Perfect Prey

by Helen Fields

  She was starting a new life with a man she was already deceiving. Joe would understand when she explained just how much good Ben Paulson was doing, and without a request for a return favour. She just had to get her fiancé at a good moment, free of the stress of an investigation with so much top-down pressure he was inevitably feeling crushed by it.

  Joe had been the same way at university. Always needing to be a leader. Had to be captain of the rugby team. Fought to head up the debating society. Ever keen to go shopping with Ava to ensure she had the most beautiful dress for whatever ball they were attending. The amount of detail he’d put into everything had been overwhelming and part of the reason she’d closed their relationship down. But her mother had liked Joe, and Ava’s decision to break up with him had been another thorn in the already sore flesh of the mother/daughter relationship. Joe had always been ambitious, both socially and professionally. And now, having promised to marry him, Ava was putting his whole investigation in jeopardy by keeping secrets.

  She drove to Joe’s short-term apartment rental to see him driving away towards the city centre. She contemplated having the conversation by telephone and knew that it would play out worse if she couldn’t look him in the eyes and explain what had happened. As much work as she had to do, the conversation just wouldn’t wait. Ava kept his car in her sights and followed as he headed out towards Murrayfield, taking Roseburn Street and starting to slow down. Ava reduced her speed, the sense that she shouldn’t be following gnawing her insides, but not so much that she turned around. To the best of her knowledge, Joe knew no one in this part of the city. He’d not mentioned this trip when they’d discussed their working day over breakfast, not that she always knew where he was going, but it seemed strange. Joe pulled into a parking space. Ava searched for her own. There were none immediately visible so she drove past Joe’s car to find somewhere to park further up the road.

  She noticed the figure running as she passed the rear of his vehicle, dashing from another car to dive into Joe’s passenger seat. The person had moved as fast as they could, collar up, sunglasses on, slamming the door shut. Ava kept driving, wishing she could unsee what she’d seen, furious with herself. She didn’t park her car, making her way towards the stadium instead then turning left at the junction with West Approach Road back into the city.

  Putting on the radio, she sought external noise to drown out the din of her thoughts. She had recognised Joe’s visitor in spite of the brevity of the sighting. Ava thumped her steering wheel and cursed.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Ben spent an hour reassuring Lance that his journalistic mistake was not worth a long drop from a tall tower, as he simultaneously flung code into the black space of the internet. His attention was elsewhere though and the reason for that was due to arrive at his apartment in thirty minutes. On his laptop from Lance’s flat, he remotely checked his home cameras, wishing he’d spent less time programming and more time decorating, wincing at the dirty dishes in his sink and the clothes on the sofa. He was so used to shutting people out of his private space that he wasn’t really prepared for a visitor.

  Fifteen minutes later he had done all he could, said goodbye to Lance, and made his way home. The apartment wasn’t luxurious – he disliked shows of money and tried to lead a simple life, but it was warm, clean and comfortable. He turned off the overhead lights in favour of a few lamps, decided the effect was too suggestive and put all the overhead lights back on, then realised he hadn’t chilled the wine and didn’t have any ice. The doorbell rang. Even expecting someone, he checked his security cameras before answering. Such ingrained habits even dominated his dreams.

  Polly gave up with the doorbell and began knocking. Ben wiped sweat from his forehead and opened the door.

  ‘Finally!’ Polly said, walking past him into the lounge. ‘I brought beer, organic of course, and my sparkling company. Shall I … open them?’

  ‘Yeah, wow, sorry,’ Ben said, rushing to take the bottles from her. ‘You want one now?’ he asked.

  ‘That would be the general idea,’ Polly laughed. ‘It’s funny. All those times in the coffee shop and you’ve never seemed like anything could faze you.’

  ‘I just haven’t done this for a while. Not that we’re doing anything. Shit. Listen, let me open these beers and drink at least half the contents, then I’ll try speaking again, okay?’

  Polly followed him to the compact kitchen, leaning against the door frame as he grabbed a bottle opener.

  ‘What happened with the police?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Nothing, predictably. All they did was piss off my boss and make our clients twitchy.’ Ben handed Polly a bottle and knocked his against hers. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers? That’s a bit British for you.’ Polly walked back into the lounge.

  ‘I’m not the only one who’s moved country. How did you end up in Scotland?’

  ‘It’s a bit boring really,’ Polly said, throwing herself into an armchair. ‘My parents got divorced, had to sell the house, buy two small flats. Not enough space for me. It was time to move on anyway. I was seduced by the lochs and highlands. All the stuff I never leave Edinburgh to see. So are we going to compare past lives all evening or are you going to offer me some food?’

  ‘I’ll have to call out, if that’s okay? To be honest my culinary skills are pretty much limited to breakfast,’ Ben said.

  Polly laughed. ‘I’ll remember that,’ she said, ‘but for now Chinese would be great, if you know a good one. Could you point me towards your loo while you phone?’

  ‘Sure, second on the left. The lock’s a bit dodgy.’

  Polly giggled and left Ben riffling through a drawer full of take-out menus. His mobile pinged as he was trying to remember if Polly was a vegetarian or a vegan and wondering what he was going to order if she was the latter.

  He grabbed his mobile, conscious that he shouldn’t check the alert, wanting only to enjoy a normal evening with a girl. It was his finger that betrayed him, swiping at the flashing icon. Ben looked at the notification. There was information available that might help Callanach. It wouldn’t take long, just a few minutes to check and he could continue his evening as if nothing had happened. Polly was still in his bathroom, hopefully not spending her time figuring out how to let him down gently. In spite of his looks, he’d never been lucky with girls. The geek label was the first and last thing most of them saw, and he wasn’t great about socialising. He’d had a more successful long-term relationship with his laptop than anything else in his life. He certainly didn’t want to blow this opportunity. As Polly came out of the bathroom, Ben made the decision not to blow his chance with her by staying attached to the screen, closed the notification and dialled for take-out, choosing a selection of vegetable and noodle dishes.

  ‘That sounds good,’ Polly said sitting down before picking up her beer and Ben’s iPod, flicking through his music collection with the odd grin and raised eyebrow.

  He tried to settle, scrabbling around for things to talk about, before sighing and shifting forward in his seat to look Polly directly in the eyes. ‘Pol, I’m sorry. I need to do something and it won’t wait. The food will be here in twenty minutes. I’ll be back with you in five. Please don’t leave. You have to promise.’

  ‘All right, don’t freak out, of course I’m not going to leave. Can I help? I mean … I’m interested. In you, your life, what you do.’ Polly smiled, her various piercings sparkling, giving her the appearance of an urban fairy-tale princess.

  Ben knew he shouldn’t let anyone in his study. The things he did there, the information he had, were for no one’s eyes but his own. But Polly had proved her loyalty at the cafe. And Big Dave, a long-time friend of The Unsung, was no fool. He had taken her on, made her part of their circle. And the tiny corner of the universe Ben inhabited was starting to feel bleak, like travelling through life in a one-man spacecraft, always talking to mission control without ever making physical contact. It was time to let someone in.

&nb
sp; ‘Would you wait while I run my opening sequence?’ Ben asked. ‘I need to be alone for that.’

  ‘Right you are!’ Polly gave a mock salute. She offered Ben her hand to pull her up. He gripped it, thinking he should take the opportunity to kiss her, missing his moment while he considered how she might react. ‘Lead the way. I’ll stand guard until you give me the word.’

  Ben walked into the hallway, taking a key from around his neck and opening his study door. Polly stood back, giving him space, keeping her eyes on a black and white photo of the Big Sur coastline.

  ‘Is this California?’ she asked as he withdrew the key and punched a six figure number into a keypad.

  ‘Yeah, not far from Carmel. I never got bored of taking that drive. Give me a couple of minutes.’ He relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived.

  ‘Get on with it then, or the food’ll be here before you’re done, and if there’s one thing I hate it’s my dinner going cold.’

  Ben closed the door behind himself. His computer wouldn’t fire up unless the door was properly shut. It was another of his obsessive security moves. He ran through his login routine and only then allowed Polly to enter. There was only one chair in the room – he’d never needed a second. Polly perched on the arm.

  ‘It doesn’t look much,’ Polly said. ‘I thought it’d be like the Starship Enterprise in here.’

  ‘All the magic happens in there,’ Ben pointed to a line of computers on the floor.

  ‘And I thought it all happened in here,’ Polly said, tapping Ben’s forehead with her finger. He flushed, suddenly aware how small and windowless the room was, switching on the air-conditioning unit while he recovered from his ridiculously teenaged reaction to her touch.

  Ben clicked open a file, expecting nothing more than a data dump, wanting only to exclude the possibility that there was something useful there. He typed a few lines of code, searching through the scroll of symbols, frowning at the screen, the sense that he was wasting second after second as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing.

  ‘Out,’ he said, wanting to move Polly out of his way without letting her see how panicked he was. ‘I need to get out, right now.’

  Polly jumped through the door ahead of him and he dashed down the corridor without even stopping to turn off the computer. What he needed to do wouldn’t wait for anything. Ben grabbed his mobile and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door, landing on his knees.

  ‘Callanach,’ the voice said on the other end.

  ‘It’s me,’ Ben said. ‘It’s all gone wrong. I didn’t think they’d do it, but they have and I got the data back. I got an alert and—’

  ‘Ben, slow down. I can’t understand what’s going on. Take a breath,’ Callanach said.

  Ben took several, clenching his core muscles against their threat to eject the beer upwards.

  ‘I’ve unscrambled communications from the webmaster to other users. There are repeated references to two people and I only have usernames, but given the context it’s clear that they’re the murderers. One is called Grom and the other is Sem Culpa. I haven’t got any more details about them, but I do know the target for the next kill. I’m sorry, Luc. I wish I could take it back.’

  ‘You’re not making sense. Do you need me to come over?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘No time,’ Ben said. ‘You have to stop her, whoever Sem Culpa is. You have to find the target. I didn’t think they’d choose it.’

  ‘Ben, just give me the information. I need to get working.’

  ‘It’s the one I submitted, Luc. You told me to choose a profession most people disliked, only they took it and changed it.’

  ‘Baise-moi,’ Callanach muttered. Fuck me. ‘Ben, what did you write?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I never thought … lawyer. I wrote lawyer. And Sem Culpa is going to choose one to kill if you don’t find her first. You have to stop her, Luc. I can’t be responsible for what that crazy bitch does.’

  ‘You said they changed it. What did they do?’

  ‘They chose the only type of lawyer that most people would regard as sympathetic. It’ll be a human rights lawyer. And you don’t have much time. The email to Sem Culpa gave her just twenty-four hours to complete the kill.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The news desk editor, known mainly to those around her as Eddie, was literally running from desk to desk. It had been the same since the murders started. Almost every bulletin and item, broadcast and online, had included some mention of it. Every statement from a family member, every theorist, every potential witness, their words recorded, reported, rehashed. The truth was that Eddie (often mistakenly thought of as a nickname from her job, but in fact from Edwina which she hated) had had enough of it. Not from any lack of empathy, but from sheer repulsion. Privately she longed to join a team debating politics, economics, or philosophical arguments with a real world edge. Her career was impressive, yet she still had days when she felt she hadn’t done her job if there wasn’t at least one shocking news report. It was draining.

  The package arrived looking innocent enough. It was no more than a slightly bulky brown envelope, typewritten address for the attention of Ms E Kitt. She got several pieces of post each day. Sometimes people sent images of their child winning a gymnastics competition. More often, people were after free publicity about a new restaurant/bar/club opening up. About ninety per cent went straight into the bin.

  The receptionist called her name and threw the package over to her. Eddie celebrated her one-handed catch given that she was holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate in the other. She allowed herself that one sugary vice each day, never until after 8 p.m. when the worst of the crises were usually over.

  Eddie sat listening to the banter, preparing for the late broadcast, wishing she hadn’t been so stupid as to wear new shoes, or to have tried online dating. Life was much easier when you trod familiar ground. So much less scope for blisters or unwanted attention.

  ‘What are we leading with?’ someone shouted, one hand over a phone receiver.

  ‘Julia Stimple’s arrest and the police failure to apprehend the real murderer,’ Eddie replied. ‘And we’ll be ignoring the thousands dead in Africa, hundreds illegally imprisoned in Asia, and the grotesqueries of human trafficking in South America, like we always do,’ she muttered, ripping open the envelope one-handed by holding it between her legs as she sipped her drink. The package was too tight to get her fingers in and pull out whatever was wedged at the bottom, but she plucked out the note easily enough.

  ‘A gift to put some flesh on the bones of your reporting. Your lollipop lady is not talking any more. Grom.’

  ‘What the hell is this now?’ Eddie said, tipping up the envelope to inspect the contents. They fell onto her lap. Onto her cream trousers to be precise. She’d just had them dry-cleaned, that was her first thought. Strewn across Eddie’s thighs sat two matching circles of shrivelled flesh, the edges blackened with dried blood, each about an inch in diameter with a marked dimple in the centre. She poked one with her fingernail, realising too late that she should have called someone over the second she’d read the note. Eddie’s body had jerked before she could stop the cup from flying into the air and crashing down in her lap, over the amputated flesh, burning her and making her earlier concerns for her trousers entirely irrelevant. ‘Oh shite, no!’ she screamed. ‘Get them off me, get the bloody things off me!’

  By then the team had rallied, grabbing the cup, dabbing her burning legs, none of them seeing what she’d seen, treading on the chunks of flesh that the police would need for evidence.

  ‘Pick them up,’ she shouted. ‘They’re on the floor, you’re treading on them. Oh Jesus, my legs.’ She stripped off her trousers, not caring who saw her supermarket underwear and unshaved legs.

  ‘Call the police. Get either DI Callanach or Turner here right now. Tell them one of the murderers has sent in some slices of their current victim. Step back, all of you. Look around on the floor.’

  They did a
s they were told, journalistic instincts kicking in. They were part of the story now, and it had just got bigger.

  ‘What are we looking for, Eddie?’ the receptionist asked as he dialled the Major Investigation Team number.

  ‘That,’ Eddie said, pointing to a squashed grey-pink lump on the floor, a heel mark visible on its surface. ‘Only there were two of them. And I’m pretty sure that’s the skin off someone’s elbows.’

  Callanach rang Ava not really expecting her to pick up. When she spoke, it wasn’t in the whispered tones he’d anticipated calling so late at night. Clearly Joe wasn’t in the room.

  ‘There’s been a delivery at BBC Scotland from someone called Grom. Another body part, or parts to be precise,’ he said.

  ‘Oh god,’ Ava groaned. ‘What this time?’

  ‘Forensics have confirmed a large section of skin has been removed from two elbows, both from the same person. As long as the bleeding was stemmed, the wounds would have been painful but not life-threatening. The greater risk is from infection setting in, although given the position this hostage is in, I’m guessing that’s not their main concern at the moment. On top of that, we have the next target. Where are you? I can pick you up.’

  ‘No need,’ Ava said. ‘My car’s right outside. I’ll meet you back at the station. Are you planning a press release?’

  ‘No,’ Callanach said. ‘I think that would be the worst thing we could do. I’ve called the superintendent in. Can you be there in fifteen?’

  ‘I can,’ Ava said. ‘Before you go, Luc, how did you get the information?’

  ‘Are you with Joe?’ Callanach checked.

  ‘He’s at work. I get the impression his squad are about to make their final sweep. They seem to be getting some good intelligence.’

  ‘Ben Paulson,’ Callanach said.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you who the target is,’ Ava said.