by Helen Fields
‘So given that your slipshod investigative powers have led us to the point of simply waiting for another murder, and the victim’s profession has actually been identified, what’s your plan of action? Keywords for whatever you’re about to say to me are – foolproof, fast and inexpensive. Go.’
‘If we release this publicly there’ll be panic. Probably more false alarms, resulting in assaults on innocent people. But if we don’t act and a lollipop lady is harmed, we’ll be accused of incompetence,’ Callanach began.
‘What are the numbers?’ Overbeck asked.
‘One hundred and fifty-eight lollipop persons working for Edinburgh City Council. One hundred and two of those are female,’ Callanach said, thankful he’d made the relevant call before the meeting. ‘We will approach the potential targets privately. Sooner or later it’ll get out anyway. Someone will speak to the press, whether we ask them to or not. Couple that with the issue of people asking for protection, demanding around-the-clock officers outside their address, the investigation will grind to a halt while we try to prevent the next crime.’
‘Not we, Detective Inspector. Don’t drag me into your logistical nightmare. This is your investigation. Yours and DI Turner’s at any rate. Do we know which of the murderers graffitied the wall this time?’
‘We don’t. It’s still only a theory, and with the exception of the “Primary School Teacher” graffiti, we can’t identify what other scrawling might belong to a suspect. The handwriting expert says there are similarities between the two samples, but this is spray-painting not penmanship. We’re never going to be able to draw definite links.’
‘One hundred and two potential victims. Bravo, Callanach. You may as well inform Police Scotland’s lawyers of the impending negligence suit right now. Perhaps I should complete the job by writing a few incompetence headlines for the popular press and save everyone’s time. What a sodding mess. And where’s Turner?’
‘No idea, ma’am,’ Callanach said. He’d been wondering the same thing himself, not that he was keen to see Ava. She wouldn’t fall for the make-up and lies, and he had no intention of telling her the truth, a decision he’d made overnight.
‘Find her and light a fire under her equally lukewarm arse. Make an arrest, Callanach, and hand the file over to the Procurator Fiscal. I want someone in the dock being charged with these crimes before I face my next professional review, and that’s not far enough away for my liking.’
DS Lively was at the coffee machine when Callanach went in search of sustenance.
‘Bless my bollocks, sir,’ Lively said. ‘Is that make-up you’re wearing?’
‘Where’s DI Turner, Sergeant?’ Callanach asked.
‘She was called to the hospital about an hour ago. Did someone throw you a blanket party? Only they made substantial improvements to your face.’
‘Not DI Begbie again?’ Callanach asked, ignoring the inquisition.
‘Do you think I’d be standing here if it was? I do respect a few of my senior officers, you know,’ Lively laughed. Callanach bent down to take his coffee from the machine, wincing as he went. ‘The Chief’s flown out somewhere sunny to recuperate, from what I hear. Looks like you should do the same.’
‘And be parted from your delightful company, Lively?’ Callanach asked, taking a sip of what tasted like hot, caffeinated bracken water. ‘Why would I do that?’
Callanach texted Ava to let her know what was happening, shortly before a senior administrator from Edinburgh City Council turned up at his office.
Fours hours later, Callanach was stood in front of eighty-six lollipop ladies. It wasn’t a bad show out of the 102 they needed to locate. Some were on leave, others weren’t contactable. Uniformed officers had been sent out to make contact with the missing sixteen.
‘We have reason to believe that one of you may be the target of a crime,’ Callanach began. There were some jokey whistles which he ignored as he carried on. ‘You’ve been asked to attend because there may be a link to other murders recently in the city.’ He paused. No jokes or amusing noises issued from the crowd this time. The shock was plain on their faces. ‘We may be wrong and we very much hope that this is an error or a misreading of the evidence. But we’ve taken the view that you are better forewarned.’
‘Are you saying that one of us might be killed?’ a woman in the front row asked. The following barrage of questions was inevitable. In their position Callanach knew he’d be reacting the same way. The thing to do was head it off and keep the crowd calm. Staring across the sea of faces, he supposed there wasn’t a collective noun for potential murder victims.
‘It is only a possible threat. There’s nothing concrete. You do, however, need to be vigilant. You shouldn’t go anywhere alone. Avoid public places where you might be vulnerable. Keep a mobile phone and personal attack alarm with you at all times. Make sure your homes are secure. Lock your car doors when driving. Do not open your door at all to people you don’t know.’
‘For how long?’ another asked, standing up. ‘We’re supposed to hide away until when? The rest of us’ll be safe once one is dead, is that it?’
‘Aye, is that the best you’ve on offer? What are you gonna be doing to make us safe?’ the first woman asked before turning around to address the crowd. ‘This isn’t on, is it ladies? Why are we being left to protect ourselves?’ That started a riot of heckling.
‘We can’t take you all into protective care,’ Callanach said. ‘Our advice would be to leave the city if you have relatives elsewhere. No one is obliged to attend for work, the Council has made that clear. The precautions we’re asking you to take are the same as have applied to everyone in the city since this began. It’s just that you need to exercise a special level of awareness about your circumstances.’
‘That’s it?’ a woman shouted. ‘Special level of awareness! For goodness sake, is my husband supposed to give up work to stay home and look after me?’
‘I’m not running scared,’ another responded. ‘They can try me. I won’t be a prisoner in my own home.’
‘It’s important that you tell as few people as possible about this. I can’t insist on it, but it might make matters worse if any of you speaks to the press. These people seem to be courting publicity. I’d prefer not to give it to them.’ That went down about as well as he’d expected.
Callanach listened to another hour of alternating anger, fear, confusion and insults then called time.
He phoned Ava from his car, curious when she didn’t answer her mobile, leaving a brief message about the crossing guards and asking her to call when she was available. A text came through as he was finishing the voicemail.
‘30 Broughton Street. 1 hour.’ Callanach checked the number. It was sent from Lance Proudfoot’s phone. He considered the possibility that it was some new fun that DCI Edgar had planned for him, but it seemed unlikely in such a public place. He went home and changed, then walked the two minutes from his apartment to the given address. It turned out to be a wine shop Callanach frequented, although he’d not been aware of the precise address before. It was filled with enough shelves to allow privacy from the window view, and to enable a private conversation.
Lance was wearing a hoodie, with the hood pulled over as far as it would go and glasses Callanach hadn’t noticed before.
‘Lance,’ Callanach sidled up to him. ‘Are you in disguise?’
The journalist gave him a wary look, checked the aisles either side, then handed him an envelope. Callanach opened it as Lance busied himself studying labels. Inside was a disposable mobile, with a piece of paper and phone number attached. He read the note.
‘I underestimated you. I know what they planned to do and I hope they didn’t find you. I couldn’t warn you in case they were tracing your calls. Hence the enclosed gift. Use it only to phone or text the number attached. You need help and the level of programming involved is beyond your police force. Tell no one. Especially not DI Turner. Let me know what evidence you’ve got. I’ll do what I c
an. The police aren’t all bad. Same goes for my people.’
There was no sign-off, but it wasn’t required. Ben had proved that his access to police communications was way beyond what DCI Edgar had even contemplated, and he had to have accessed either their phone or email communications to have known what Edgar’s men had planned for Callanach. That meant there was a trail, which also meant he could prove they’d conspired to abduct him. Callanach considered taking it all to the superintendent, exposing Edgar for the maniacal thug he was. Of course, that would be the last thing that Overbeck would tolerate at the moment – a scandal involving Scotland Yard’s golden boys in the midst of a double killer crisis. Then there was the fact that Callanach had given unauthorised people confidential case information. Overbeck would have none of it. It would be hushed up as quickly as possible, probably with a resulting transfer to the Outer Hebrides. Reporting Edgar would do no good and might well be playing into the man’s hands. Callanach decided he’d bide his time. It wasn’t as if he had nothing else to think about. He looked at Lance who was glancing at his watch.
‘Where did you get this note?’ Callanach asked him.
‘Courier dropped it to my door. Not a company I recognised though. Ben put a note in for me too. Told me to watch my back and yours. Said I was being watched. Turns out an unfamiliar car has been coming and going outside my house for the last twenty-four hours. And now you turn up with a face that looks like it’s auditioning for a part in a prison soap opera. I feel as if I’ve stumbled onto the best story of my career and it’s going to be entirely off the record. So am I in real danger or are the men watching my house there for my protection?’
‘They’re police,’ Callanach said.
‘Oh thank God,’ Lance breathed out heavily. ‘I was actually getting rather worried.’
‘About that,’ Callanach said. ‘It’s not that you should be worried exactly, but be careful. We’re all too quick to ascribe positive qualities to people in uniform. They don’t always apply.’
‘In plain terms?’ Lance asked.
‘Don’t let them in your house. Tell them nothing. Stay away from Ben.’
‘Easier said than done. He planted some sort of software on my machine that auto-encodes whatever I send from it. For your convenience, presumably. I appear to be the go-between. Tell me I’m not going to end up on some trumped-up charge …’ his voice grew quieter and his words slowed. ‘They did that to you, didn’t they? Sorry, I was being obtuse, but these are policemen … is that why Ben told me not to meet you anywhere openly?’
‘The less said the better, is that the phrase?’ Callanach responded. ‘Lance, it was you who first spotted the graffiti pattern. Another has appeared in a new place. We think the killers are boasting to one another about their next target, that it’s part of some sadistic game. Almost like tagging the kill. Does that make sense to you?’
‘Yes and no. You’re suggesting that the two killers have set this whole thing up. Why the need to communicate so publicly then, if they’re just taking turns?’
‘This graffiti’s at Northumberland Place, just off Nelson. If you have a look, do it subtly. There’s twenty-four-hour surveillance in place. Let me know your thoughts. This is between us.’
‘You’ve told the potential victims though, right?’
‘We have,’ Callanach said.
‘So when this leaks, and it will leak, I get the exclusive. Whatever whitewash the official police line is, it comes to me first?’
‘I won’t argue with that,’ Callanach said. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Tripp was calling. The line was bad. All Callanach could get was intermittent fragments of speech and what sounded like screaming and yelling in the background.
‘Come now … DI Turner … couldn’t find you … Hemma … Holyrood Road …’ What little mobile reception there was gave in and the call ended. Callanach pocketed the envelope and turned back to Lance.
‘Something’s happening across town. Thanks for this, Lance. Keep your head down and I’ll be in touch.’ Callanach didn’t wait for a reply. He ran to his car. Holyrood Road was only a few minutes away if the traffic was light. He put his foot down and went.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Callanach was expecting to hear sirens long before he reached the scene, yet there wasn’t a police car in sight. Whatever had happened, Police Scotland was keeping its presence covert. He parked his car in a neighbouring street and made his way towards Hemma, a Swedish bar he’d passed several times but never entered. The frontage was all glass panels through which slanting white columns could be seen. He tried to figure out what he was missing. There was a mass of bodies inside, the noise pervasive from some distance, but the reflections on the glass veiled a detailed view. What was missing was any sign of the incident Tripp had been warning him about. Callanach kept his head low and opened the door, doing his best not to look like a police officer until he’d figured out exactly what was happening.
A cheer went up as he entered. It wasn’t your usual Friday night Edinburgh crowd. About half the station was there, from uniforms to support staff, his own squad, even DCI Edgar’s crew. Tripp pushed through the crowd to reach him. The doors were locked as a glass of champagne was pushed into his hand.
‘What’s going on?’ Callanach demanded. ‘We’ve got more than one hundred potential victims out there and we’re already short of manpower. Who in God’s name organised this?’
Tripp didn’t need to answer. DCI Edgar climbed onto a table holding a bottle of champagne aloft.
‘Thank you all for coming to the most last-minute of celebrations,’ Edgar began.
‘God, Tripp,’ Callanach said, grabbing his detective constable’s arm. ‘Tell me they haven’t arrested Ben Paulson – he may be the only one who can help …’
‘Under circumstances stranger than I’d ever have imagined, I would like to introduce you to my fiancée!’ The crowd moved back unprompted from Ava and raised their glasses in her direction.
‘We got a phone call, sir. DCI Edgar insisted that everyone finishing a shift should come. I assumed you’d heard,’ Tripp said.
Callanach stared at Ava who was smiling uncomfortably at the sudden attention, sipping champagne and staring glassily at the well-wishers. She tapped the toe of one foot against her other shoe as Edgar continued his self-congratulations.
‘You want a seat, sir?’ Salter asked.
‘I’m not that shocked, Salter,’ Callanach responded.
‘I was thinking about your injury,’ she said, leaning against a table and taking a sip of Coke. ‘I’m driving,’ she explained. ‘Going straight back to the station after this. Don’t know when I’ll next sleep in my own bed.’
‘This party has to end. I’ve had enough,’ Callanach said.
‘Sir, don’t do anything rash,’ Salter replied quietly.
Callanach grimaced. It wasn’t enough that Joseph Edgar had ordered him beaten, and fooled Ava into believing he was good enough for her. Now he was putting innocent people’s safety at risk. He strode forward as Edgar was climbing down from the table.
‘I want my squad and any uniformed officers back at the station immediately,’ Callanach announced to the crowd. ‘Whatever you’ve got in your hands, put it down. Report to the incident room and …’
‘DI Callanach,’ Edgar shouted. ‘Everyone’s on their way back to work right now. I simply borrowed my friend’s bar for thirty minutes. Scotland Yard is well aware how little progress is being made in the murders and of how much help you need. Your team could do with a morale boost. They’re all still on call. I’ve got it under control, don’t worry yourself.’
There was an embarrassed silence as Callanach figured out how to respond. Ava was already nowhere to be seen.
‘Phone call for you, sir,’ DS Lively called from the back of the crowd, waving his mobile in the air. ‘Urgent. Sorry to interrupt.’
Callanach pushed between bodies, grabbed the phone from Lively and barged out onto the street. The
phone was dead. Sergeant Lively appeared behind him, holding out his hand for the mobile.
‘What was that about, Sergeant?’ Callanach asked.
‘Thought you might like some fresh air,’ Lively replied.
Callanach took a few calming breaths. ‘Thank you,’ he said eventually.
‘Didn’t do it for you. That one’s a right wanker. You’d better do something about him, sir. From what I hear, DCI Begbie’s not planning on coming back. There’ll be a vacancy, and we don’t want Lord Edgar applying for a transfer to Police Scotland. That may be the first thing you and I have agreed about since you arrived.’ He walked off, leaving Callanach feeling more alone than he had for a very long time.
The chief was leaving, Ava was starting a new life with a man who would make absolutely sure that Callanach was strictly a former friend, his own mother had failed to respond to his final email to her, and DS Lively had turned out to be his saving ally. Callanach took a last look at the party beginning to wrap up inside the bar. He’d made a fool of himself, behaving like a fun-killing prig. Edgar must have been absolutely delighted. Ava would have been humiliated. The Major Investigation Team must have been thoroughly embarrassed. It was a disaster. He seemed to be leaving a trail of dislike in his wake and there was little he could see in his future that would make it any brighter.
He drove home faster than he should have, banishing the image of the diamond on Ava’s finger from his mind. Back in his flat he took out his laptop and began compiling a document containing all the information about the murders so far. They could be certain that the man who had killed Emily Balcaskie and leaked Helen Lott’s autopsy report either knew his way around coding or had help from someone extremely skilled. And those murders were without a doubt linked to the Thorburn and Swan cases. If he had to ask for help below the radar, so be it. And if Ben Paulson was a suspect in Joe Edgar’s case, then Callanach could live with that.