by Helen Fields
Returning to his desk, he ran his eyes down the emails to figure out where he’d got to in the list. That should’ve been obvious and easy, only every email on the page was marked as read. He tried to remember if they’d been like that when they’d popped up, or only since he’d been reading them, but he couldn’t recall it clearly. Picking up his phone, he sent himself an email, with the word ‘Coffee’ on the subject line, and hit send. A minute later it came through in bold, marked as unread, no problem at all.
Scrolling back to emails from months ago, the ones that had slipped through his junk filter and sat unread in his inbox, he found several still marked as unread. So his computer was functioning properly, and his emails were sending and receiving properly.
He stared at the screen before typing in his mother’s name and opening up her recent emails to him. He found what he’d been looking for in an email dated 10 March. His mother, too, had received no emails for a few days, then hers had made a remarkable appearance. She hadn’t said whether they’d been marked as read or not, but there was a good chance it was something she might not have noticed. The emails from Callanach to his mother had named Jenson and Western specifically. They created a clear path from him to the dead men and Callanach was as sure as he could be that someone else had read them.
That left two possibilities: one was that someone with a grievance had been looking for a weak point and was intent on setting him up for the murders. If that was the case, the list was endless. He’d crossed too many gang members, crime bosses and corporate criminals – any of whom could have organised a hacking – to be able to point to a single one who might want vengeance. The other option, and a far more disturbing one, was that Pax Graham had moved from simply being suspicious of him to deciding to dig deeper into his story, thereby obtaining a court order to look at his emails.
Callanach considered taking a sip of his coffee, but his stomach was making it clear it would be rejected. If DS Graham had his emails, it could only be because Ava had approved the application.
She wouldn’t, Callanach thought. Or at least she wouldn’t have before. Right now, she was so angry … it didn’t bear thinking about. The only thing was that Ava already knew about his emails to his mother. Handing those emails over to Graham would also implicate her. So perhaps Ava wasn’t involved. She wasn’t the only superior officer who could approve the application. Detective Superintendent Overbeck could have done that, and with Ava wrapped up in the Hawksmith and Shozo investigations, it was entirely possible that Graham had gone straight to his boss’s boss. Overbeck would be quite happy to see him crushed. She’d made it perfectly clear he wasn’t her choice for a new detective inspector when he’d joined Police Scotland. That didn’t explain who’d killed Jenson and Western, though.
The next email was from DS Lively. Callanach clicked it open, hoping it would contain a case update.
Are you taking up modelling again, now that you’re on a long holiday? it began. No ‘sir’ or pleasantries. Typical Lively.
We can all get to the mirror in the gents now that you’re not here, and I’ve taken that chair you like and moved it to my desk. Some wee bastard’s still killing people. Guess you’re seeing that on the news. The Chief’s got a bug up her arse, so you should probably come back soon and help us out. There’s a beer on me if you fancy it.
Lively.
In spite of everything, Callanach smiled. Lively was the last person he’d have assumed was concerned about him. Frankly, he’d doubted Lively even knew what his email login was, but he’d made the effort to get in contact. The beer he’d take with a pinch of salt. Lively wasn’t known for getting his wallet out, but the thought was a kind one and sufficiently out of character that Callanach wondered if he ought to be worried.
His mobile rang and for a second Callanach thought it would be his larger-than-life, rougher-than-sandpaper sergeant following up. Instead, DS Graham’s softer accent came through.
‘What can I do for you?’ Callanach asked.
‘We need an additional statement for clarity. Just a procedural matter relating to the forensics we’ve got back. Would tomorrow morning suit?’ Graham asked.
‘Sure, I’ll come into the station,’ Callanach said.
‘Best not in the circumstances. We’ll come to you.’
As much as Callanach wanted to ask what it was about, he knew the strategies too well to show any level of concern. Best to be completely laid-back about it.
‘Sure. Whatever you need. Is 9 a.m. okay?’
‘That would be great,’ Graham said. ‘I don’t suppose DCI Turner’s been in touch today, has she?’
‘No, not at all,’ Callanach said.
It wasn’t a lie, so he wasn’t sure why he felt as if it was. Probably because it struck him that Graham wasn’t just checking up on him. He was checking up on Ava, too.
‘Should she have?’
‘No, I just lost track of her. Lots going on here. See you tomorrow.’
Callanach rang off. Graham’s voice had been friendly and relaxed, but he was nobody’s fool. Lively’s email had confirmed that Ava wasn’t happy at the moment. She was inevitably having to deal with every update on the Jenson–Western case and each time it was discussed, she’d be reminded what had happened between them. Perhaps it was time they talked. Hopefully by now she’d been able to put what he’d done into context.
He checked his watch. It was mid-afternoon. Right now she’d be in the middle of briefings, and up to her neck in forensics reports and witness statements. Phoning would only make things worse. He texted instead, keeping it light and brief, making sure he didn’t reference work.
Hi, wondering if you have time to get a coffee? No rush but this week would be good.
Luc.
For the hour that followed he checked his phone every few minutes for a response, then forced himself to put it on a shelf. Eventually, he grew so fed up with his own desperation that he turned it off altogether.
Chapter Thirty-Three
17 March
By the time Ava arrived at the Reach You drop-in centre, a perimeter had already been formed around the building. She hoped there was no one inside the building right now getting help who’d be distressed by what they were about to do. Officers stood backs to the walls either side of the front door as she rang the buzzer. Someone buzzed back, presumably looking at a screen inside, judging by the camera, then the door was opened.
‘Police,’ Ava announced, raising her ID into the face of the young woman who was, without a doubt, Vicki Rosach.
‘What the hell?’ she mumbled, more sullen than scared, reaching into her pocket.
‘Don’t move!’ Ava ordered. ‘Raise your hands above your head and turn round.’
Then there were bodies everywhere. Uniformed officers took her to the floor, careful to ensure she was unharmed, even more careful to make sure they didn’t damage her mobile, which Ava had made clear was a priority.
‘I don’t understand,’ Vicki sobbed as she was handcuffed and assisted to stand. ‘What are you doing with my phone?’
The officer who’d removed it from her pocket bagged and labelled it.
A mixture of other people filled the halls, all speaking at once, some counsellors, some patients, and there was a fair amount of crying. Ava could understand that. It was distressing, the sense of being invaded, of having the place where you worked and did a job you believed in suddenly raided. It was something of a violation. Just not as much of a violation as having someone enter your home and shove your penis in a toaster.
‘We’re taking all the computers as well as the hard copies of both staff and patient files,’ Ava announced to the staff members once Vicki had been removed into a police van.
‘You can’t do that. You need a court order,’ a man declared.
‘You’re Charlie Packham, right?’ Ava clarified.
She’d only heard his voice before, first outside the door when she’d been talking to Rune Maclure, then again when he�
��d been talking Janet Monroe down from the top of the tower block. He was tall and skinny, arms crossed over his chest. However good a counsellor he might be, she thought, he had little natural charm about him.
‘I have Rune Maclure’s consent,’ Ava assured him. ‘I’ll need you all to remain here until you’ve given statements to these officers. After that, please do not leave the city without notifying the police first.’
‘Are we in trouble?’ Packham asked.
‘Not at all,’ Ava reassured the group, the angry, unprofessional part of her wanting to say the opposite. That they’d been careless with the information they kept on patients. That a bunch of psychotherapists, of all people, had so badly misjudged the character of someone they’d employed that they’d rendered already vulnerable people prey to a vicious killer. ‘But you may have information you don’t even realise yet that’ll help us to fill in some blanks. We just need you to be contactable, that’s all.’
‘Can we continue our work, away from the drop-in centre?’ a female asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ Ava said. ‘But you’ll need to find a more secure way to keep patient information from now on.’ That last one she couldn’t resist.
‘Rune Maclure doesn’t have the authority to speak for all of us. This charity’s run by a committee. Maclure’s just one member of it,’ Packham chimed in again. ‘I’ll be consulting a lawyer. I don’t accept that the police can just read sensitive documentation without the authority of a judge.’
‘And I don’t understand why anyone would want us not to when it might save lives. After all, isn’t that what your charity was set up for?’ Ava bit back. ‘But feel free to consult a lawyer, if you really think that would be the best use of your time and the charity’s funds.’
Packham managed to stay silent, opting instead for giving her an unpleasant smile then checking his watch, reminding Ava that she was on borrowed time.
Lights and sirens ensured that she was back at the police station just as they were finishing booking Vicki Rosach in. Ava and Tripp would speak with her together, they’d decided, under caution. A duty lawyer had been waiting to represent her. All bases were covered. She let Tripp do the talking. Her temper was already frayed.
Having dealt with the legal formalities, Tripp began. Voice soft, low-key, all apologies for how bad the tea was and how uncomfortable the chair was, even the lawyer seemed to like the young detective sergeant.
‘So, Vicki … sorry, can I call you by your first name?’ Tripp asked.
‘Um, yeah, whatever.’ Her chin was on her chest, shoulders hunched.
‘Vicki, we need some information from you and your assistance at this early stage should ensure that we can do our best to keep any charges against you at a sensible level.’
The lawyer raised his eyebrows and Ava could understand why. Tripp, a veritable fluffy bunny among Police Scotland sergeants although no less good a detective for it, was doing a great job of indicating best-case scenario while promising nothing that would ensure that outcome for the twenty-something in the hot seat.
‘Perhaps just explain what the case is against my client and let us know what you want by way of information,’ the lawyer said drily.
‘Great idea, I can do that,’ Tripp said. ‘Thanks for being so direct. So, Vicki, I’d like to show you a couple of video clips and ask you to listen carefully to the audio. Would that be all right?’
Vicki nodded and Tripp hit play on the laptop that was kept on a separate table, just in case there was a sudden rise in hostilities and Vicki decided she needed something to use as a weapon. Looking at the young woman’s face, Ava decided that wasn’t going to be necessary. The first clip was enough to have her in tears.
The sight and sound of the laughing man had Vicki reaching across to hold her lawyer’s hand. The lawyer did his best to wriggle free.
‘Do you know that man, Vicki?’
‘Uh huh,’ Vicki responded, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
Ava reached behind her for the pile of tissues kept for such emergencies, knowing Tripp was a closet germaphobe. He and the lawyer both, by the look of it.
‘One more clip,’ Tripp persisted. ‘Perhaps have a sip of that tea, help calm you down, before I ask you any more questions.’
Ava had a growing sense of admiration. Any other officer would have gone in with a sledgehammer. Tripp wasn’t even pretending, though. Naturally sweet, he was a secret weapon. Callanach had seen the quiet brilliance in him before anyone else, encouraging him to go for promotion, knowing Tripp would excel. For a moment she wished Callanach were here, seeing the junior officer he’d help to train come into his own. It was the first moment her anger with him had been replaced by a more positive emotion. She squashed it and watched Vicki’s response as the second film clip came to an end.
‘Vicki, do you know that man?’ Tripp asked.
She nodded, her eyes unable to settle in a single spot in the small room.
‘Did you give him information about patients from the drop-in centre?’ Tripp continued.
‘Hold on a moment,’ the lawyer interjected. ‘I’d like to know what that young man is supposed to have done before my client answers that question. Sharing patient information in the circumstances might not be a criminal offence, but you can lay your cards on the table if you want anything more.’
‘What’s his name?’ Tripp asked, ignoring the lawyer and looking straight into Vicki’s eyes.
‘RJ,’ Vicki said.
‘This interview ends here until you provide some initial disclosure. This is a fishing expedition,’ the lawyer said.
Tripp looked at Ava, who pulled her chair forwards a couple of inches, all business, ignoring Vicki and addressing only the lawyer.
‘The male on the clip – this RJ – was at the scene of an attempted suicide. It was the Reach You charity that took the call to send out an emergency counsellor. We know from the records that it was Vicki who took the call and assigned Rune Maclure to the case. It was a different counsellor – Charlie Packham – who attended another suicide attempt yesterday in Pennywell Gardens, but your client took that call also. Sure enough, RJ was present at that scene, too.
‘Given that we have your client’s mobile phone and a court order to obtain her telecoms records, she might like to be transparent with us about her communications with RJ and explain why her friend is so interested in suicide attempts.’
‘I didn’t even think about it,’ Vicki said quietly. ‘At first, you know, RJ was just really interested in my work, like it was important and he respected me because of it.’
‘Go on,’ Tripp encouraged.
‘He said he wanted to attend one – an attempt, I mean. Not to watch it happen, he said, but to see how the counsellors do it, you know, talk people down. He made out as if they were heroic. I suppose I wanted it to seem like my job was more important than it was, so I said I’d tell him next time I got a call.’
‘Did you phone RJ to let him know when an attempt was happening?’ Tripp clarified.
‘I sent a text,’ Vicki said quietly.
She’d stopped crying but her head was hanging so low it was difficult to hear.
‘Did you give him any other details after that?’ Tripp asked.
‘Yeah, the Pennywell one yesterday. I didn’t want to. By then I’d realised there was something else going on,’ she muttered.
‘What’s RJ’s surname?’ Ava cut in.
‘I dunno.’ Vicki looked panicked.
‘How do you know him, if you don’t know his surname?’ she continued.
‘Five-a-side footie every Wednesday night. Mixed teams. Not a lot of women play, though. You just turn up and get put into a team. I don’t make friends easily, especially not other girls, but I was always good at footie, so it seemed like a way to meet people.’ She hugged herself self-consciously. ‘The team ended up going down the pub together each week. RJ and me got talking regularly, exchanged numbers. I thought he was cool. He’s kind of loud an
d funny. He told me he was a YouTuber. I thought that maybe … you know. I liked him.’
Ava got it. It was hard enough being a tomboy at school. Excluded by the pretty girls, laughed at by the boys. The real world was supposed to be kinder, but it wasn’t. Girls with broad frames, better suited to loose-fitting jeans and chunky trainers than tight skirts and stilettos, never seemed to fit in. People made assumptions about them. Trying to find a boyfriend at a football club was smart under the circumstances.
‘You were hoping RJ was going to ask you out?’ Ava clarified.
Vicki turned scarlet as she nodded.
‘So his number’s in your phone’s contact list, then?’ Tripp asked.
‘Aye, under RJ football,’ Vicki confirmed. ‘That second time, he’d already figured out I’d be in the shit if anyone found out I’d given him the Queensferry Crossing details. Said if I didn’t do the same again, he’d get me sacked.’
‘Did he tell you what he wanted the details for on that occasion?’ Tripp asked gently.
‘Yes, I knew what he was up to by then,’ Vicki sniffed.
‘Well I don’t, so does someone want to enlighten me?’ the lawyer asked loftily.
‘He told me he wanted to stream the events live, and get people betting on who’d actually kill themselves and who’d survive. Only when I saw what he’d put online, it was nasty stuff. Really awful, about how long it would take for them to die or if they’d be killed outright. He’d contacted a bookie, I know that.’
Fuck, Ava thought. Her instinct had told her to arrest the bookie straight away. At least they had a crystal-clear shot of his face on camera.
‘Website name?’ Tripp asked.
‘CheaperReaper.com. I only logged in once then I never went back. It’s gross,’ Vicki replied, chewing a nail. ‘RJ started asking me for details of the deaths I’d heard about at work. He wanted to know if I had access to any photos or pathologist reports. I told him I didn’t, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer and a few times he turned up at the drop-in centre to wait for me when he knew I had a break for lunch or was about to finish my shift. I had to pretend it was all normal, like we were still mates. I thought that maybe giving him the call yesterday might mean he’d leave me alone.’