Perfect Prey

by Helen Fields

  ‘What is it?’ Callanach panted. ‘You’ve made your point. You obviously want something from me. Why not just tell me what it is?’

  Ever so slightly, three of the men turned towards the fourth – the one who hadn’t punched or kicked yet. He was stood in the furthest corner, arms folded.

  ‘You’ve been keeping strange company,’ he said. ‘Do you want to tell us about that?’ Callanach couldn’t quite place the accent. The man’s English was fluent but there was an unfamiliar lilt to his pronunciation.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Callanach said. ‘I’m a police officer …’

  The fourth man moved in, grabbing Callanach by the hair, ripping it upwards, dragging him away from the wall and standing behind him.

  ‘I’m well aware of that, boy. You even had yourself a little work-related accident recently, did you not?’ He drew back a boot, then planted a kick squarely in Callanach’s coccyx. The pain silenced him completely. Whatever healing had begun was well and truly undone. It felt as if he’d been split in two. He hit the floor and rolled onto his side, curling into a ball, gritting his teeth against a tidal wave of blackness, desperate to remain conscious.

  The fourth man sauntered back to the corner he’d originally inhabited. ‘Plenty of coppers take the odd backhander to make some money on the side. Or they just go bad. I’ve seen enough of that in my time. Which is it with you, Detective Inspector?’

  It took Callanach a while to fight the nausea and speak without throwing up.

  ‘I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. I haven’t taken money from anyone.’

  After a quick nod from the fourth man to his crew, a photo was shoved in front of Callanach’s face. It took a few seconds to focus and recognise where he was when it was taken. The picture showed him entering Lance Proudfoot’s house the evening he met up with Ben.

  ‘Any bells ringing yet?’ the fourth man asked.

  ‘It’s a journalist’s house. He shared some information with me. Nothing that hasn’t gone on the record. Why were you following me?’

  ‘Who else was with you?’ one of the men asked, stepping forward, fist raised, to stand over Callanach. Fourth man held up one hand and the blow was delayed.

  ‘Who do you think was with me?’ Callanach asked, doing his best to sit up and get in a position where he could defend himself.

  ‘The man who organised the theft of more millions than the frigging Securitas Depot Robbery, my boy, that’s who was there.’

  Another photo was produced. This one showed Ben entering the property. They’d been following him, not Callanach. These were police officers. Callanach didn’t know whether to be relieved or even more scared. These people were the law, and clearly also considered themselves to be positioned well above its normal reach.

  ‘It’s a coincidence,’ Callanach said. ‘I had no idea he was a person of interest. This is a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ Fourth man asked, walking forward and pinching his fingers hard in the flesh at the base of Callanach’s throat. ‘Because we’re having some difficulty keeping track of what young Mr Paulson is up to. He’s never where his diary says he’s going to be, always one step ahead. Is that because he’s getting a bit of unofficial help from someone on the inside?’

  ‘This is about my case, not yours. I understand you’re investigating a serious offence, but that’s nothing to do with me. Paulson’s name had never come to my attention,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Is that right? Not even courtesy of that little faggot in your squad who thinks he’s so bloody clever?’

  ‘If you’re talking about Tripp, he never said a word. Quite the opposite. He made it clear that he was under strict orders to maintain full silence, even to me.’

  ‘So you asked him about our investigation then? Did you ask him about Paulson?’ Fourth man asked.

  ‘Tripp refused to comment,’ Callanach shouted.

  ‘You’re sure about that, are you, sir?’ the emphasis from one of the lower ranking goons was on the last word. ‘Only we understand that DC Tripp has a bit of a thing about pretty men. Can’t believe he hasn’t got a crush on a piece of Euro-ass like you. He must have been desperate to win brownie points with his precious DI. You gay as well, are you? Do you encourage your men with special treats?’

  ‘He’s not gay,’ Fourth man cut in. ‘He was only a hair’s breadth away from being a convicted rapist, weren’t you, lad?’

  Callanach stood up, fear gone, replaced by what might turn out to be either homicidal or suicidal rage, depending on how the fight went.

  ‘Who ordered an investigation into my squad?’ Callanach demanded. ‘You have no fucking right to go prying into Tripp’s personal life. Mine either. And that rape charge was false, as you well know, given the access you seem to have had to my file.’

  Fourth man stepped up so that his breath was going directly into Callanach’s mouth. The man wanted the fight, and Callanach knew it. Only there was no way it was going to end with just the two of them going for it.

  ‘Tripp said nothing. It was an unfortunate coincidence. Paulson was tracing a hack which might lead to a murderer,’ Callanach reiterated, keeping his voice calm.

  ‘And what did you promise Paulson in return?’ Fourth man asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Callanach spat.

  ‘He was just helping out of the goodness of his heart, was he? And you believed that?’ another man asked. They all laughed. It was Callanach’s first moment of self-doubt, now that he’d had his suspicions about Ben confirmed. Why had Ben agreed to help if he knew the police were following him? Unless he was waiting for a better moment to ask a return favour.

  ‘Well done, Detective Inspector,’ Fourth man clapped him on the back. ‘You’re finally putting two and two together, by the look on your face.’ He slid a hand around Callanach’s throat and pushed him back against the wall. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done and what you haven’t, but that streak of American piss stole from some very powerful men and women. He got into their bank accounts, their emails, their private correspondences. I don’t need to explain how nervous that can make those sorts of people. He’s going to prison for the rest of his natural, understand? And if you fuck up our investigation, you’re going to be sharing a cell with him. Stay away from Ben Paulson. No phone calls, no emails, no texts. No more help.’ He pulled Callanach forward in order to shove him hard against the wall again. His already bruised skull struck brick. ‘We’ll leave the door open for you. I suggest you stay here and lick your wounds for a good twenty minutes. You might want to let the stink of fear settle off your clothes before you walk home.’

  They all laughed big fake belly laughs that lasted too long. They were each as scared of the fourth man as he’d been made to feel, Callanach realised. With a man like that, you knew he could be your friend one minute and your worst enemy the next. The fact that you thought you were playing for the same team was irrelevant.

  They began walking towards the door, one of them picking up the bag that had been over Callanach’s head and shoving it in his pocket. No evidence left behind. The three lower ranks went first, leaving the fourth man to issue one last threat in the semi-dark.

  ‘There’ll be no more late night rendezvous with Ava Turner, or next time DCI Edgar might send you a more permanent message. Not a word now, DI Callanach. Joe Edgar has friends in places so high, they could spit on you and it would take a week for your hair to feel wet. And if you go down, your squad’ll go with you. That’s quite some responsibility, son. Ease your pain with the knowledge that silence makes you a martyr.’

  His footsteps took an age to cease their echoing through the hallway. Only when certain they had all gone did Callanach allow himself to sink to the floor and assess his injuries. His jaw was throbbing, the back of his head was badly bruised. Too shaky to stand for five minutes, he did his best to rest while his abductors created some distance between him and them.

  When he finally emerged fr
om the room he saw that the corridor was an arc of metal-lined tunnel, ribbed with steel. Long since defunct electric panels spewed out their wires where rats had made homes. He plodded upwards towards the dim light at the surface. At least, as promised, they had left the door open.

  A nearby signpost directed visitors to the bunker entrance. That explained where he’d been. He followed the directions towards a main gate. Edinburgh’s old nuclear bunkers had been converted into a visitor attraction, although they hadn’t opened all of the tunnels. Some had been reserved for less educational purposes, although it was fair to say he’d learned quite a lot in the relatively short time he’d been inside. Finally Callanach came out onto Clermiston Road. He was about three miles west of the city centre, not far from Murrayfield. Any taxi would take one look at him and disappear, and he didn’t want to run the risk of being recognised from his recent televised press conference. If he called a police car to pick him up, the rumour-mongers would run riot. He walked – sore leg, head pounding, stomach so bruised that eating would be out of the question for a couple of days, but the fresh air helped.

  He understood that many successful people, in business as in the police, were simply well-dressed sociopaths. It fed their ambition, their intellect, the ability to adapt and to overcome opponents. So he didn’t know why he was so surprised to find a gang of them operating on his patch. Scotland Yard had certainly put some resources into taking Ben Paulson down. Perhaps that was what the men with the money had insisted on. Perhaps that was why they’d put Joseph Edgar in charge. Callanach wondered if Ava knew what her lover was capable of, dismissing the thought immediately. Ava might be blinded by Edgar, but if she really understood what lay behind the charming English mask, Callanach knew she wouldn’t tolerate him for a second. She had a right to be told, of course. Did being a good friend mean letting her work it out on her own or intervening now? No conversation with Ava about DCI Edgar had ended well. And Callanach had a team to protect. There was no doubt in his mind that the threat to discredit both him and his squad was real. How could he balance that responsibility against his friendship with Ava? He still hadn’t figured out the answer to that question when he stumbled into his apartment. The sun was rising as Callanach fell into bed and a darkly disturbed sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There was a hammering sound, inside his head at first, then beyond its bruised and swollen skull as he came round. Glancing at his clock, he discovered it was after 1 p.m. The hammering was rapidly followed by shouting as he shuffled towards his apartment door, hastily pulling on jogging bottoms and a T-shirt.

  ‘Sir, sir, are you in there? Are you all right?’ Salter’s voice boomed. Callanach winced.

  ‘I’m here, Salter,’ Callanach called. ‘And I’m fine. What’s going on?’

  ‘Um, could you open the door, please?’ Salter said. ‘Only I’m in your corridor shouting.’

  Callanach stared into the mirror next to his door. His face resembled a failed example of patchwork quilting, purple, red, patches of grey-green, the bruises blackening at their centres. There was no way of hiding it.

  ‘What’s up, Salter?’ he called through the still-closed door.

  ‘No one could get you on the phone. Superintendent Overbeck issued an order to get you to her office within the hour. Could you let me in? Next step might be to break your door down if one of us can’t confirm face-to-face contact.’

  ‘Merde,’ Callanach swore under his breath, opening the door enough that Salter could confirm it was him and that he didn’t have some unwanted visitor holding a knife to his throat. He stifled a laugh at the irony of that.

  ‘Ruddy hell, sir,’ Salter said. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I overslept, that’s all.’

  ‘You have to let me in, sir. Right now. Or I’m calling Overbeck and telling her everything.’

  Callanach tried rolling his eyes, realised even that small action was going to cause too much pain, and caved in.

  DS Salter pulled Callanach by the sleeve into the window light. She whistled as she inspected his wounds.

  ‘You’ll need a heavy dose of arnica, not to mention witch hazel. We can stop at the chemist on our way to the station. What other injuries are there?’ Callanach lifted his shirt, more out of his own curiosity than to show Salter. His ribs were black and red tramlines of contusion, and the tip of a boot was marked plainly on the skin over his stomach. He wasn’t prepared to think about the pain in his lower back. The kick to his coccyx had made the fracture worse even than when he’d first done it. ‘Painkillers?’ Salter asked. Callanach pointed in the direction of the kitchen. ‘If you don’t mind my suggesting, sir, you should take a shower. I’ll make coffee and dig out some paracetamol.’

  ‘Are you not going to ask what happened, Salter?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Not my place. Unless you want to tell me. Just so long as you’re okay.’

  Callanach nodded.

  ‘I’ll get that shower,’ he said. ‘Call in and tell them I’m sick and that I’ll work from home today, would you?’

  ‘Not sure that’ll wash with the evil superintendent overlord. There was a reason she sent me to get you.’ Callanach stopped on his way to the bathroom. ‘There’s some new graffiti. A uniformed officer called it in early this morning when he passed it on his regular beat.’

  ‘What does it say?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘It says, “Lollipop lady”. I’ll get you that coffee now.’ Salter headed for the kitchen.

  Callanach was resigning himself to comprehensive lying over the next few hours when Salter appeared with her handbag as he was tying his shoes.

  ‘I thought you might like some help with, er, you know. Your face,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry Salter, not with you,’ he said. She held up a variety of brushes and tubes.

  ‘You think that’ll work?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Can’t look any worse than you do right now. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Callanach said, feeling the painkillers he’d taken starting to breach the surface of his discomfort. ‘Give it a try. Anything to reduce the amount of time I’ll have to spend explaining myself.’ He allowed Salter to dab and brush him with themes on beige.

  ‘Best I can do,’ she said. ‘Are you sure a doctor wouldn’t be wise?’

  ‘What’s wise and what I’ve got time for are two different things,’ he said. Salter held up a small mirror for him to inspect his face. At least it looked more credibly like a minor car accident or as if he’d stumbled off the treadmill at the gym. Before, it had virtually screamed fist fight. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Woman of hidden talents.’

  ‘Best get going,’ Salter smiled. ‘The Super will be spitting nails by now.’

  ‘Never mind Overbeck,’ Callanach said. ‘Drive straight to the site of the new graffiti. I want to see it first-hand. Have we had forensics out there yet?’

  ‘No, that’s your call. DI Turner thought you should be consulted before we touched it.’

  ‘Have we set up surveillance?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘From a building opposite. Local CCTV’s being checked. There’s been some interest from residents, although it hasn’t sparked any sort of outcry yet, so we’re assuming that the public haven’t clocked the relevance of it. They will soon, though, if the next victim matches what was spray-painted there. It’s on a previously clean wall, so no chance of it blending in with other tags this time. Once the public realises messages are being sprayed by the killers, anyone in Edinburgh with a paint can in their pocket is likely to get lynched,’ Salter said.

  Northumberland Place off Nelson Street was residential and relatively quiet. It was a through road to other housing, featuring Edinburgh’s trademark brown-bricked, four-storey, castlesque structures. There was a humble-looking bar opposite the graffiti, but no witnesses to what would have seemed a trifling offence, probably done late at night, well after closing hours. It wasn’t a heavy footfall part of the city. Ther
e would have been few passers-by after lights out. Callanach found it difficult to understand how the location fulfilled the murderer’s need to claim their next kill. Here, it might never have been noticed.

  ‘How does each killer know where to find the other’s graffiti?’ Callanach muttered. They were keeping their distance from the wall, having passed it once in the car, now parked down the road, staring at the tourist book Salter kept with her as an excuse to hang around.

  ‘You think they’re announcing to each other who their next target is?’ Salter asked.

  ‘DI Turner has a theory that the killings are competitive. Choosing the most perfect victim to make the crime resonate all the more effectively through the community. I think the graffiti may be a way of tagging the kill,’ Callanach said.

  ‘So they’re communicating to get additional gratification from it. A sense of winning,’ Salter said.

  ‘I guess,’ Callanach shrugged. ‘Unless it’s all about the reaction from the press. And given that the global media is branding Edinburgh hell on earth, I suppose they both think they’re winning at the moment. Get photos of the graffiti over to the handwriting expert. It may not hold up in court, but I want to know if we can liken it to any of the other graffiti at the original sites. Keep surveillance on it twenty-four hours for the next week. I want to know who passes by, reads it, adds to it. Best photographic evidence we can get. Anyone matching the descriptions of our murderers to be followed immediately and call in back-up.’

  ‘Got it,’ Salter said. ‘Sorry, but I’m bursting. Did you need to do more here, or shall we head for the station?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Callanach said. ‘I’m way overdue a disciplinary hearing. Perhaps we should stop on the way so I can buy the superintendent some chocolates. Maybe try putting her in a better mood.’

  ‘Do you not think she’s sweet enough already?’ Salter grinned.

  Overbeck was less entertaining in person. She managed to rant without visibly pausing for breath for several minutes. The only blessing was that her obsession with her own public status completely overrode any careful inspection of Callanach. He blamed an ongoing problem with pain in his coccyx for the need to take additional painkillers and thus fail to wake up or hear his phone ringing. That was at least partially true.