by Helen Fields
‘That’s all?’ Tripp asked.
‘Yes, I know it’s bad and I’ll lose my job, but I had no idea what I was getting into. I’m such a fucking idiot.’
‘Do you know RJ’s address?’ Tripp asked.
‘No, but he’s got a car, a knackered old silver BMW. Thinks he’s God’s gift in it.’
‘Miss Rosach, I’m going to give you some names and I want you to tell us if you gave RJ information about any of these people, or if he asked you about them, or spoke about them. It’s very important, both for you and for us, that your answers are accurate. Do you understand me?’ Ava asked.
‘Sure,’ she whispered.
‘Jon Moffat,’ she began.
Vicki shook her head.
‘Fenella Hawksmith.’
‘Sorry, isn’t she the woman who …’ The lawyer suddenly sounded more interested.
Ava shut him up with a single piercing look.
‘Osaki Shozo,’ she finished.
Vicki actually looked relieved.
‘Oh yeah, I remember that one,’ she said as if she was finally about to be told well done.
‘Remember him?’ Ava asked.
‘He came to the drop-in centre when I was working. Different to most people who came in. Quite calm and direct. I thought he was a bit freaky, to be honest.’
‘Did you give his details to RJ?’
‘No, I lied and said I knew nothing about him. He was being really pushy by then, asking me things right outside the office where other people could hear. I knew better than to get myself in that sort of trouble.’
‘If you said you knew nothing about Mr Shozo, how did RJ come to ask you about him?’ Tripp asked.
‘He saw him,’ Vicki said. ‘One of the days when he came to meet me at work that Shozo bloke was coming out the same time RJ turned up. Why?’
Vicki looked at Tripp, then at Ava, and finally to her lawyer, who was already rubbing his hands over his eyes.
‘Do you not read any news at all or watch the TV, Vicki?’ Tripp asked, doing his best – and only just failing – to keep the incredulity from his voice.
‘Naw, I bloody hate all that. Really depressing. I like reality TV, action films and sport. I don’t bother with the rest of it,’ she said.
Ava took a deep breath. ‘So you’ve not heard about the murders happening in the city at the moment, then?’
‘Obviously I’ve heard a bit, but I’ve not read anything, like,’ she replied.
‘So you’re unaware that Stephen Berry, from the Queensferry Crossing, ended up dead at the base of Tantallon Castle and that Osaki Shozo was killed in his flat. At the moment, the only link between those two deaths is you and your friend, RJ.’
Vicki’s hands went to her eyes first, then to her mouth.
‘You’re shitting me,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to be. I can’t have done that.’
‘We’ll let you know,’ Ava told her, ‘just as soon as we’ve had a chat with your pal.’
‘Rufus Jacob Bott,’ Tripp announced to the waiting squad. ‘To be fair, if that were my name, I might have reinvented myself as RJ, too. His phone contract provider has given his address and we’ve already confirmed that he has a silver BMW registered to him. He’s twenty-four years of age and lives in a flat in the north-west of the city.’
‘Good work,’ Ava said. ‘Have we got anywhere on how he might have got details on Hawksmith and Moffat?’
‘Nothing so far, but I believed Vicki. I don’t think she’d ever heard the other names you gave him. He managed to get information from Vicki, though, so it’s possible RJ approached other mental health workers or support charities and got the information elsewhere.’
‘I agree,’ Ava said. ‘We’re ready to mobilise, just waiting on an armed unit to confirm they can provide backup, then we’ll enter his flat and see what we get. Pull all units working on this from everywhere in the city. No mistakes picking him up. I don’t want any hostage situations, no escape routes. Do we know if RJ has a job?’
‘Not as such,’ Tripp said, ‘but it looks like Vicki was right about this guy posting nasty stuff online. I can’t get into the website yet. It’s members only, not fancy security but enough to keep the Internet team busy until we get back here. What I have seen, though, is that RJ was trying to build a name for himself as a video blogger. Lots about death, seems to be a big fan of some other dick who made a video visiting places known for suicides across the world. Also, he’s offering money to anyone who can provide footage of people dying, doesn’t matter if it’s natural causes or not.’
‘Someone notify Janet Monroe that we have a suspect and will be moving in on him shortly. And tell her good job for suggesting the bait operation,’ Ava said. ‘Let’s get moving. There are units already on route to secure a one-street circular perimeter around his home and to ensure his car doesn’t leave in the meantime. Five minutes until we go.’
She waited until the crowd had dispersed.
‘Is it wrong to want the armed units to mishear a signal and just shoot him straight away?’ Ava whispered quietly to Tripp.
‘Just as long as you don’t actually suggest it to anyone, I think you’re allowed to wish for whatever you want, ma’am,’ Tripp said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
17 March
The Crow wasn’t at home. He’d been there until half an hour earlier, waiting for the light to fade from the sky. Now, he was sitting outside a block of flats, looking up at the third floor, trying to figure out which windows belonged to Janet Vargas. He was pumped, physically and metaphorically.
It had been a strange sort of day, with a variety of demands on his time, but he’d found thirty minutes to lift weights. He could see the changes in his body since he’d consumed the bird. He was more wiry, every muscle and vein defined as if he were an anatomical pencil sketch of himself.
The power he held within was more impressive still. His mind was working with an energy and precision he’d never experienced before. Making decisions was easy, reading other people and staying a step ahead of them had become second nature. But the need for more, to consume more and become more, was like a chain dragging him by the guts onwards. It was an insatiable appetite. If he didn’t feed it, it would start to consume him instead. So Janet Vargas was a risk, but one he was certain he could afford to take. Not carelessly, though.
He waited in his car, watching for people approaching the flats. A single male went by, and that wasn’t right. Then an elderly lady, but she was already looking like thunder. Approaching her would be like setting off an alarm.
It took another hour before exactly the right set of circumstances presented themselves. A young mother walked down the street looking hassled, with two kids in tow and another in a pram. The Crow put on his biggest smile and his most relaxed but reassuring voice, keeping his keys in his right hand and filling his other arm with a bag of grocery shopping from the nearest supermarket.
Since he’d become The Crow, little details like that had become more obvious to him. Want to look unthreatening? Fill a shopping bag with some cheap-brand nappies, chocolate breakfast cereal, washing-up liquid, teabags, oven chips and a bunch of nice but inexpensive flowers from the bucket at the supermarket door.
He opened his car door just as the woman was wandering past, making a show of trying to avoid her children and using the ‘excuse me’ as a way to start a conversation.
‘Pauline, for goodness’ sake, would ye get out o’ the man’s way, girl!’ the woman chided.
‘Aw, don’t worry yerself,’ he replied good-naturedly. ‘I’ve two myself. They threatened to start screaming if I didn’t make sure we had their favourite breakfast cereal for tomorrow morning.’ He nodded ruefully at the bag of shopping for good measure. ‘Me and the wife only moved in a few weeks ago. Takes a while to get to know a place, doesn’t it?’
‘That it does,’ she replied. ‘Where’ve you come from?’
He fell into step next to her, keeping his pace s
low to match the pram, smiling down at the children.
‘Fraserburgh,’ he said. ‘How old’s your wee one? I wish mine would sleep so peacefully. I don’t think we’ve had a break from the screaming since the little love arrived in the world.’
‘Three months, and take it from me, he’s just having a good ten minutes. When he wakes up hungry, you’d be able to hear him even if you still lived in Fraserburgh!’
The Crow laughed appreciatively, showing sharp teeth to the children, who were staring at the curious man walking so close to their mother. The boy moved forwards, taking a place at his mother’s side, staring at each adult in turn. Didn’t every boy get jealous when another male got their mother’s attention? Good lad, The Crow decided. Protect what’s yours. Just don’t get in my way.
Continuing down the road, ever closer to the flats, she began fumbling in her handbag as she walked.
‘I’m surprised I haven’t bumped into you before,’ he said. ‘Usually you get to know the pram brigade before anyone else. It’s kind of reassuring to know other people are going through all the same stages as you. Which floor do you live on?’
‘Second,’ she said. ‘Damn, I can never find my keys in this bag.’
‘Here, let me push the pram for you a second,’ he offered.
‘I’ll do it,’ the boy said, pushing forwards and grabbing at the handle.
The Crow got there just ahead of him.
‘Naw, you’re all right,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve clocked up enough hours behind a pram to be a safe driver for your wee baby here.’
The woman laughed, pulling out her purse and the baby’s dummy.
‘Don’t fuss,’ she told the boy. ‘I’ll just be a sec.’
A couple of minutes later, she pulled out a set of keys that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the belt of a night security guard. The Crow carried on pushing for another minute as she zipped her bag up and sorted along the line of keys to find the one that fit the outer door.
‘Hey,’ The Crow said to the boy who looked to be about six years old. ‘Who’s your favourite football team, then?’
‘Hearts,’ the boy said proudly. ‘Every other team is crap!’
‘Lennox!’ the woman scolded. ‘Mind your language. God, I’m sorry, gets it from his daddy. Mild as you like until there’s football on the telly, then you wouldn’t know it was the same man.’
‘Aye, well, if you can’t swear a bit about football, when can you?’
She looked grateful not to have been judged and the boy accepted The Crow ruffling his hair with only the bare minimum of a grimace.
The Crow enjoyed playing the part. It proved what he already knew but hadn’t had a chance to put into practice yet: that he was ready to become. He could change almost every aspect of himself to fit whatever role he needed to play. Nature was a clever beast. It allowed you to stalk your prey silently but gave you a roar that would deafen the herd. It provided you with the softest feathers, bones as light as air, but a beak that could gouge eyes and rip out a still-beating heart. He was stronger than ever because he’d learned to portray weakness.
Now the woman was talking about a toddler group. Did his imaginary wife want to join? And don’t sign up with the doctor’s surgery round the corner because you’ll wait two weeks for an appointment. A longer journey and you could see a doctor the same day you phoned.
He smiled broadly as she talked, the grin becoming more and more genuine as they neared the door to the flats. It had been easier than he’d imagined. Integrate yourself into someone else’s unit, look like you belonged, appear at home. If anyone was watching, they’d see a man walking comfortably with his partner and her children. What could possibly be suspect about that? And they were laughing, having a good time. Ruffling the boy’s hair had been a genius touch. Helping with the pram for a minute, even better.
The woman pushed her key into the outer lock. He stepped back, holding the door as she pushed the pram in first. A siren wailed in the distance, coming closer. The girl – Pauline, who he’d so convincingly nearly fallen over – went next. The boy stopped in the doorway, staring up at him.
‘You never told me who you support,’ he said.
The sirens were getting louder now and The Crow stared up the road.
‘Hearts, of course, same as you,’ he smiled, wanting to get inside now.
‘Doesnae make any sense,’ the boy continued.
‘What doesn’t?’ The Crow asked, wondering if it would spook the woman if he pushed past her son. He couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion at such a crucial stage.
‘You’re from Fraserburgh, you said. Why would you support Hearts? My dad says you should stay true to your hometown.’
The sirens were nearer now, then there were lights, frantic flashed reflections in the windows at the end of the road.
‘I was born in Edinburgh,’ The Crow said quickly. ‘I moved to Fraserburgh when I was a teenager. Your dad sounds like a very sensible man.’
‘Would you come on?’ the woman scolded the boy abruptly. ‘Before the baby wakes up.’
‘Sorry, Mam,’ the boy said, stepping into the building and letting The Crow in, too, as the lights and sirens flashed past the end of the road and away up the hill.
He breathed out, enjoying the small victory, letting it mask his relief.
‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said to the woman who was climbing into the lift. ‘Good to have met you.’
‘Be sure to tell your wife about the toddler group. It’d be nice to have someone to go with!’ she called as the doors finally closed.
The Crow began climbing the stairs to the third floor.
Lance Proudfoot saw a child run around the slight bend in the road first, a boy, older than five but no more than eight. Now that his own son was grown-up, he found it harder to age young children accurately. He could see the heads of the adults accompanying him above the top of a row of parked cars, talking to one another, nodding occasionally, looking relaxed. Other people had come and gone, but none had looked out of place.
A young man had walked past having a loud row on his mobile about money, drawing attention to himself with his bad language. Not a tactic a potential killer would employ. Lance kept checking the vicinity for other people sat in their cars. He was sure the police would be around somewhere.
A car carrying two men had just taken off and he hadn’t got a good view of them. He was mostly just surprised that no one had come to ask what he was up to, given how long he’d been sitting there.
Lastly, an elderly lady had shuffled along and into the building, struggling to get her key into the lock. Lance had fought with himself not to get out and offer to help, but that would have defeated the purpose of staying low, keeping the internal lights off, and avoiding using his mobile and streaming blue light onto his face.
The newcomers were fully visibly now, pram in front of the woman, and a girl, younger than the boy, struggling to keep up. As they walked slowly towards the outer door of the flats, the woman began searching in her handbag. Keys, Lance decided. His wife had never been able to find hers once she’d put them in her handbag, either. The man said something and the boy stepped forwards, trying to take hold of the pram. The man got there first, using his longer stride and height to take control. The look on the boy’s face was thunder.
Lance sat up to get a better look at them. The woman pulled a set of keys from her bag with a relieved half-smile. By then the man was laughing and ruffling the boy’s hair. The male was good-looking. Tall. And he was making an effort. A first-date kind of effort, Lance thought. Not a ‘just bumped into your neighbour’ kind of effort, or an ‘aren’t you a friend of …’ kind of effort. The wide grin was way too much for people who knew each other well.
Then they were at the door. The woman opened up, pushing the pram through, the girl following, but the boy stood in the doorway, something approaching a scowl on his face. Sirens disrupted the quiet evening at a distance and the man looked away into the di
stance at their source, just as Lance did. He wondered what he was doing there, if he was missing the real story, sat in his own little world, having convinced himself yet again to follow his gut.
The sirens got closer and still the boy didn’t cede the entranceway to the man. They were involved in quite a discussion and the boy’s face was sombre, questioning. The man’s smile held fast.
The siren grew closer and louder, but Lance told himself not to look away. He got the clear impression that the boy wasn’t happy. Then it broke. The boy smiled again, the man was allowed to pass into the building and the reflections from the streetlights drew a reflected curtain over the action happening behind the glass.
Opening a packet of crisps, Lance contemplated his life. Since teaming up with Luc Callanach, things had become both more exciting and more painful – and teaming up was a vast overstatement of his own importance – but it felt good to be doing real work again. His younger days as an investigative journalist had got him in no end of scrapes and he’d loved them all. His now ex-wife hadn’t shared his enthusiasm, nor been keen on the amount of time he’d spent travelling. So he’d compromised and settled down. Or maybe he’d just settled. Got lazy, to be brutally honest with himself. Now Callanach was out of the loop and Lance was stuck chasing hunches instead of cold, hard facts.
He hadn’t liked the man who’d pushed the pram. The thought came to him, a non sequitur mixed into memories of other more successful points of his career. That was ridiculous, though. You couldn’t dislike someone based on seeing them talk – not even hearing them – for three minutes as they walked along, or because their smile had seemed excessive in the circumstances.
Only he really hadn’t liked him. He wasn’t imagining it. It had been to do with the ruffling of the boy’s hair. Lance closed his eyes and reconstructed the details in his mind. The man had been carrying a shopping bag, a full one, up in his arm. Entirely macho positioning, like he was too embarrassed to carry it swinging from his hand like a housewife. Balanced on the top of the shopping, prominently, had been a pack of nappies. A small pack. Usually when Lance saw them in the supermarket they were the huge bumper packs and the damned things were expensive. No point buying them unless you were buying in bulk. The man hadn’t thought of that, apparently.