Perfect Crime

by Helen Fields

  He saw the male ruffle the boy’s hair in his mind once more. Just before that, the boy had positioned himself between the woman and the man, jostling for control of the pram. It wasn’t just Lance. The boy hadn’t liked the man, either. Hadn’t wanted him next to his mother, or helping with the baby.

  He’d ruffled the boy’s hair. The image kept returning. No parent did that to someone else’s child. You didn’t do it to your own child because you knew children hated it. They really bloody hated it. Hair-ruffling was reserved for politicians who didn’t have children of their own, or who – if they did – had a nanny and hadn’t spent a single hour caring for the children without military-style backup.

  Lance’s next thought – and it came with a clarity that made his chest hurt – was that the man wasn’t a parent at all. He knew it the same as he’d known when his wife had decided to leave him and when he’d known his son was experimenting with drugs. He just knew. But he’d been carrying nappies. Keeping them in full view, up in his arms. In the woman’s face. Like a badge of domesticity. He might as well have been wearing a sign on his chest that read: I’m a dad.

  Lance unlocked his car door and began to climb out, wondering if he’d finally lost the plot. Then there’d been the scene at the door. The boy had stood, scowling, demanding either an answer or an explanation, as if requesting the magic password. Open sesame. It had worked, only the man had been more interested in the sirens that had come and gone just as the boy had allowed him in. The smile, that big, broad smile, had seemed almost fixed in place. No, not almost. Utterly fixed, like someone auditioning for a game show. Look at me, the smile had said. Gosh, I’m a happy, friendly guy.

  Lance took his mobile from his pocket and dialled Callanach’s number. He was greeted by an invitation to leave a voicemail. He tried again. Still no answer. By now, he was at the door to the flats. He looked up the road. The area, of course, was deserted. No one was coming to open up who he could charm in his older-guy kind of way to let him in.

  He should call Ava Turner instead, he thought. Only to say what? This guy walking towards Janet Vargas’ flat had been carrying shopping that didn’t match Lance’s experience of parenting. And he had a creepy smile, too – mustn’t forget that crucial bit of evidence. It was ridiculous and yet it felt as real as the bag of crisps he hadn’t realised he was still clutching in his hands. He looked down into the sack of salt-and-vinegar flavoured saturated fat and knew he had to do something. Anything.

  He phoned MIT, grateful the number was still in his phone from his previous work with Callanach.

  ‘Hi, I need to speak with DCI Turner as a matter of urgency, please,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, DCI Turner’s out at the moment. We’re expecting her back later tonight. Can I take a message?’

  Lance racked his brains for other names.

  ‘Um, wait, Max Tripp. Is he there?’ he tried.

  ‘No, also out. I’m afraid the department’s a bit low on personnel right now. If it’s an emergency, I can put you through to the switchboard to get police units to you?’

  He thought about that. There was no emergency. Just a suspicion. And a block of flats with a possibly dodgy man inside, who could have a million different reasons for carrying a small pack of nappies and chocolate cereal. Perhaps his wife was pregnant and craving chocolate goodies, and they wanted the smallest pack of nappies possible for practising changing techniques. Lance felt like an idiot.

  ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘If you could just leave a message for DCI Turner that I called. The name’s Lance Proudfoot. She knows who I am.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ the woman on the other end of the line said. ‘I’ll let her know.’

  Lance almost hoped Ava wouldn’t phone him back. The more minutes that went by, the less certain he was of what he’d seen, or at least of what he’d deduced from it.

  The outer door to the flats opened as he stood, poised and ready to return to his car, and to go home to a warm flat and a numbing hour of TV. The exiting teenagers didn’t even look at him. He didn’t exist to them. Not a threat, not a friend, not a girl. They left the door open, with Lance standing in range of it. His hands hung at his sides, but his foot was quicker, pushing out a toe to stop it from closing.

  There was a stairway to the right, an elevator to the left and a passageway leading to ground-floor flats stretching ahead into the distance. Lance screwed up the nearly empty packet of crisps and shoved it deep in his pocket, putting his mobile away at the same time. He had nothing to lose except his evening and there were enough of those free in his diary not to be concerned about that. With one final look up the street, wondering where the sirens had been headed and if that was also where Ava Turner was right now, Lance Proudfoot stepped inside.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  17 March

  They raced through the city, using lights and sirens until they got near their destination. Other units joined them from all directions. Heading north-west, they took the Queensferry Road and made for Barnton Grove. Approaching RJ’s flat on foot was a silent operation. Armed units were in place. They already had a view of the flat windows, although there was no sign that anyone was home.

  Rufus Jacob Bott was the sole tenant of a one-bedroomed flat, unless he had a girlfriend they didn’t know about. They’d accessed his Facebook account and there were no pictures of him looking coupled-up, so Ava was feeling confident about that. His Facebook page was all about him. Egotist central, Tripp had called it. Thousands of selfies. Rants. Links to videos, some of which were certainly illegal. Photos – many obviously real, some possibly Photoshopped – of dead bodies. RJ was a man obsessed, but the betting on suicides was clearly a new thing. An opportunistic element perhaps inspired by meeting Vicki. The problem was that it seemed to have inspired something much darker than a simple desire to see people die at their own hand.

  Ava briefed the squad.

  ‘Keep it clean and quick. Don’t make any unnecessary conversation with him. Take him down, caution him. I want his flat checked thoroughly and everything seized. All items of clothing. We don’t know what might have a victim’s DNA on it. Also, focus on electronics. We know his primary focus is on screening deaths and that he uploads footage regularly, so phones, computers, laptops, cameras. Keep the use of force to the absolute minimum – no one gets heavy-handed. I won’t have his lawyers challenge us in court over procedure. No one talks to him in the van on the way to the station. The cuffs will be correctly applied and they mustn’t leave marks. Questions?’

  ‘The Jon Moffat killing suggests he’s familiar with guns. What if he’s armed, ma’am?’

  ‘You’re all wearing protective vests. If you suspect he’s armed, stay back and let armed units deal with him. The priority then will be to establish that there’s no one else in the flat. All other flats in the block must be secured before we go in.’

  Tripp’s phone rang and he walked away from the group.

  ‘Right, moving in one minute,’ Ava said. ‘Keep in radio contact. Each team has been assigned a floor. Call it in once you have your area safe. No one uses a doorway after that until the safe signal has been given. Let’s go.’

  They started jogging towards the allocated building entrances.

  ‘A couple of people have called the incident room for you, ma’am,’ Tripp said as they got close to the building exterior. ‘Lance Proudfoot, who I think is DI Callanach’s friend.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ava said as they entered. Callanach was the last distraction she needed right now. ‘And?’

  ‘Someone from traffic. Not sure what that was about. They left a number and asked you to call back. I’ve forwarded the details to your phone.’

  ‘Follow me,’ Ava said, taking the first staircase, nodding to other units along the way as they quietly knocked on one door after another, showing their ID badges before giving whispered explanations to each resident about their purpose and what was about to happen. Bolts could be heard slipping into place with each floor
they left.

  RJ lived on the fourth, and top, floor, at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Limited neighbours who might hear or suspect something,’ Ava said. ‘Innocuous flat, within easy reach of the Queensferry Crossing. Makes sense that he managed to get to the Stephen Berry incident quickly.’

  In front of her was a team of officers ready to use force, if necessary, to enter the apartment. She checked her body armour one last time and gave the go signal.

  Initially, the door was knocked on quietly and without fuss. No response. They knocked again, listening through the closed door with a high-sensitivity microphone. The officer using it pulled away from the door, pointing to the other side of it, then giving a whirling signal with his forefinger. Someone was inside the apartment and choosing not to answer the door. Ava nodded her consent to move to the second phase of attempted entry.

  ‘Police, move away from the door!’ the officer at the front shouted loudly.

  Ava covered her ears as an Enforcer was used to batter the lock section of the door. It gave way on the first ramming. The door flew open, slamming against the wall behind it, and a stream of bodies disappeared into the lounge area.

  A new voice began shouting before Ava could even reach the front door, then there were yelled instructions and the heavy, dull thump of a body hitting carpet. A caution was given. The response was a stream of expletives followed by commands to stop struggling. Ava went in.

  RJ Bott was face down on the floor thrashing his legs uselessly as officers restrained him. She looked around his flat, drinking in the chaos: three half-empty cereal bowls decorated the floor. There was nothing on the walls except a large TV screen. The furniture was mismatched and threadbare, and the only literature to be seen was a tatty porn magazine that no one in their right mind was going to touch without heavy-duty gloves and a litter picker stick. The back windows looked out into a shared garden area surrounded by trees, but only through the cracks between the blackout curtains held up with gaffer tape.

  ‘I’m guessing he doesn’t use the place for romance much,’ Tripp said, pointing to a pair of underwear left over the back of the armchair, obviously worn.

  Ava looked away. Every crime scene, every house she’d raided, left a stain in her head. The man on the floor protesting something about human rights and access to a lawyer may not have been expecting visitors, but that didn’t excuse the foulness of his living space.

  She walked into the bedroom – a mattress on the floor with bedding that was stained in a manner resembling bodily fluid tie-dyeing – and caught sight of a collage in the mirror in front of her. For a moment she didn’t want to look. The last time she’d seen so many carefully displayed pictures of dead bodies was when she’d been studying a police course in forensic pathology.

  Drawing breath, she swung round. Hangings, burnings, falls, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, apparent cult poisonings – it was all there. Some were old press photos, others newer and in colour, most taken from the Internet and printed off. More surprising was the love with which the images had been taped to the wall, each with a clear centimetre border, none overlapping. This was no desperate, disorganised fetishist. Whatever else was chaotic about RJ’s life, this part of it was where he channelled all his concentration, his excellence. His love – if anything so macabre could ever be couched in such idealistic terms.

  There was a sudden further eruption of noise from the lounge. Ava dashed for the door, to find Tripp yelling across everyone.

  ‘Asthma inhaler. Locate it. Now!’

  She fought through the crowd of bodies surrounding Bott and found the man gasping dramatically, if not convincingly.

  ‘Need an ambulance,’ Bott panted, leaning heavily on the officer at his side.

  ‘Or a better drama teacher,’ Ava muttered. Tripp gave what could only be thought of as an old-fashioned look. ‘Fine, let’s be cautious, call the paramedics in.’

  ‘Ma’m, he’s turning an odd colour,’ an officer shouted.

  Ava stepped closer to him.

  ‘Mr Bott, you need to calm down and try to breathe in a more controlled manner.’

  He rolled his eyes ceiling-wards and sank to the floor. Ava caught the slight smile at the corners of his mouth and fought the urge to knee him somewhere that would help to return him to full consciousness.

  ‘Paramedics’ll be here in one minute,’ Tripp notified her.

  ‘No rush. He’s faking it,’ she said, looking at her watch.

  ‘Are you sure? Only he seems to have passed out, ma’am,’ Tripp said, taking a knee at Bott’s side and feeling for his pulse.

  ‘Is his breath rasping now or has he relaxed?’ she asked.

  Tripp leaned over and listened at Bott’s mouth.

  ‘No, breathing seems normal, actually.’

  ‘Neat trick,’ Ava said. ‘Rapid, excessive breathing. Made himself pass out. Buys time. Gives himself an opportunity to prepare for questioning.’

  Standing aside as the medics entered, Ava forced herself to keep quiet and let uniformed officers answer questions.

  ‘He’ll need to be taken to the hospital and checked out,’ was the conclusion. ‘He’ll have to be stretchered out.’

  ‘Give me strength,’ Ava said. ‘Tripp, organise an escort and a guard at the hospital. Make sure he’s not left unattended at any time. I want to speak with the doctor who assesses him as soon as they’ve reached a conclusion about Bott’s stability.’

  ‘Got it,’ Tripp said. ‘Any other specific instructions?’

  ‘Only one. Get him into an interview room this evening at the latest. No lingering overnight in a hospital bed while he regains his strength. I want this bastard charged and in a cell before I go to bed tonight. Absolutely no mistakes.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  17 March

  Lance took the stairs slowly, listening for signs of life behind each door he passed. Voices approached from the stairwell above, and he dragged an old receipt from his pocket and pretended to be reading it as a couple approached.

  ‘So I told the doctor, there was no way I was going into hospital just for that …’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lance said, an apologetic but winning smile, practised over many journalistic years to chivvy information from the unsuspecting, plastered on his face. ‘I’m looking for Janet Vargas. I know this is the right block, but it seems I haven’t got her flat number written down right.’

  ‘Vargas?’ the woman repeated. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name. You sure you’re in the right place?’

  ‘I thought I was … sorry, I don’t want to keep you. She’s about thirty, slim, roughly five foot five inches, dark hair, kind of Spanish-looking.’

  ‘You mean Janet Monroe,’ the man said. ‘Pretty, brown eyes, dark hair …’

  ‘Oh, really?’ the woman chipped in. ‘So she’s pretty, is she?’

  The man sighed and Lance felt a twinge of guilt at the amount of grovelling the man was going to spend his evening doing.

  ‘That’s her,’ Lance said. ‘Do you know her flat number?’

  ‘Not sure exactly, but it’s on the third floor, right-hand side near the end of the corridor,’ the man offered, looking anxious to move on.

  Lance didn’t blame him. His partner had adopted a hands-on-hips stance that didn’t bode well.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lance said. ‘Appreciate the help.’

  ‘Why do you want to know, anyway? She can’t be expecting you if you didn’t even have her name right,’ the woman said.

  However much of a hard time she was about to give her partner, Lance was pleased she was suspicious. Too many people gave out information thoughtlessly.

  ‘I’m a journalist, actually,’ he said, getting his semi-official credentials out of his pocket and handing them over for inspection. ‘There was an incident in the city this afternoon that Janet was involved in. I’m just following up the story. Feel free to take a note of my name if it’ll make you feel better about it.’

  ‘
What sort of incident?’ the man asked.

  ‘Why are you so interested?’ the woman shot back.

  As the argument got into full swing, Lance took the opportunity to raise a hand in both thanks and farewell, taking the stairs to the third floor two steps at a time.

  The couple’s raised voices began to fade as he moved down the corridor, pausing at each door on the right-hand side, having ignored the first few. There were lights on inside the final three, with televisions or radios playing in two of those. He fought the sense that something was wrong. Imagination was the most powerful tool in the world. It was the reason propaganda started wars and why horror movies were so popular. Hitchcock was directing a thriller inside his head and right then it wasn’t looking good for the about-to-be victim.

  He picked the middle of the three doors, beyond which he could hear a female with an Essex accent screeching at – in his head – a fake-tanned, plucked-eyebrows male, about how he’d cheated on her with her best friend. Reality TV was as easy to identify as the theme tune from The Archers had been when he was a boy. He knocked and waited.

  The door was wrenched open by a teenager, chewing gum opened-mouth and staring at him.

  ‘Hello, sorry to bother you, I was looking for Janet Monroe?’

  ‘Mum!’ the girl yelled, tongue piercing on full show, gum stretching from the stud to one of her back teeth. ‘There’s some old bloke here.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake …’

  Sofa springs squealed in relief and heavy footsteps approached. The woman who came to the door clutching a giant ‘sharing’ bag of toffee popcorn didn’t look any more impressed than her daughter had.