Perfect Crime

by Helen Fields

  ‘What?’ she demanded.

  ‘I was looking for Janet Monroe,’ Lance said. ‘Do you—’

  ‘Next door.’ The woman poked a finger to the door at the very end of the corridor and slammed her own shut.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lance said out of habit, to the wood in front of his face, trying not to laugh.

  Just like that, the spell was broken. It was just a block of flats with all the normal stuff going on behind closed doors. The reality TV watchers had plainly heard nothing to cause them any concern. There had been no gunshots, no screams, no thumps against the walls, or they’d have greeted his enquiry about the woman next door with more concern. Still, he’d come so far. It’d be ridiculous to waste all the effort he’d gone to. And maybe Janet Vargas – or Monroe, or whatever name she chose to go by – would appreciate a friendly face checking up on her. He knew what it was like to spend so much time alone in your own home that sometimes you forgot there was a world of friendly people outside your door who actually did care about you.

  He knocked. No reply. She might be asleep, of course. Possibly sedated given the day she’d had. He knocked one more time. That time he heard a voice from within, asking who it was.

  ‘Janet, I’m Lance Proudfoot. I appreciate you don’t know me, but I was worried about you,’ he said, feeling ridiculous, intrusive, like a kid caught peeping into a bedroom window. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I saw a man come into the flats earlier and … you know what? Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have bothered you.’

  The door opened halfway. Janet stood smiling at him. He felt relieved immediately. She was fine. It had all been in his head. The wave of relief was quickly flooded with a sense of terrible embarrassment. She was within her rights to consider him some sort of gruesome stalker. He’d be lucky if she didn’t call the police as soon as he left. Only, she wasn’t looking annoyed at all. She was grinning, which wasn’t right at all. She didn’t know him. In fact, her reasoning for opening the door at all suddenly felt … he struggled to find the word.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said brightly, her eyes twitching towards the end of the corridor from which he’d come. Twice, three times. He wasn’t imagining it. ‘It was nice of you to check on me, but you should probably go.’

  Wrong. That was the word. It was that simple. She didn’t know him, should never have opened up. Only now she was trying to get rid of him, but she wasn’t saying it.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you …’

  ‘I was just about to go to bed, so you should really go now,’ she said, her throat as taut as a stringed instrument in spite of the radiance of her smile.

  Lance took a half step to the side to get a better view inside her flat.

  ‘Janet, if something’s wrong I can call the police,’ Lance said quietly.

  The tip of a gun – just the tip, but Lance had seen enough of them to know what he was seeing – was aimed at him from behind Janet’s shoulder. He couldn’t see the face of the person holding it, but he already knew it was the man he’d seen worming his way inside the flats earlier. Janet’s face fell. Her adorable attempt to save Lance from getting involved in whatever drama was unfolding inside her flat had failed.

  ‘Inside, now,’ the male ordered him.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Lance said. There were benefits to getting older and one of them was that fear, while in no way diminished, was often accompanied by a healthy dose of belligerence. ‘I think you’ll just have to shoot me in this corridor. I’m guessing the police would be here within a couple of minutes. The neighbours won’t want their TV time ruined by gunshots.’

  The gun moved fluidly to press into Janet’s right temple.

  ‘Okay,’ the man said. ‘Have it your way. Only it’s not you I’m going to shoot.’

  Janet closed her eyes.

  ‘All right. Whatever you want,’ Lance said. ‘Just lower the gun, would you?’

  ‘Don’t come in here,’ Janet blurted. ‘I’ll be …’

  Lance stepped inside. ‘The police are on their way,’ he said.

  ‘Really? I find that hard to believe, given you had no idea what the situation was inside this flat. I’m curious, though, as to what brought you here in the first place.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Lance asked.

  ‘I’ll answer if you will,’ the man grinned. ‘First things first, there’s some rope in that bag there. Right down in the bottom. Throw out the nappies and the cereal. I won’t be needing those any more.’

  ‘I’m not handing you any rope,’ Lance said. ‘Why don’t you let Janet go? You’ve got me now. I’ll take her place.’

  ‘Take her place?’ he laughed. ‘This isn’t some random act. Nature has laws. There has to be an accounting when you take life for granted.’

  He pulled the back of Janet’s shirt down and she crashed hard onto the sofa.

  ‘Survival of the fittest?’ Lance asked.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand. I asked how you found me?’

  ‘The boy you walked into these flats with didn’t trust you,’ Lance said, watching Janet slip her hand into the left pocket of her jeans and noting the outline of a mobile phone through the material.

  ‘You’re lying. The boy was fine with me. Why were you watching me in the first place?’

  ‘I was watching the flats,’ Lance said. ‘I realised someone might come for Janet. That’s why I called DCI Turner before I came in after you.’

  ‘But you see, right now, DCI Turner’s pursuing a suspect she has good reason to believe is a dangerous killer. She’s going to be busy for a while. In fact, given how frantic she must be, I doubt you spoke to Ava at all.’

  Lance liked to think he had a fair poker face, but it wasn’t fast enough on that occasion. The man wasn’t concerned in the least and that meant he was telling the truth. Lance’s eyes returned involuntarily to where Janet was still furiously tapping buttons in her pocket. The man followed his gaze. Whipping the gun in front of her face and bringing it sharply upwards, he smashed the metal into the base of her nasal septum. There was a full second where no one moved or made a sound, then blood gushed down her T-shirt and she howled, leaning forwards and clutching her face.

  ‘Give me the phone,’ the man said.

  Lance felt a sensation of self-loathing like he’d never experienced before. He’d thought he was being clever, distracting the man, keeping him talking, but it was him being played. Nothing like a well-educated psychopath holding a gun to ruin your day, he thought bitterly as Janet produced her mobile and handed it over.

  ‘Good, now lie on your back on the floor,’ the man instructed her.

  Lance saw panic on her face and knew it reflected his own.

  ‘You said an answer for an answer,’ he said. ‘I asked who you are.’

  ‘I used to be someone,’ the man said. ‘Now I’ve become something more. I’m The Crow.’

  Sod it, Lance thought, the last dregs of hope seeping into the carpet along with the blood from Janet’s dripping nose. Not just intelligent but deeply deranged. That was just bloody great.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ The Crow said.

  ‘Not what?’ Lance asked.

  ‘Not crazy,’ he smiled. ‘I know what you were thinking. You have a very expressive face. I doubt you’ve ever been able to hide anything from the people who know you best. Unlike Janet, here. Not a word since I arrived. Cautious, quiet, guarded. Not at all what I was expecting.’

  Janet spat a mouthful of blood across the floor and took a deep breath.

  ‘I called for help,’ she said, gasping for breath.

  The Crow laughed. ‘Called for help? Who’s coming? Who could you possibly have in your contacts book who’s going to race in here and rescue you?’ He picked up her mobile and tapped the screen. ‘Max? He must be an impressive specimen if you think he’s going to pick a fight with a man holding a gun. And what did you say to him?’ He scrolled down the screen. ‘999. Very dramatic, except he might just think you’ve run
out of petrol or lost your credit card. He’s hardly going to be knocking your door down any time soon.’

  ‘Max Tripp,’ Janet said. ‘You’ve met him.’

  A shadow passed over The Crow’s face. ‘Tripp?’ he repeated vaguely. ‘Where do I …?’

  ‘He’s a detective from the Major Investigation Team,’ Janet said. ‘He works with DI Callanach.’

  ‘Of course,’ The Crow said.

  He lurched forwards, grabbing the back of Janet’s neck with his left hand and thrusting the gun under her chin, dragging her to the floor, shoving her onto her knees then kicking her hard in the hip and ribs.

  ‘On your back,’ he said. ‘Right now. Enough talking.’

  ‘Stop kicking her,’ Lance shouted, flying forwards, sending a punch in The Crow’s direction as Janet collapsed on the floor.

  He stumbled and his fist struck air as The Crow brought an open hand towards the side of Lance’s head and swiped towards the floor.

  The Crow was simply planning on slapping him. That was Lance’s most naive thought. A slap would have been a blessing compared to the crack of skull on skull as he ploughed into Janet. The Crow might be deluded, and Janet might have taken him by surprise, but the man/bird knew how to fight.

  Lance heard groaning and realised Janet was badly hurt beneath him. He tried to move and realised he couldn’t. His arms and legs felt like lead, and when he opened his eyes, the world had become a too-bright haze, accompanied by a high-pitch squealing.

  Janet Monroe – of course … Lance joined the dots too late. They’d changed her name so no one realised she was a police officer. It had all been a set-up, her up on the roof. Trying to force the killer’s hand. And it had. Only The Crow had been a step ahead of them all, deflecting their attention to someone else.

  Lance stopped fighting the desire to close his eyes, letting his head drop onto Janet’s shoulder, feeling roughness against his face and then a slithering. Rope, he thought, trying to recall if The Crow had explained what he’d planned to do with it. If only he’d got hold of Callanach earlier. Explained what he’d seen. If only … Now there was a phrase fit for a headstone. Concussion intervened.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  17 March

  The coleslaw was vinegary and the bread was hard, but Ava was forcing the ham salad sandwich down anyway. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten and her stomach was a painful knot. Either she was hungry or she’d finally succumbed to the classic DCI peptic ulcer. RJ Bott was recovering from his Royal Shakespeare asthma performance, but he wasn’t going to be putting in an appearance in an interview room until the following morning, which was the earliest the doctors would allow it. Meanwhile, they’d arrested the bookie Bott had gone into business with, offering odds on whether or not suicides would happen or be avoided, and Bott’s detestable website and blog had been taken down by the tech team.

  She knew she should go home. There was an opportunity for sleep that might not come around again for a couple of days, yet it felt wrong not to be at the station while so much remained unresolved. Work – as self-destructive as it was – could provide the only respite from her frustration.

  DI Graham walked in carrying his laptop and a mug of coffee, which he put in front of her.

  ‘You got him, then,’ he commented.

  ‘We’ve arrested him,’ Ava corrected. ‘We’ll have got him when he’s serving multiple life sentences. For now, he’s lounging in a hospital bed, being brought easy-to-swallow, low-sodium meals and having his pulse taken every few hours.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be equally tender with him tomorrow,’ Graham grinned. ‘You wanted to see the footage from Bruce Jenson’s care home again?’

  He set the laptop down on Ava’s desk and pressed play. She leaned in, still chewing rubbery ham, and stared at the screen.

  ‘So when this is over, to the extent that any of it’s ever really over, can I call in your raincheck on that drink, or were you deliberately avoiding the subject?’

  ‘I was deliberately avoiding the subject,’ she said, keeping her eyes focused on the body running through the grounds: slim, leggy, tossing her hair. ‘You’re junior to me. We work together. It’s too complicated.’

  ‘It’s just a drink,’ he said as she replayed the footage again.

  ‘Nothing’s ever just a drink, but I appreciate you asking. Did we get any footage of this person sneaking onto the care home grounds?’

  ‘Nothing clear enough to be sure it’s her. There was some shadowy movement through bushes, but it was three hours earlier and we couldn’t define a body shape clearly enough. Whatever it was kept low to the ground. It could even have been a deer. I didn’t add it to the briefing because there was a substantial possibility it might end up being a mislead.’

  ‘Three hours earlier? So if that was the perpetrator entering the grounds, they’d have been there all the time Callanach was visiting Jenson. Depending on where they’d positioned themselves in the garden, they might have been able to watch his visit through the patio doors,’ Ava said, a sense of déjà vu making her wish she hadn’t attempted the sour sandwich.

  ‘You okay?’ Graham asked.

  ‘I think … I’m not sure,’ she said, wondering if insomnia was pushing her imagination beyond its reasonable bounds or if she was finally seeing the bigger picture. ‘That woman …’

  ‘Ma’am!’ Tripp raced in. ‘The message left for you earlier by a traffic officer while we were at Bott’s flat. I just chased it up.’

  ‘Slow down, Sergeant. What is it?’

  ‘The woman – the illegal worker – who was living with Jon Moffat, the farmer out at East Saltoun, has been found. She and several others were stopped trying to get on a truck bound for Amsterdam.’

  ‘That’s fantastic news.’ Ava stood up. ‘Get her here. Let’s see if she can identify Bott in a line-up …’

  ‘She won’t,’ Tripp interrupted. ‘Mariam – that’s her name – is still traumatised. She confirmed it was her who called the pub landlady to report Moffat as dead, so the information she gave is verifiable. Her description of Moffat’s killer was limited. She got a brief glimpse in a mirror as she sneaked down the stairs to see what was going on. All she could confirm was that the perpetrator was male and that he was black.’

  Ava froze. Pax Graham stood up slowly, reaching for his jacket.

  ‘Oh, holy fuck! He was hiding in plain sight all the time, pretending to help us,’ Ava said. ‘It’s Rune Maclure. He gave us Vicki who took us to Bott …’

  ‘That’s not all,’ Tripp said. ‘I’ve got units on their way to Janet Monroe’s. We took surveillance off her place when we did the raid on Bott’s, believing we had the murderer.’

  Ava felt sick and it was nothing to do with off coleslaw. She didn’t want to hear what Tripp was about to say.

  ‘I got a text from her sent half an hour ago, but I only just got around to checking my phone. All it said was 999.’

  Sprinting before she had time to register the command to her legs, Ava was shouting instructions as she took the corridor to the stairs.

  ‘There’s a car waiting for us,’ Tripp yelled, only just keeping up.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Graham shouted, overtaking them both and leaping down the stairs in front of them. ‘Tripp, you try to contact Janet. The chief can liaise with the other units.’

  They concentrated their energy on making it to the car before Ava began a rushed radio briefing to squads providing backup, and an extended operation to attend at Maclure’s home and place of work, covering all bases.

  There was one last thing she’d been meaning to do just before Tripp had run into her office, but it would have to wait. It was only a suspicion, but there was a possibility the woman on the care home video was someone from Callanach’s past. Someone with no direct grudge against either Bruce Jenson or Gilroy Western, but not without a motive. A woman who – once upon a time – would have done almost anything to get Callanach’s attention, positive
or negative. Someone disturbed enough to have lied to the police in the past, to have self-harmed for revenge, and with plenty of experience in stalking.

  For now it would have to wait. Janet Monroe’s life was in danger because Ava had followed the information given by the murderer himself. And that meant she was to blame for whatever happened next.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  17 March

  The knocking came from a long way away. Then closer. Then Callanach woke. His clock flashed with the information that it was 11.42 p.m. He’d only been asleep half an hour, but that was enough to render him groggy and disoriented. By the time he was fully conscious, the knocking was more rapid and insistent.

  ‘Ava,’ Callanach said, the sure knowledge that it was her at the door both enervating and exciting.

  He dragged on a pair of jeans and jogged to his apartment door, peeping through the spyhole for just a second before opening up, deferring to muscle memory rather than exercising caution. The mistake he’d made dawned on him only when the door was already fully open. He’d seen a woman’s face in profile when he’d looked through the spyhole, a hoodie covering her hair, her features only semi-visible in the dim glow of the corridor’s night lights.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, smiling wanly, looking more like a lost child than anything else.

  ‘Astrid. What do you want?’

  The question was only to buy him thinking time. He knew what she wanted. Him. Astrid Borde had disappeared from his life more than a year ago and in his naivety, he’d chosen to believe she was gone forever. Not so, and now it seemed utterly ridiculous that he’d let his guard down.

  ‘We have to talk, Luc,’ she said softly, her voice plaintive and silky in the silence.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night. If you give me your number or an address, we could meet up tomorrow. Now’s not really a good time.’

  He glanced towards his bedroom, keeping it subtle, hoping she’d believe there was someone else there. As much as he didn’t want her in his apartment, aggressive rejection wasn’t the right tactic for handling someone so unpredictable. Jenson and Western were dead, and suddenly the perpetrator of those crimes was no longer a mystery to him. If Astrid had been delusional and obsessed before, she’d progressed into full psychopathy.