Perfect Prey

by Helen Fields

  Panicky reports were being called in at all hours of the day and night. People who thought they’d seen someone carrying a knife. Those who lived alone and heard noises in the dark. Workers staying late in offices who saw a strange face at the window. No pattern to the crimes meant that no one felt safe anywhere, and the amount of mistaken reporting was making real progress all but impossible. There just weren’t enough ears for the phones or boots for the groundwork.

  As much as Callanach wanted to stay out of Ava’s way, he’d blundered into her investigation and had facts that might help. He’d put off seeing her as long as he could, but by 11 a.m. there was nowhere left to hide. He knocked her door.

  ‘Come in,’ she called, looking up. Her face said it all. ‘Not in the mood. And if you’re expecting an apology for the slap, then you can—’

  ‘I should buy you dinner for slapping me,’ Callanach said. ‘It was a fraction of what I deserved. A less restrained woman would have followed it up with a knee.’

  Ava glared and bit her bottom lip, fighting the upturning corners of her lips.

  ‘I’ll remember that for next time,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not sure when we stopped being able to have a civil conversation but I’d like to think it’s not irreversible. This thing that’s happening, it’s getting to everyone. My squad are tense and defensive – it feels as if Edinburgh’s streets are under attack. I called Natasha last night,’ he said.

  ‘What did she tell you?’ Ava leaned forward.

  ‘Only what I already knew. That you’re under tremendous stress with these cases. That’s why I’m here. I have a source, a journalist. He’s investigating the murders and has shared some information. The software used to stop the Emily Balcaskie email being traced ran on home-made code, signature work. The same code was used to prevent anyone from tracking whoever got into Helen Lott’s autopsy report. And that report was definitely hacked, rather than leaked.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Ava asked, walking to the whiteboard on her wall.

  ‘I told you, I know a journalist …’

  ‘Who did the journalist get it from? That’s not readily accessible information.’

  Callanach had reached a decision about what he was prepared to say well in advance. He didn’t skip a beat. ‘The source is anonymous and will remain so, but it’s from an expert. I’ve no reason to doubt the veracity of the claim.’

  ‘We’ve had people analyse this, Luc. No one else could confirm that it was the same person involved in both incidents. You’ll have to disclose your source to verify.’

  ‘I don’t have the information to give. I was just trying to help. How’s Joe’s hacker investigation going, by the way?’ He’d promised himself he wouldn’t ask. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know, but now that the box was open Callanach found himself incapable of closing it. ‘Have they named any suspects yet?’

  ‘I think it best we steer away from the subject of Joe, don’t you? It’s not exactly common ground,’ Ava said.

  ‘I’ve been an idiot about it. I think I was feeling protective. And maybe a little jealous of having my drinking mate stolen.’ Callanach delivered a smile he didn’t feel. Ava didn’t return it.

  ‘This thing with Joe – it’s complicated,’ she said. ‘I know you don’t think he’s my type and it’s sudden, but the timing’s right. Anyway, Joe doesn’t speak to me about his investigation so you shouldn’t feel out of the loop. Security on this one’s tighter than MI5’s Christmas party list.’

  ‘Really? They’ve managed to keep a team here with no information getting spilled at all? That is impressive,’ Callanach said.

  ‘The usual generic info is out. The hackers they’re looking for, The Unsung, seem to be an international group. It’s only their main man who’s based here. No names yet though. Joe’s paranoid that they’re even able to get into internal police communications. No arrests yet and this was supposed to have been a done deal by now.’

  ‘That’s tough,’ Callanach said, fraudulent sympathy on his face. ‘Still, at least it means he’ll be around longer for you.’ He stood up.

  Ava scribbled a couple of notes on her board, a shorthand version of the information Callanach had shared, then put the pen down.

  ‘Do you mean that?’ she asked. ‘Only I thought you might …’ her voice trailed off into a distracted silence.

  Callanach prompted her. ‘You thought I might what?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, I thought you might feel like a movie late tonight. If you’re okay with the Joe thing now. I’ll text you the details later, okay?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Callanach said, making for the door. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he and Ava were avoiding having a real conversation. They used to find it easy to talk. Nothing fake. Nothing formal. Lately she’d been different in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Perhaps it really was the stress of the investigation. Or maybe Joe’s appearance had made Ava view her own life differently. At least later he’d have the chance to see if they could salvage some of the closeness they’d once shared.

  An hour later Ava sent a text with details for them to meet that evening. Callanach slogged through a few piles of paperwork, issuing orders to keep momentum on the investigations, but everyone knew they were flagging. So many murder cases involved perpetrators and victims who were known to one another. That was the well-trodden path that usually led the police to an arrest. Violent deaths involving strangers were rare, and unless there was a DNA match on the database or an eyewitness, it was hard to make ground.

  At 11 p.m., Callanach found himself waiting outside the cinema where he and Ava watched occasional reruns of old movies. Only late at night, of course, when most of the viewing public was either in bed or in bars. Tonight’s offering was Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest.

  ‘No popcorn tonight?’ Callanach asked as they sat down.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said, pulling out a hip flask and separating two metal caps. She handed one to Callanach and kept one herself. It wasn’t like her to be drinking midweek, mid-case. Callanach had been amazed at her self-discipline since he’d joined Police Scotland. Tonight, she filled each cap with single malt and began sipping hers as she settled back with her feet up on the seat in front, the absence of any other viewers meaning they wouldn’t get any complaints about either the whiskey or blocking anyone else’s view.

  Cary Grant had witnessed a man being murdered in a restaurant, and unwittingly made himself a suspect, when Ava leaned over to whisper in Callanach’s ear.

  ‘Why are these people being killed?’ she asked.

  For a moment Callanach wondered if she was referring to the film or to their respective cases. It was Ava’s golden rule that no one spoke during the movie. He’d never known her break it and he’d been told off by her a few times for doing the same.

  ‘You mean why now, in Edinburgh?’ he asked. Ava nodded. ‘I don’t know. Your killer is male. Perhaps it’s a sexual thing. Power, dominance, woman-hater. The amount of force he’s using suggests a level of psychosis.’

  ‘But your murderer’s female,’ Ava said. ‘She’s choosing diverse victims, making an art form of it. The graffiti about the victim being a primary school teacher in my case was there before the killing. So it was what? An assassination? Doesn’t make sense. If you want a specific victim dead, you name them. You pass an envelope of used notes to a person whose identity you never really know and you leave them to do their job. Was this the killer boasting, or trying to get caught before he did the act?’

  She sank back down in her seat. Callanach didn’t have the answers. The same questions had been rolling around inside his head in a constant cycle. They returned their attention to the screen. After a train journey and some intimate moments between Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint, Ava refilled their caps and began drinking again.

  ‘Two killers appear at the same time. Two victims each. This damned graffiti making such a public display of it all. Is this some new fo
rm of domestic terrorism? Keeping it in our faces? Undermining our internal security?’ Ava said.

  ‘If it was an organised group someone would have claimed it by now, although it’s psychological terrorism at its best. We can’t keep up with all the calls, people offering information which has no link to the crimes,’ Callanach responded.

  Ava sighed. She sounded lost. Callanach wished the burden they were sharing was going to be an easier one to shift, but there were four dead bodies in the city mortuary. Wishing was an exercise in futility.

  Setting her whisky down, Ava shifted in her seat and leaned her head against Callanach’s shoulder. He had to stop himself from flinching, not from the contact with her, although for a long time after the rape allegation he’d struggled to let anyone physically close. It was her. Ava was the definition of independence and self-possession. She’d never leaned on him at all, neither literally nor figuratively. Not when she’d had difficult days at work, not when she’d been suspended during disciplinary action, not even after she’d been abducted by a deluded psychopath. Her chosen way through all of that had been to show even more steel, even greater humour and self-sufficiency. This one tiny act, as trifling and momentary as it was, was unlike her to an extreme. Callanach closed his eyes. Ava’s head was heavy on his shoulder. He felt strange, as if one weight was lifting while another was settling. She lifted her head and looked at him.

  ‘And the victims,’ Ava carried on as if there’d been no pause in the conversation. ‘All exemplary people, not so much as a driving conviction between them, unless they’re all members of some bizarre secret cult. The killers went out of their way to choose the most righteous people, not just to be murdered, but to be murdered as hideously and violently as they could possibly conceive. It’s like they’re competing with each other, for Christ’s sake.’ In the silence Callanach tried to shake the image of Ava’s head on his shoulder. She picked up the cap and tossed back the remnants of her single malt.

  ‘So the graffiti is what then? A declaration of their next target?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Could be,’ Ava said. ‘Stating their chosen victim type, so there’s no mistake about whose work it is. Come on, we can’t do this here. Let’s go back to mine.’

  They left James Mason losing his temper and hustled out of the door. A taxi ride later and they were at Ava’s house. She went directly to the kitchen and poured more whisky. Callanach put his down untouched.

  ‘So either they’re communicating somehow, or they already know each other on a personal level,’ Ava said.

  ‘Two psychopaths agreeing a plan? There’d have to be a more substantial link. They could have met through the Probation Service? Or a therapist?’ Callanach suggested.

  ‘There would be records, a professional who knew them both. If a probation officer or a psychiatrist suspected anything, they’d have come forward by now. And we have Helen Lott’s killer’s DNA. He’s not on the UK database. What are the odds of a killer this violent having no police record at all?’

  ‘About the same as the odds of two murderers being in the same city at the same time and communicating,’ Callanach said.

  ‘You think maybe it’s a couples thing? That they work together? A modern day Brady and Hindley? I didn’t think I’d ever see evil like that first-hand.’ Ava kicked a couple of pairs of trainers out of the way and shifted a pile of washing so she could lie on the sofa. Her place was a mess. Not that she normally put tidiness before getting on with living, but there was a lack of care about the place. As if she no longer did anything but walk in and out occasionally.

  Perhaps that was because she was spending her time at DCI Edgar’s, Callanach thought. Between her new relationship and the demands of the current caseload, it wasn’t really surprising that nothing seemed normal. The thought of Joe Edgar made Callanach uncomfortable again. He stood up.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he told Ava, picking up a blanket from an armchair and passing it to her. ‘You look comfortable. I’ll see myself out. Let’s think this over tonight. See if we can’t move it forward tomorrow. I enjoyed what bits of the film I saw, by the way.’ He was in the hallway before she called to him.

  ‘We’re right though, aren’t we? It’s about the killers surpassing one another in some sick, twisted way.’

  ‘Yes,’ Callanach said. ‘I think that’s exactly it. Goodnight Ava.’ He made sure the lock clicked into place, certain she’d fall asleep without bothering to get up to double-lock it.

  Callanach needed either a taxi or a patrol car to pick him up. He wasn’t going to sleep any time soon – there was too much going on in his head – so going straight back to the station seemed the obvious choice. A takeaway wouldn’t go amiss either, he thought.

  The blow to the back of his head was hard enough to send him reeling. He’d have hit the pavement face down had two pairs of hands not caught him. Callanach did his best to stagger away, catching his breath sufficiently to try to scream for help, but something soft and spongy was shoved in his mouth seconds before a bag was pulled over his head. His assailants folded his arms behind his back, pulling them up tightly and leaving him no choice but to walk forwards when pushed. They didn’t speak. Within seconds he was shoved into a van, head held to the floor as his ankles were tied together. His mind was already conjuring the image of Michael Swan’s body. He tried to thrash, realised the uselessness of wasting vital energy, and did the only thing left to do. Callanach waited to see just how bad it was going to get.

  Chapter Twenty

  Time was either rushing past or dragging intolerably, Callanach wasn’t sure which. He wanted the rolling and bumping to be over and to get the sack off his head. At the same time he knew that when the journey finished he would be facing an unknown enemy on their terms. He was powerless until he knew if he had anything to bargain with. His head was throbbing, but adrenalin had kicked in and he’d begun to formulate a scrap of a plan.

  He would tell his assailants that he was a police officer expected back at the station imminently. He could bargain with offers of prosecutorial clemency. Then again, he could just plead for his life.

  If he concentrated, Callanach could hear whispering. A couple of male voices, one giving orders, from the tone of voice, another asking questions. No hint of a female on board, which seemed to rule out Michael Swan’s killer in spite of his initial panic. Breathing slowly, he tried to get control of his body and his flitting mind. He needed to think. This was a well-organised assault. The men who’d abducted him were professionals. He hadn’t seen them hiding or noticed a suspicious vehicle. And he was certain this was no random street crime. Whoever they were, they’d been waiting for him.

  People who knew him then, who were aware of his profession, and who presumably were undeterred by the potential consequences of their actions. Callanach cast his mind back over years of investigations. If he had to list the names of everyone with a grudge, the journey would need to be a long one. There were plenty of criminals who’d be happy to see him take a bullet, and a fair number who’d be pleased to deliver it to him personally.

  As the van swerved to a halt, hands hauled him first to his knees then to his feet.

  ‘Out!’ a man commanded, cutting his ankle ties and pushing Callanach forwards. Another pair of hands stopped him from falling out of the back. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. What he registered was the lack of noise, the city centre’s constant low level hum – traffic, people, businesses, homes – faded. The ground changed to soft and yielding as he walked, then a solid step and the sound of a door opening. This was some door though. Callanach could imagine the weight of it by the creak on the hinges. The tone of the echo as it slammed shut was metallic. Inside now, and he was walking on concrete. The sound of their footsteps rattled closely off walls, ceiling and floor. Callanach estimated himself plus at least three others. Blindly navigating a distinct downward slope, he breathed in hard, tasting the air, listening for ambient sounds, sniffing. It was dank, stale, the temperature inside ma
rkedly colder than out.

  At the end of the hallway another door opened. This time someone held Callanach’s head down as he entered, slamming the door behind him. The room was freezing. The bag, finally, was pulled from his face. There was no chair to be strapped to, no bright light shone in his eyes. By the light of a small hand lantern Callanach saw that there were four of them dressed in similar black clothes, gloves, boots, and balaclavas to complete the look. Callanach leaned against a rough, unpainted wall in the low-ceilinged, windowless room. He said nothing. They would let him know what they wanted in their own time. It turned out that what they wanted first was to remind him that they were the ones in control, and that his fate lay entirely in their hands.

  The first punch smashed the wind out of him. He crumpled, gasping for breath, his solar plexus spasming uncontrollably. A kick followed to the side of his left thigh, connecting hard with his bone, shooting pain down into his ankle and up into his hip. When the third strike came he managed to block it, winning himself several extra hits to the face.

  ‘C’est assez. Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?’ Callanach spat blood to one side, his tongue bleeding freely. A hand slapped the back of his head hard enough to jar his neck.

  ‘Speak English, you fucking Froggie,’ one of the men ordered.

  Callanach hadn’t been aware that he’d reverted to his primary language. His brain was all instinct.