, leaning over. For a moment, Ava saw herself up there, pushing her luck to its limits at Tantallon Castle.
There were two more camera crews recording footage now and Monroe was fully engaged in conversation with Charlie Packham. Ava picked up her radio again.
‘Unit Six, you’re go,’ she said.
Outside, one of the undercover officers was about to start a rumour that Janet Monroe was a neighbour of his. He would reveal limited information, give a different surname for her, but make sure the TV crew got sufficient for any interested party to be able to pursue her. Sure enough, the media began closing in on one particular area of the crowd. The officer would refuse to give an on-camera interview, purportedly out of ‘respect’ for his neighbour, but the details he gave would signal the beginning of the end of the operation.
‘Check the online newsfeeds, Tripp,’ Ava said. ‘Let’s make sure the information we’ve planted is filtering through, then we can move Janet on to being talked down.’
It took another ten minutes before the first updates came through online, but the undercover officer had done a good job. Janet Vargas – her maiden name – had been depressed ever since splitting from her partner. She lived a few roads away from Pennywell Gardens, probably in flats she could see from where she stood right now. The reports had already labelled her vulnerable and distressed. Impressive, given that not one journalist had spoken to her directly.
Through the radio, Ava gave the final order.
‘Signal end to Monroe then move in.’
Holding her breath as she watched, Ava could see Monroe flailing her arms. The agreement had been that she never got within tripping distance of the edge. Enough lives had been lost in the previous month without Monroe adding hers to the total.
‘Please,’ Ava could hear the counsellor saying, ‘I really don’t want anyone to get hurt. Think about your baby. She needs to grow up knowing her mother.’
‘She’ll be better off without me,’ Monroe cried.
‘No. No, she won’t. There’s never going to be a replacement for you. Just take my hand,’ the counsellor implored. ‘No tricks, I promise. Just let me reach out to you.’
On top of the building, Janet Monroe swayed dangerously near the edge.
‘Get back,’ Ava ordered her, uselessly.
There were gasps from the crowd. Someone screamed, another began praying loudly and, above it all, Ava could hear laughter.
‘Who is that?’ she demanded.
‘Can’t find him. Definitely a male voice,’ Tripp said, flicking from camera to camera. ‘The crowd’s too large now. Whoever’s laughing is right in the middle and they’re shielded from our viewpoints.’
‘You make sure she gets down safely and as quickly as possible,’ Ava said. ‘I’m going out to find him.’
‘You’ll have to cover your face, ma’am. You’re too recognisable, especially to some of the people who live round here. You’ve arrested a fair few of them.’
‘Give me your coat,’ Ava said, taking Tripp’s hooded winter jacket and pulling it around her face.
‘You don’t know that whoever’s laughing is the same person who was on the bridge with Stephen Berry,’ Tripp reminded her.
‘Sounds the same to me,’ Ava said. ‘And this might be our last chance to catch him before someone else dies.’
She slipped out through the door, keeping her head down and following the sound of laughter. Pushing past one of the camera crews, she spotted the bookie who’d been taking bets on the outcome of the drama. By the time she got to him, making sure she got a good look at his face for later retribution, the laughing man had moved away, but the noise he was making continued, if anything higher-pitched and more aggressive. Above them, Janet Monroe was continuing her Oscar-worthy performance. The crowd closed around Ava, pushing forwards, desperate to watch, unable to look away.
‘Go on, do it!’ a man shouted from behind her.
By the time Ava had turned to catch a glimpse of his face, he’d gone quiet.
Someone in the crowd booed him and another shouted for him to shut up. Ava appreciated the community spirit but at that moment in time she just wanted everyone to be quiet so she could hear when he shouted again. She did a three-sixty, pulling her hood down so her ears could pick up the sound and direction better.
The laughing began again. It had a hysterical edge to it. All broken glass and chalkboard. Ava tried to make her way between several onlookers, one of whom was trying to climb onto her boyfriend’s shoulders.
‘Just wait a moment, would you, love?’ the man asked her.
‘I need to get through,’ Ava insisted.
‘You’re gonna knock her off. What the fuck’s your problem?’ He pushed his face just inches from Ava’s.
She instinctively reached into her pocket for her ID, then held herself in check, knowing all Monroe’s hard work would be for nothing if she revealed the plainclothes police presence in the crowd. Making herself count to ten, she waited until the girlfriend was safely up in the air and waving like a reality-TV wannabe at the nearest camera operator.
A cheer went up from the crowd as the counsellor took Janet Monroe’s hand and pulled her away from the edge. Uniformed police officers surrounded her, then there was nothing left to see at all.
Ava thrust herself between the bodies, heading for the back of the crowd. The laughing man hadn’t got what he’d wanted again today and she doubted he’d hang around to watch the crowd’s delight at the averted crisis.
Bursting through the rear line of spectators, Ava knew she was al
ready too late. People were drifting away in all directions. Short of ordering that every one of them be detained pending details being taken, there was little she could do, and then there would be no chance at all of their murderer coming for Monroe and walking into their arms.
‘You were here,’ Ava whispered to the shifting crowd.
As the laughing man walked away, just ten feet from where DCI Ava Turner was standing, nails jammed into her palms, he sent a single line of text.
‘Thanks for the heads-up.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
15 March
Callanach had spent more time at his gym than in his own apartment since Ava had decided it would be better for him to stay away from MIT. He’d run, walked, worked out and eaten at the gym, spent time in the sauna and the pool, then hung around the bar until it was finally time to escape to Lance Proudfoot’s for dinner. The next day was a repeat of the same. It was only when he started to attract attention from women that he had to forego the gym and retreat home. He usually managed to avoid talking to anyone when he was working out. He’d learned not to make eye contact, not to engage in conversation. Better to appear rude than to look like he was open to socialising, and the very last thing on his agenda at the moment was hooking up with another female.
His key slipped smoothly into the lock and he let himself into his apartment. The air smelled floral and sweet. His neighbour, Bunny, regularly flooded their floor with the scents of perfume and beauty products when her clients came to have parts of themselves waxed, sprayed or dyed. He didn’t mind, but all he wanted at the moment was the sense that he was entirely alone. It seemed there were women all around him, except the one he really wanted.
Logging into his emails, he realised he was both dreading and longing for contact from Ava. He knew better than to get in touch with her first. If he pushed too hard, it would only take longer to work things out. There was nothing. No emails at all. He checked his Wi-Fi connection then restarted his machine, finally making sure his email provider wasn’t experiencing difficulties. Apparently, no one at all wanted to get in touch with him.
It was startlingly similar to when he’d been suspended from work pending trial after Astrid’s false accusation. Then, in spite of the evidence she’d falsified, he was also innocent and he’d had the benefit of never doubting himself. This time he was treading on thinner ice. He might have played no active part in either Bruce Jenson or Gilroy Western’s deaths, but he was guilty of withholding relevant information from a police investigation and he certainly hadn’t answered Pax Graham’s questions fully. He did have a motive. No doubt about that.
The other difference between then and now was that his emails had been full of requests from his lawyers, approaches from the press and official notifications from Interpol about his employment status. This period of administrative leave was so unofficial that he’d literally just drifted quietly away from the police station without so much as a conversation with anyone and since then he’d heard nothing. No human resources standard letter. No ‘right to appeal the decision’ conversations. Not one single email from any other member of the team asking how he was. No one owed him anything, and to expect it was just self-pity and vanity. But still. He’d thought that if no one else, Max Tripp might have been in touch.
He walked through his bedroom, into the bathroom and climbed into the shower, washing away the sweat from hours of working out and the sense that he was so unclean no one wanted to be near him. Turning on a fan to freshen the air from the smell of perfume, he settled onto his bed to read, a dent still in his pillow where he’d apparently been too distracted to follow his usual routine and make his bed properly that morning. He tried to read, to distract his brain from the on-repeat image of Ava finding her slate in his bathroom cabinet.
Other things came flooding back, unbidden, unwanted, too. Ava being taken hostage by a madman. Astrid Borde, so obsessed that she’d followed him to Scotland, stalking him and inadvertently making herself the only witness to Ava’s abduction. Ava’s best friend, Natasha, who’d provided the vital missing link to where Ava was being held. A young woman dead, whose life might have been saved if they’d arrived just an hour earlier. Other victims whose lives had been forever changed, even though they’d survived. Astrid disappearing into his past and allowing him to build a future. And beyond all that, the question he still had no answer for: Why had he never returned Ava’s childhood prayer slate?
He remembered wanting to protect her. He still wanted to protect her. When she’d nearly fallen from the walls of Tantallon Castle, his world had collapsed in on itself for an infinitesimal, endless moment in time. But she’d clung to him. He’d felt her trust through the grip of their fingers. They’d shared something both terrifying and extraordinary. Something no one else could ever be a part of.
Callanach knew he hadn’t given up the slate in case he never had anything else. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but the sense of not wanting to lose her before he could be sure he really had her was logical now. In trying to keep her close, he’d lost her forever. There was no point fighting it.
In the morning he’d book a ticket to France. He’d enjoyed Paris. Perhaps it was time to be brave and revisit Lyon, to walk the streets that had suddenly seemed like enemy territory while he was awaiting trial. Going home for a while had been Lance’s idea and at first Callanach had protested that there was nothing left there for him. But that wasn’t true. There were ghosts to be laid to rest. There were old friends to look up, to forgive for abandoning him. It was time to see what had happened through their eyes.
Astrid Borde’s evidence against him had been both compelling and damning. She had all the injuries of a classic violent rape. Her neighbours had been witness to a row between the two of them, with Callanach swearing at her and her sobbing in the background. He’d been set up to perfection by a woman who’d done everything in her power to attract him, then anything to make him pay when he’d rejected her. Obsessive behaviour like that didn’t just appear from nowhere.
Perhaps he’d been too used to women falling at his feet when he worked at Interpol, taken it for granted. He’d never been without a beautiful woman at his side for holidays or parties, and often they’d called him cold-hearted and disrespectful when he’d moved on to someone else. Everyone assumed it was his looks that made him careless in long-term relationships, but it was something far simpler than that. Callanach had just never met anyone who could hold his interest for more than a few weeks, months at best.
Going back to France would put some distance between Ava and him, and hopefully add some perspective. They’d gone from not even acknowledging they had feelings for one another to the bust-up of the century, bypassing the entire relationship phase. Some time to consider how to move forwards was definitely required.
He finally managed to concentrate on the book, unaware that the hunt for Jenson and Western’s killer was another step closer to resolution.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
15 March
Maisy Gunnach was looking at Pax Graham with eyes that suggested she didn’t mind being interviewed by him in the least and that she’d be quite happy to continue the conversation somewhere rather more private later that evening.
DS Lively folded his arms and rested them on his ample stomach. Women didn’t look at him like that, at least they hadn’t until he’d discovered Detective Superintendent Overbeck’s softer side. He and his wife had called it a day a while ago. Policing wasn’t the ideal profession for those who liked their relationships stable and long-lasting. Daisy Overbeck – not that he had ever or would ever call her by the given name she hated so much – was an enigma. The sort of woman he’d spent his life avoiding. Bossy, snooty and overbearing, she was perhaps the only woman who’d ever fully understood him. She didn’t tolerate his bullshit, she was aware of his underlying faith – which he found so hard to talk about openly – and she appeared to desire him physically.
Pax Graham would never have t
o worry about that, Lively thought. As sickening as it was, the new detective inspector seemed to be turning it substantially to their advantage.
‘I know this is private, Maisy,’ Graham said gently. ‘It must be difficult to be asked to discuss your personal life – and remember, you’re not under arrest – but we just need a bit of help understanding Gilroy Western’s lifestyle. What plans did the two of you have for that day?’
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Maisy smiled, all wide-eyed and breathless.
She reached out a hand and touched Graham’s forearm quickly, as if he might burn her. Lively forced himself not to tut out loud.
‘Gilroy was coming over to mine for a catch-up. He hadn’t been back to Scotland for a few months. We’re old friends. He visits me every time he comes back. We’d have stayed at mine for a couple of hours, had a drink, chatted. Then he had to go to a memorial service and see some lawyer. He was hoping to get back to mine and take me out to dinner by about 9 p.m.’
‘That’s really helpful,’ Graham said warmly. ‘You’re doing great.’
Maisy giggled.
‘I should have asked your age before we started. Just for the record.’
At that, Maisy looked slightly less delighted, but she leaned forwards conspiratorially to deliver the news.
‘Promise you won’t tell?’ she asked.
‘Nope, our lips are sealed, right, Sergeant Lively?’
‘Okay, well, I tell people I’m thirty-four, but actually I’m forty-two. Thank God for moisturiser and vitamin pills, or I’d never get away with it.’
And boob jobs, Lively thought. Maisy was sporting the sort of chest usually seen in lingerie adverts starring twenty-year-olds.
‘How long had you been a close friend of Mr Western?’ Graham continued without adding any false compliments to the already sickly conversation.
Lively was grateful for that small mercy.
‘Ten years, give or take.’
‘I don’t suppose you know or have ever met a man called Bruce Jenson?’ Graham asked.