Perfect Prey

by Helen Fields

  ‘Of course he does,’ Callanach said, standing up. ‘Do you have any idea where DI Turner is, Tripp? Only Ailsa Lambert was asking after her.’

  ‘Off duty,’ DC Salter shouted from the corridor. ‘Said something about maybe being in late tomorrow too. Did you want me to get a message to her, sir?’

  ‘No thanks, Salter,’ Callanach shouted after her. ‘It’s nothing that can’t wait.’ Unlike Sim Thorburn’s girlfriend, no doubt already suspecting the worst but who’d be downstairs holding out for a miracle. She would be imagining some mistake, hoping perhaps that in spite of the evidence, her boyfriend had met some friends and wandered off without telling her. Any number of excuses for his disappearance would be going through her mind. Until she saw Callanach’s face, he thought. People knew the second they looked at you.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as soon as he saw her. Introductions were pointless. She wouldn’t remember Callanach’s name in a few seconds’ time, anyway.

  ‘You can’t be sure that it’s him yet,’ she whispered. ‘You haven’t even asked me about him.’

  ‘We found several photos on an internet site of the two of you together.’ He held out an example that Tripp had printed off in anticipation. ‘Is this Sim?’

  She sobbed and took a step away from the photo as if the paper itself was a weapon.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ she asked. Callanach pulled a chair out for her and she sat.

  ‘I have. I’m sure it’s him.’

  ‘What … what …’ she couldn’t say the words.

  ‘He received a knife wound. It proved fatal. It would have been very fast. The ambulance didn’t have time to get to him.’

  ‘A knife wound? I thought maybe a ruptured appendix or a blood clot or … he was stabbed? It’s not him. No one would do that to Sim.’

  ‘He wasn’t in any trouble that you knew of? It might be something as simple as a family feud, money problems, someone settling an old score?’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid!’ the girl snapped. It was an understandable reaction given what she was going through. What she didn’t understand was how cold the trail would get with every passing minute. ‘He was a charity worker. He earned minimum wage and still spent every spare moment doing extra unpaid voluntary service.’

  ‘Can you tell me more about that?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘He worked in the homeless shelters, ran the soup kitchens in the city, organised fundraising. Sim was the gentlest, kindest person you could ever meet. He gave away every last penny. It was the only thing we ever argued about.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anything strange yesterday? No one following him?’

  The girl shook her head, shock taking hold. Callanach knew he’d got all he was going to get from her by then. He handed over to Tripp to organise the formal identification of the body and obtain family details. Callanach had to get a lead, and fast. Somewhere, the man or woman who had slaughtered Sim Thorburn had undoubtedly already hidden the weapon and neutralised any incriminating forensic evidence.

  ‘Salter,’ Callanach shouted on his way towards the incident room. ‘Find out who’s controlling the footage from the concert. I want it available tonight. And try to keep the Chief off my back for a while, would you? I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘So have I, Detective Inspector,’ DCI Begbie said, appearing in the doorway. Lately he seemed larger every time Callanach saw him. It wasn’t healthy, putting on weight that fast. The Chief hadn’t been exactly slim when Callanach had joined Police Scotland, but now he was working his way towards an early grave, for no apparent reason. ‘Is something wrong, DI Callanach?’ Begbie asked. He realised he’d been staring at Begbie’s straining shirt buttons.

  ‘No, sir, just distracted.’

  ‘Frankly, that’s not very reassuring. What leads have we got?’ Callanach tried to find a way to express the completely negative nature of the case so far, and struggled to answer. ‘That good, huh? Well, somebody must have seen something. Thousands of potential witnesses and we’re stuck. Bloody typical. Have media relations organise a press conference. Might as well do it immediately. We can’t have people scared on the streets. There’ll be a rational explanation for this. No one walks up to a complete stranger and slashes them. Get answers, Callanach. I want someone in custody in the next forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Chief …’

  ‘Got it. You don’t like doing press conferences. Duly noted.’ Begbie walked off, puffing as he went. Callanach considered following to ask if his boss was all right, then recognised that for the career-ending move it would be and made his way back towards the incident room. He was starving, but the idea of a fish and chip supper being consumed straight from newspaper was making him queasy. There was no prospect of getting home for twelve hours and the healthiest food at the station was probably an out of date packet of crackers abandoned at the back of a cupboard. Callanach was getting his thoughts together to lead a briefing when someone thrust a carrier bag into his hand.

  ‘Stop looking at everyone else’s food as if they’re eating poison. It’s off-putting. You’re not doing anything to help your reputation for French snobbery,’ DI Ava Turner said, pushing a fork into his free hand. ‘Prawn salad. Not home-made, so you’re safe from my pathetic efforts.’

  ‘I thought you were off duty and not coming in until late tomorrow. Have you been demoted to the catering division?’

  ‘You can always hand it back,’ she said, checking her phone and frowning.

  ‘Too late.’ Callanach ripped open the packaging and tucked in. ‘Ailsa Lambert was asking after you. Do I take it that Edinburgh’s elite social circle is not functioning properly?’ he smiled.

  ‘How do you tell someone to shut up in French?’ she responded without looking up from her phone. Ava had spent much of her career trying to distance herself from the privilege she was born into. The expectation that she would become a doctor, lawyer, actuary or similar – at least until she settled down and produced grandchildren for her eager parents – had spawned a rebellion landing her in the grimy world of policing. But even at work she couldn’t escape the fact that her family’s closest friends included the upper levels of Police Scotland brass, politicians, CEOs and even the city’s chief forensic pathologist.

  DC Salter interrupted, handing over two pages of A4 and checking her watch. ‘DCI Begbie said he knew you were busy so he’s organising the press conference for you.’ Salter was trying not to smile. Turner ruined the effort by laughing out loud. ‘I’ve written out some notes for you, sir. Media will be gathered in about an hour.’

  ‘Wow. Reduced to using the media circus already? This time tomorrow morning women will be swooning over your face on the front cover of every paper. So Police Scotland’s pin-up detective is getting back out there, is he?’ Ava said. Callanach had been with the Major Investigation Team in Edinburgh for eight months, and in that time Ava had never missed an opportunity to make fun of him. His distant career as a model made him a particularly easy target.

  ‘It wasn’t my idea,’ Callanach muttered. ‘Merde!’

  ‘Language,’ Ava admonished.

  ‘I thought you couldn’t speak French,’ Callanach said.

  ‘You’ve been mistaking my ignoring you for failing to understand you. It’s a different concept,’ Ava said.

  ‘Do you not have work to do?’ Callanach asked, shaking his head at her, watching the grin spread across her face. Ava was the sort of woman who left men wrong-footed. She looked innocent enough, her long brown hair a tangle of curls, with grey eyes that shifted colour depending on the light. But she could cut to the chase in a second. Being direct seemed to be the only way she knew. When he’d arrived from France his head had been a mess. Too much had happened for him to walk away unscathed emotionally. The last few months had been curative, and Ava had played a large part in that, mainly because with her he could just be himself.

  ‘Earth to Callanach,’ Ava said, waving her hand in front of his face. ‘I was only teasing.
It’s that bad then? You’ve really got nothing to go on?’

  ‘Less than nothing,’ Callanach said.

  ‘DI Turner!’ Begbie shouted from the corridor.

  ‘I’m off duty, sir,’ Ava shouted back. ‘In fact, I’m not even in the building. You’re imagining me.’

  ‘Too bad for you I have such an active imagination. Get a squad over to Gilmerton Road. There’s been another murder.’

  Chapter Three

  The house in Gilmerton was an unpretentious semi-detached, with a plain but carefully tended garden and a Mini in the driveway. A high wooden gate allowed access to the rear garden. The upper windows of the property were small, but at one corner, presumably where the internal staircase ran, an unusual slit of window spanned both floors to look out over next door’s driveway. Two uniformed officers had been posted at the gates and the circus of forensics, pathology, and photography had yet to properly begin. The area was peaceful, the streets asleep.

  ‘What happened?’ Ava Turner asked the officer guarding the front door.

  ‘A neighbour heard some loud banging followed by a couple of screams, phoned it in. There was no answer when we knocked so we went round the back and found the kitchen door open. Body’s in the bedroom, ma’am. Do you want me to come in with you?’

  ‘No, stay put. And keep people off the garden. Who’s the victim?’ Ava asked.

  ‘Mrs Helen Lott, mid-forties, lived alone as her husband passed away a while back, apparently. Neighbour was quite friendly with the deceased. We haven’t told her what we found yet …’

  ‘Good. Where the hell are the rest of the team?’

  ‘All still over at The Meadows dealing with the murder at the festival. No one was expecting a second murder on the same night,’ the officer said, rubbing his hands together. Even in July, Scotland was no place to stand outside in the small hours.

  ‘Bloody right. That’s Edinburgh’s murder quota for the whole year. God almighty, the press will have a field day,’ Ava muttered, already making her way along the narrow path to the rear of the property.

  The lock on the back door had been sliced through. If it was a burglar, then it was a highly professional job as opposed to the usual smash-and-grab, taking whatever was nearest to the window. The perpetrator had paid a lot of money for decent tools, and must have known what he’d need. Ava pulled gloves and shoe covers from her bag and made her way in through the kitchen door, careful not to disturb anything as she went. The lock had been broken, although there hadn’t been any chain or secondary security. She cursed how cheaply people valued their lives.

  The house was dark, as it would have been when the intruder crept through. Ava kept the lights off, imagining how the killer had moved and navigated the property. There was enough light from a street lamp to make it easy. None of the stair floorboards were squeaky. There was every chance the killer had got all the way to Helen Lott’s bedroom without disturbing her at all. Dark smudges on the stair carpet and a glistening trail on the handrail were an insight into the scene that was about to unfold.

  The smell of vomit was noticeable from halfway between floors, beginning as a sharp twang, growing riper and more meaty as she got closer. Something else, too, when Ava pushed open the door to the main bedroom. A rotten smell. Human faeces.

  In the bedroom, she turned on the light to allow a detailed view, taking an involuntary step back from the carnage on the floor. The body was difficult to see at first, hidden as it was by a wooden chest of drawers. Clothes had tumbled out everywhere, hiding all but the woman’s right foot and right arm. Ava tiptoed across and peeled the corner of a jumper away from the face. Blood had erupted from her mouth, nose and ears. The vomit was already crusting on the carpet and in the wrinkles and folds of her skin. The victim’s eyes, a vivid and unusual shade of blue, bulged in their sockets, and stared somewhere over Ava’s shoulder as if watching, terrified, for her attacker to return. There was very little white remaining in her eyes, the haemorrhaging like crazing on an antique vase. Her neck and face were swollen solid, a deep shade of purple. It was as if she had been painted from the neck up by an angry toddler in all the colours of fury.

  The chest of drawers, a broad, weighty piece, lay across her body. Its position there was no accident. Ava looked carefully at the damage. The chest’s back panel, which now faced the ceiling, had been smashed in, the sides caving inwards. Faint bootprints marred the floral pastel bed linen. The attacker had jumped from the mattress onto the chest, adding to the murderous crushing pressure that had squeezed the breath from the victim’s lungs as she’d lain terrified beneath it. Helen Lott’s visible leg was twisted to an unnatural angle, and the nails of her free hand were bloodied and hanging. Ava folded the hand upwards to where the nails would have made contact with the chest of drawers. Sure enough, corresponding scratch marks ran down the polished surface. The poor woman would have been conscious then, enough to have done all she could in those last desperate minutes to fight her way out. Death would have been the only kindness, Ava thought. Mrs Lott would have been grateful when the darkness finally swallowed her.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ a small voice came from the doorway, ‘what on earth is this, now? I was just saying to Luc earlier how I was missing you. I certainly didn’t mean to see you under these circumstances.’

  ‘I need as much as you can tell me about the killer. Single assailant or a gang, was there a weapon? Just give me enough to get started, Ailsa,’ Ava said.

  The pathologist, covered head to foot in a white suit, making her appear smaller than ever, opened her bag and withdrew a thermometer and a variety of swabs.

  ‘It’s a difficult scene, not much room. Keep your squad out until I’m done. Get me some decent lighting and I’ll need the photographer immediately.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Ava said, as Ailsa knelt next to the body.

  ‘She’s still quite warm, so the attacker, singular or plural I can’t say, hasn’t gone terribly far yet,’ Ailsa said, photographing with her own tiny camera as she went, shining a light in Helen Lott’s eyes, ears and mouth. ‘Death was within the last forty-five minutes, that’s the best I can do for now. I’d put money on the perpetrator – if it was one person acting alone – being male and very large. This took an absolutely extraordinary amount of strength and overwhelming rage. No weapon other than this furniture was required to cause these injuries. Whoever it is must be covered in blood though. They’ll be keeping out of sight until they’ve cleaned up. This blow to the face, you see the swelling and discoloration here,’ Ailsa pointed to the side of Helen Lott’s head, ‘probably fractured the cheekbone, maybe the jaw too, and would have put her on the floor so that the furniture could be pushed on top of her. The weight of the furniture forcing the air from her lungs, combined with the fractured jaw would have prevented her from screaming. That might have been incidental or planned, no way of knowing. It’s an unusual crime scene. Very personal. I’ve never seen a crushing death outside of a car or industrial accident before. And these blood spatters here and here,’ Ava followed Ailsa’s eyeline outwards from the chest of drawers along the carpets to the walls and wardrobe, ‘suggest to me that the crushing wasn’t a single continuous force.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Ava asked.

  ‘Meaning, I’m afraid, that whoever did this jumped again and again, causing individual injuries and almost explosive bleeds each time they landed. When we’ve moved the furniture and the body, we’ll see a star shape coming out around her.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Ava said, hands on hips, hanging her head.

  ‘I bet you don’t let your mother hear you speak like that,’ Ailsa said, smiling gently. ‘Now let me take care of Mrs Lott.’

  Ava went back down the stairs, turning each light on as she went, issuing orders through her radio. Technicians were carrying lights and sheets in before she’d even reached the kitchen door. Ava walked out onto the street and looked around. It was a quiet residential area, devoid of CCTV and not wealthy enough for any
of the residents to have invested in their own surveillance systems. It would have been obvious that the house was occupied, so late at night with a car on the driveway. The burglar – if it was a burglary gone wrong – would have been cautious about the residents.

  ‘Officer,’ Ava called to the uniform she’d spoken to on the way in. ‘Is there anything obvious missing or any sign of ransacking?’

  ‘Handbag with purse in it still on the kitchen table, ma’am. Other than that we didn’t want to disturb too much.’

  She went back to her car and dialled Begbie’s number.

  ‘Turner here. It’s a bad one, Chief. Female victim, living alone. Crushed to death with a piece of her own furniture.’

  ‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding me,’ Begbie sighed. Ava could almost see him scratching his head as he tapped his pen on the desk. He sounded exhausted. ‘Sexual assault?’

  ‘No idea. And we won’t have confirmation until Mrs Lott has been taken in for a full autopsy. The torso and two limbs have been pretty comprehensively flattened.’

  ‘Suspects?’

  ‘Nothing yet. Pathologist’s still with her. Everyone was over at The Meadows so it’s taken a bit longer than usual to get going. Almost certainly a male attacker. Not sure if there’s more than one. It’s brutal, a lot of force. We have a bootprint. Officers are with the neighbour taking a statement. After the incident at The Meadows, the press will—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Begbie said. ‘But they’ll have to be told. They’ll find out soon enough anyway. Better from us.’ Ava could hear the Chief’s heavy breathing down the phone. His chest sounded as if it was chugging between words.

  ‘Sir, nothing else will happen tonight. Maybe you should just go home. Callanach and I are both available to take calls.’

  ‘Don’t you start too, Turner. If I wanted another woman nagging me, I’d have committed bigamy long ago. Just seal off the scene and bring back some useful bloody info. The very least I expect is one hundred per cent more than Callanach’s turned up from The Meadows. Not that that’s setting the bar very high, mind you.’