by Helen Fields
Callanach raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t realised he’d been so transparent, but then family were always the first suspects in murder cases. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t trying to trick you into betraying a grieving relative. It’s just that first impressions count for a lot, before people have a chance to fix their masks securely.’
‘That’s okay. I understand how hard your job can be, balancing kindness against the need for answers. It’s often the same for me,’ she said. ‘You’re French, right? Do you ever find it hard trying to read people’s emotions through a second language? When I first moved to England from Spain I struggled with that. Not the words or their definitions, but the things my patients and their families weren’t telling me.’
‘Have you been here long?’ Callanach asked.
‘Ten years,’ she replied. ‘I still can’t get used to the cold. It’s one thing when you’re skiing. It’s not quite the same when you’re just trying to buy groceries.’
Callanach smiled. ‘I sympathise,’ he said. ‘I should go and talk to the family now. Could you show me the way? Unless you’re rushing off somewhere.’
‘I’m off duty. I was just waiting to talk to you before heading home. Come on, I’d be happy to take you. I need to say goodbye to them anyway.’
* * *
Spreading his palms wide on the door to the hospital mortuary suite, he breathed in slowly and deeply.
‘I’m here, Cordelia,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
He imagined her body covered by a sheet, and wondered why anyone bothered to hide corpses from the world. Was it that the living feared staring into the eyes of death or that the dead shouldn’t be bothered by the still beating hearts going about their business around them? More likely, he thought, that it was all too easy to imagine the dead as monstrous. He knew monsters. He understood them. None of the ones he’d met had ever been dead. They had promised him safety in their foster homes. They had smiled and lied, talked about him above his head in legal speak, acted as if they cared. The dead were harmless enough.
A nurse rounded the corner, head down, studying a brown folder thick with patient notes. He stepped back to let her pass. Cordelia was gone. He regretted not having been there within sight of her at the end, but he couldn’t have it all his own way. Imagining her death, knowing the symptoms she would have suffered, was enough and he hoped it was not too painful a passing. He was capable of empathy, no matter what the experts said about sociopaths. His priority now was to make the most of Cordelia’s death. To wring every tiny emotion from it. Dying for nothing would be the ultimate insult, after all. He slid his right hand into his trouser pocket and ran his fingers along the length of the beautiful ink-pen he had yet to add to his box of treasures.
Then there was the budding West End star, Sean, to think of. Life was complicated at the moment. So many people to please. So much need for him. All the time, he had to remember who he was, cover his tracks, avoid, plan, prepare. There were times, he admitted, when he doubted it was worth it. But then there was the grief. The outpouring. That was his reward. The love he gave and received. Pulling up his hood, he opened the photo gallery of Sean on his mobile, and blew Cordelia a final kiss goodbye towards the door. Each death only made him long for the next all the sooner.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘We seized Mrs Muir’s handbag and all its contents, sir,’ a detective constable said, handing Callanach an updated evidence schedule through the incident room chaos. ‘The tablets were found in a zipped pocket inside the bag, set in the inner lining along with some sanitary products.’
‘Where are the pills now?’ Callanach asked.
‘Sent to the lab, but we’ve found similar pills online. I’m willing to bet that’s what she was taking,’ the detective constable replied.
‘We use victims’ names, not pronouns,’ Callanach snapped. ‘How soon do we get the lab results?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Lively joined in. ‘Only one of the tablets went to the lab for chemical profiling. The rest went for general forensic testing. It looks as if they came from a tub of pills Mrs Muir kept in her desk at work. They were shoved right to the back of the bottom drawer.’
‘No markings on the pills themselves?’ Callanach asked.
‘None,’ Lively confirmed. ‘Not unusual for internet purchases of unregulated medicines. Prevents tracing them back to a particular provider in the event of an incident like this.’
‘So it looks as if the daughter may be wrong about her mother not knowingly taking diet pills,’ Callanach said. ‘Check Mrs Muir’s internet history and emails for references to diet supplements and weight loss. See if we can find out where she bought them.’ A buzz from his pocket was a message from Lance Proudfoot suggesting a place to meet. ‘Let me know as soon as the preliminary autopsy report is in. I’ll need to review it with DCI Turner.’
Lance and Callanach met in a coffee shop just off Middle Meadow Walk, usually full of students for its proximity to the university, but the December holidays had thinned out its usual clientele.
‘God, there was me looking forward to seeing you, and I find you with a face like the innards of a haggis. Surely it can’t be that bad, man!’ Lance bellowed. He wrapped Callanach in a brisk hug as he stood to greet him, slapping him hard on the back. Callanach had no choice but to smile back. It was impossible to feel sorry for yourself around Lance.
‘I ordered you espresso, none of that ridiculous latte you philistines like so much,’ Callanach said. ‘It’s good to see you, Lance. Sorry I left it so long.’
‘Ach, don’t sweat it. My son graduated in September and promptly decided to move back in with me, much to my horror. I seem to spend all my time either shopping, cooking or cleaning. I’d forgotten what it was like to have another person around the place. I tried to persuade him to move in with his mother but apparently my ex-wife recently found God. Rather restrictive to a lad in his early twenties, apparently,’ Lance said, taking a swig of the espresso and grimacing. ‘How do you drink this stuff without single malt in it?’
‘Lance, forgive me. I’m going to have to be quick. Thanks for agreeing to help. Another officer has asked for a story to be put out and I wondered if you could assist,’ he said. He didn’t use Ava’s name. Her instructions had been to keep any police link to the story completely hidden.
‘What details can you give me?’ Lance asked.
‘Here,’ Callanach said, sliding a piece over paper across the table. ‘It’s straight forward. A large anonymous donation has been made in cash to a charity. The details are all there with a statement from Edinburgh’s Chief Pathologist about it. Can you run it on your news blog?’
‘The real question is why you need me to run it,’ Lance said.
‘It’s urgent. Other news channels might not be interested. It needs to be prominent,’ Callanach pleaded.
‘I’d ask what the backstory is, only I can see from your face that I might as well ask the Queen what Prince Philip’s like in bed. Have you got time to eat? I’m starving,’ Lance said.
‘Sorry, I don’t, but I’ll buy you a sandwich if that makes it up to you,’ Callanach said.
‘Never mind, I’m supposed to be watching this svelte, dreamboat figure. Is it a charity fraud case? Forget it, I’ll stop asking,’ Lance said. Callanach shook his head. It wasn’t even that he didn’t want to answer Lance’s questions. The truth was that he didn’t have any answers to give him. Ava had contacted him with the details and asked him to get it done. End of story.
‘But you can’t blame a journalist for trying. Will you come to my place for dinner soon, when you don’t have to rush away? I’ll make sure my boy is at his mother’s for the weekend so we can talk without listening to his music through the wall.’
‘I’d like that, thanks Lance. I’ll be in touch.’
Christian was waiting in the carpark for Randall Muir. He’d called an hour earlier, asking to be collected from the hospital and driven home. The boy’s head was bowed as he walked betwee
n the cars, looking for Christian through the drizzle. He flashed his headlights and waved a hand out of the driver’s window.
‘Hey, Rand, what’s happening? Haven’t you been home since last night?’ Christian asked.
‘No,’ Randall said. ‘I—she—we couldn’t leave.’ He rubbed a hand across his eyes, determined not to cry in front of Christian. He’d been so sure he could make it home without blubbing and they hadn’t even left the carpark yet.
‘Randall,’ Christian said softly. ‘What happened?’
‘Mum’s dead,’ he said. ‘Some sort of pills, they reckon. I couldn’t understand most of what they said. My sister is still there dealing with the police.’
‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry. You should have called me. I’d have come and just, I don’t know, been there with you,’ Christian said.
‘It’s okay,’ Randall said.
‘It isn’t okay. Not at all.’ Christian put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and gripping him tightly for a few seconds. ‘I wish I hadn’t encouraged you to spend your time at The Fret. You should have been at home with your mum, not listening to a load of losers showing off.’
‘No,’ Randall said pulling away from him. ‘I wanted to be there. I needed to be there. You don’t know how much it meant.’ His cheeks coloured and he turned to the window before Christian could see his embarrassment.
‘What can I do to help?’ Christian asked. ‘Shall I take you home?’
‘Yes, please,’ Randall said. ‘My sister’s going to her house to get some clothes, then she’s coming over. Maybe you could come in and meet her? We could call out for pizza or something. Mum used to do all the cooking.’
‘I don’t think she’ll want anyone else there right now, but thank you. I have another friend I need to see tonight. God knows how this could have happened to two of you. It’s like I’m a jinx.’ He started the car engine. ‘You said the police were there. Why was that?’ he asked, filling the silence.
‘The doctor said my mum had taken non-prescription drugs, the sort you get off the internet for losing weight. I don’t think they’re legal in this country so the police were brought in.’
‘That’s awful. The people who make that crap should be shot. Did you even know she was taking them?’ Chris asked.
‘No. She didn’t need to lose weight. I reckon they’ve got it wrong. I knew she wasn’t feeling well but I never guessed. You know what the worst thing is? When I left last night, I never even said goodbye to her. I was so worried about getting out of the house, and’ – he dashed tears from his eyes – ‘and I was pleased she was ill so she didn’t give me any hassle. Feels like it’s all my fault.’
‘That’s not true. Your mum knew exactly how much you loved her. It’s not your fault, Randall. This is going to be tough, I’ve been there. I lost my mum, too. Blaming yourself won’t bring her back and it won’t help. If you’d known what she was going through, you’d have stayed, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeah, of course.’ Randall sniffed.
‘There you go. That’s what you have to keep hold of. Even if you had been there, chances are it was too late for you to have changed anything. Which house is it?’ he asked.
‘That one,’ Randall said, pointing across the road. Christian pulled up. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry to have called you.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ Christian said. ‘Make sure you eat and get some sleep. No one wants you getting ill as well. Call me if you need me. It’s no trouble.’
Randall climbed out of the car, giving a quick wave and running inside. Watching Randall made Christian think of Mina. He hadn’t answered the message she’d left him earlier. He picked up his phone and dialled.
‘Hey,’ Mina answered the phone softly. ‘I’m in the library. I had to get out of the house. Are you nearby?’ she asked.
‘No, I’ve just dropped off a friend and I think he might need me later so I won’t make any plans, if that’s okay,’ Christian said.
‘Yeah, fine,’ Mina said. ‘I understand. How about meeting up tomorrow instead?’
‘I’ve got some work. Holiday stuff, but I’ve got to take it. Next term’s fees aren’t going to pay themselves. As soon as I’ve got a free day, I’ll call you. Are you going to be okay?’
‘It seems harder now that it’s getting closer to Christmas. I keep wondering what to buy Lily then remembering I don’t need to this year. The police are coming up blank. My parents have completely stopped going out,’ she said.
‘It’s early days. Wait until the new year. It’ll be easier to move forward. I’d better go. I need to keep my phone free,’ Christian said.
‘Sure, sorry. Your friend, is he okay? You sound worried,’ Mina said.
‘A bit. His mother just … you know what, you’ve got enough on your plate,’ he said.
‘It’s good for me to think about other people. Can you tell me what happened?’ she asked.
‘He lost his mother. They think she died from taking some unlicensed diet pills. It’s so sad. His father had already passed. Now it’s just him and his sister,’ Christian said.
‘That’s so unfair,’ Mina said. ‘Poor him. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No, it’s very raw. He needs time with his family to come to terms with their loss. It’s weird though. First you lose Lily then this happens to someone else I know. I feel like I’m spreading bad luck around. I know that’s stupid, and that it’s nothing to do with me, but it’s uncomfortable. As if whenever I walk into someone’s life, I ruin things for them.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Mina said. ‘If you hadn’t been around, I’m not sure I’d have coped. You’ve been so strong for me. I’m sure you’ll do the same for your other friend, too.’
‘Listen to you, making me feel better. I’ve got to go, but I’ll make it up to you. We’ll do something together in a couple of days, okay?’
‘That sounds good,’ she said. ‘Christian, thanks for everything.’
‘I’m glad I could be there when you needed me,’ he replied. ‘It was a privilege.’
Chapter Thirty
Ava hadn’t slept. The thought that Glynis Begbie had been robbed of a husband by men who were confident they wouldn’t be prosecuted for it was driving her to distraction. Then there was Louis Jones. That death she could do something about. The problem was where to start.
Ava picked up Jones’ phone records and ran through them. The last call was from a phone in St Leonard’s police station, so it was the previous few numbers she was interested in. Ava ran three numbers through the computer. One was from India. The search engine listed it as a popular complaints number, which looked like a standard computer virus scam. The next incoming call was from Glasgow. Ava blocked her mobile number from being identified, and dialled it.
A female picked up, shouting about music and noise. ‘The Maz,’ the voice said. ‘Geordie, shut the fuck up, I can’t hear a frigging thing. Who is it?’ the woman shouted.
Ava ended the call. It made sense, as did the fact that the big man and Knuckles had Glaswegian accents. The Maz was the address Ramon Trescoe had given on his release from prison. The phone call was also the first firm link between Trescoe and Louis Jones. She studied the remaining calls on the log before Jones had disappeared into the night and headlong into a nasty car accident. Jones had phoned someone straight after he’d taken the call from The Mazophilia. Was he asking for help, she wondered. She dialled the number on the log. A recorded message provided details of a ferry company operating out of Cairnryan Port, running the service over to Belfast. That explained both the route Jones was taking out of Edinburgh and the speed at which he’d left his premises. More importantly, it was an indication of the nature of the call from Glasgow beforehand.
Ava wished she could turn back time and get a look inside Louis Jones’ car. What did a man on the run take with him? Was he carrying bundles of used notes, similar to those Begbie had stashed in his house, or had he given up on that and decided his life
was all that mattered? She made one more call.
‘Chief Inspector Dimitri?’ Ava said, tucking her phone between ear and shoulder as she opened a notebook. ‘This is DCI Turner. Could you email me the evidence log for Louis Jones’ car? I can’t find a copy of it in our investigative records.’
‘I’ll send it, of course, but to my knowledge the car was empty. Some food cartons. No weapons, no drugs, nothing of note,’ Dimitri said. ‘What is it you’re looking for?’
‘Anything about where he was going or why he was leaving Edinburgh,’ Ava said.
‘I’ll have someone send over the paperwork. No other leads then?’ he asked.
‘It’s early days,’ Ava said. ‘Tell me, the other car involved in the crash, presumably you have tyre marks or paint flecks.’
‘A forensic road traffic accident investigator attended the scene. I haven’t reviewed his report as it didn’t become available until after Jones was dead and by then it had become your case. I’ll do whatever I can to help, though,’ Dimitri said.
‘Not necessary,’ Ava replied. ‘I’ll chase the accident investigator’s report myself. It would have been more helpful if we’d been made aware of which officers had attended the scene in the first place.’ She was trying not to snap. Playing blame tennis between departments was unprofessional, and Dimitri had been nothing other than courteous and helpful.
‘Sorry, I’d asked one of my constables to pass you the information but she’s pregnant at the moment and frankly I’m finding my commands go in one ear and out the other. She’s about as useful as a kitten in a dog-fight these days,’ he said.
‘What’s her name?’ Ava asked.