by Helen Fields
‘I beg your pardon?’ Dimitri said.
‘I said, what’s her name? Your pregnant PC?’
‘Janet Monroe. I’ll be sure to chase the matter up with her.’ He rang off. Ava unclenched her jaws and strode through to the incident room. In her frustration, she’d just made matters worse for some poor constable who was already, no doubt, feeling as if pregnancy was a step down on the career ladder. It wasn’t what she’d intended at all.
‘DC Tripp,’ she said, ‘I need to know which road traffic accident investigator attended the scene of Louis Jones’ crash. Then I’ll need contact details for a PC Janet Monroe who’s on Chief Inspector Dimitri’s squad. Is the preliminary pathologist’s report on Cordelia Muir in yet?’
‘Only to confirm that death was caused by the high levels of DNP in Mrs Muir’s blood. Other than that, no injuries, no defensive wounds, no self-harm, no illness apparent but they’re waiting for the full tox screen,’ Tripp said. ‘Detective Superintendent Overbeck’s chasing you. She phoned earlier but the call got diverted as your line was busy.’
‘Bollocks,’ Ava muttered. Appeasing Overbeck was the last thing she felt like doing, but it was best dealt with swiftly, like lancing a boil. Back at her desk she put the call through to Overbeck’s secretary, half-hoping the Superintendent would now be engaged with some other task. No such luck.
‘Progress report, Turner,’ Overbeck demanded.
Ava slumped. When Overbeck was in one of those moods nothing was going to pacify her. ‘Cordelia Muir died of poisoning from a high level of DNP. We’re chasing the drug trail. She had pills both in her handbag and her desk, so we need to identify the vendor. There’s not much change in the status of the Lily Eustis investigation. We know where she was drinking before her trip to Arthur’s Seat but her male companion has still neither come forward nor been identified. The murder of Louis Jones is in preliminary stages. Cause of death was the injury from the gunshot to the head.’
‘Did you figure that one out yourself or did the pathologist have to confirm it?’ Overbeck asked. Ava didn’t bother to answer. It was better to allow Overbeck her moment of sarcasm then move on. Engaging her was destructive. ‘Jones’ known enemies? Any forward movement there?’
‘He’s on the periphery of criminal activity in the area through his vehicle hire business. DS Lively is conducting those enquiries, ma’am,’ Ava said.
‘So, to summarise, you have three dead bodies and no one in custody to account for any of them. The explanation for that is? I mean one I can give to the board. Not the usual babble about evidence and forensics.’
‘In the Muir case, the drugs may have come from abroad and might prove impossible to trace. As far as Lily Eustis goes, there was a delay before we considered it a murder and there is very little to go on evidentially. Regarding Louis Jones, I’m waiting for forensics reports,’ Ava said.
‘You’re still talking and yet I’m hearing nothing of substance. Look under some rocks, Ava, that’s my advice. If it’s not obvious which ones are relevant, kick a lot of them until something nasty crawls out, then put a bloody glass over it and get it in a cell. You’re aware I have a limited amount of patience? Update me within forty-eight hours.’
As unwelcome as one of Overbeck’s lectures was, this time she’d made a fair point. Sitting around waiting for useful information about Louis Jones’ killer to appear was no strategy at all. Ava had the address of The Maz club and two suspects to follow up. There was little point wasting any more time.
Courtesy of roadworks, Ava’s journey from Edinburgh city centre to Glasgow took an hour and forty-five minutes, by which time the sun was getting low. The Mazophilia Club, home to the Trescoe family, was on Cathcart Road in the Govanhill area to the south of the city centre, a small mercy that meant she bypassed the worst of the Glasgow traffic. The downside was that the area itself wasn’t the place she wanted to be as the sun went down.
She found the club eventually, not that the signage was hugely helpful as the main door was in a side-alley. The facade was black with scratched up gold lettering, and a smokey grey outline of a woman with the sort of curves rarely seen in real life. Ava silenced her screaming inner-feminist, bought a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from a nearby shop, turned up her collar and put on the woolly hat and gloves she kept in the car for winter visits to scenes of crime. Walking slowly around the block towards the club’s entrance, she lit a cigarette, smoking without inhaling. When the law had changed to make smoking in pubs and clubs illegal, it had inadvertently provided a perfectly plausible excuse to hang around outside in the middle of winter. The main problem was trying not to cough.
The club was windowless, although two other doors provided fire exits. At the back of the property was a further door, but this had a number attached and there were windows on the first and second floors. In the upper of those were curtains. This was separate from the club then, presumably providing living accommodation. Behind that, was a pedestrian walkway through to a parking area.
A door slammed in the main alleyway. Ava leaned against a wall, lighting a new cigarette.
‘I’ve told you, I’m not going to work there if you let them touch me. The deal was they can look but that’s it. I don’t want people grabbing ma fuckin’ boobs. They want to do that, they’re going to have to fork out a lot more than they’re paying to get through the door.’ The accent was all Glasgow but the face, as Ava peered round for a look, was more Asian. She was pretty. Too pretty to need to work in such a dive, Ava thought, but then people got trapped by their own lives. The man she was with put a hand on her shoulder.
‘It’s not such a big deal, is it? You’re here to entertain. If anyone gets really out of hand, one of us’ll show ’em the door. It’s as safe as houses. Take it as a compliment and smile,’ he said.
‘How much of a compliment would it be if I grab your ball-sack?’ the girl responded.
‘I think I’d be fairly pleased with myself,’ the man said.
‘Yeah, well what if it was one of those sweaty pigs in there? Honest to God, most of the time I can smell them before I can see them. We should make them take a frigging shower before they come through the door.’
‘That’s Mr Trescoe’s customers you’re talking about. You don’t want to let the boss hear you talking like that. I’ll ask the bouncers to keep a closer eye on you tonight, okay? Anyone gets frisky, they’ll sort it, but no more mouthing off. You’re eye-candy. That’s not so effective with a face like you’ve just been pissed on.’
‘Yeah, well, if it happens again, I’m complaining to Joe Trescoe myself,’ the girl said.
‘If you talk to Mr Trescoe like you just spoke to me, you’ll end up being escorted home by Knuckles. You want that?’ There was silence. ‘Didn’t think so. Now let’s get you a drink, loosen you up before the place gets busy. No more moaning, right?’
The girl, face still thunderous, threw her cigarette on the ground and walked inside, the man’s arm around her shoulders. Ava edged out of the shadows. Joe Trescoe, the club’s owner, was Ramon Trescoe’s brother. No doubt, now that he was out of prison, Ramon wasn’t wasting any time inserting himself back into Glasgow’s less than honest money-making schemes. Short of loitering for the next twenty-four hours, though, there was little hope of seeing Ramon himself. The one positive was hearing Knuckles’ name mentioned. What Ava needed now was to put all the pieces together. She stamped her feet. It was time to go home. There was no point risking being noticed, especially when one of the men inside was still sporting some burn marks on his testicles from her taser. Next time she was there, she’d be better prepared. Next time, she’d be dressed to kill and perfectly happy to do so.
Chapter Thirty-One
Callanach sat with the forensics report in front of him. The lab results on the tablet from Cordelia Muir’s handbag verified the presence of the so-called weight loss drug dinitrophenol. He had already contacted the Food Standards Agency who had responded with a sense of exhaustion,
commenting only that stopping the flow of such drugs into the country was about as likely as persuading a teenager not to use social media. The report also confirmed that Cordelia Muir’s DNA had been found on the tablets in her handbag, and that the pills in her desk also matched the chemical makeup of the drug in her body. It was conclusive, and it made Cordelia’s death illegal, but with no emails or texts showing where she’d purchased the drugs, there was no case for MIT to follow up. All that remained was for Callanach to prepare a file for the Procurator Fiscal. The other task was to break the news to Mrs Muir’s family.
A constable wandered into his office, left a note on his desk then disappeared again. Callanach stopped typing to read it.
‘Telephone call from Dr Selina Vega re Cordelia Muir,’ it read, followed by a mobile number.
‘This is Detective Inspector Callanach,’ he said, as she answered his call.
‘That was quick. I was wondering how the investigation is going into Mrs Muir’s death. Do you have an autopsy report yet?’ the hospital registrar who had treated Cordelia asked.
‘I have,’ Callanach said. ‘Generally the report doesn’t …’
‘Over coffee, if you’ve got time? Then I can have a proper look at it. I’m off duty today if you’re free to meet up.’
‘That’s fine, if you’d prefer to talk in person. Did you want to come into the station?’ Callanach asked.
‘I’d prefer somewhere with sofas and Danish pastries.’ Dr Vega laughed. ‘There’s a little Spanish place tucked away on Niddry if you’ll promise never to take anyone else there. I don’t want it getting too popular as it’s my regular hangout.’
‘I think I can promise that,’ Callanach said. ‘An hour from now?’
Esencia looked tiny from the outside, but the café extended back through the building on Niddry Street, its ancient walls darkened over centuries. Upon opening the door, Callanach had been overwhelmed by the mingling aromas of coffee, spiced wines and cured meats. For a second he was far away in sunshine, enjoying the fresh air. It could have been Portugal, Greece or Spain. He held on to the sensation as long as he could before bringing himself back to reality and looking around for Dr Selina Vega.
He found her with a book on her lap in a corner, her long hair twisted up on her head, wearing a pale denim shirt and brown suede jeans. She smiled as he approached.
‘You found me,’ she said. ‘I’ve ordered us coffee, deep-fried calamari and patatas bravas. That okay?’
‘I wasn’t expecting you to do that, Dr Vega. I hope you’ll let me get the bill,’ Callanach said.
‘It’s the least I can do. I felt a bit guilty forcing you out of your office. It’s just so nice to be able to meet up with a fellow immigrant. And please call me Selina,’ she said. Callanach hung his coat on the back on the chair and made himself comfortable. Selina Vega was beautiful. Tall, slim, with dark brown eyes and a wide smile. He’d not registered that she might have been interested in anything other than a professional context but the meeting suddenly felt more like a date. He took out a paper copy of the autopsy report and put it on the table without opening it.
‘I’m Luc,’ he said. ‘If you miss Spain that much, why not go back, if I’m not prying.’
‘I had a boyfriend here, we lived together for a few years, it went wrong. Now I’m on a career path and the hospital is excellent. I go back regularly to stock up on sunshine and trips to the beach. Scotland doesn’t have the ideal climate for surfing. What about you?’
‘My father was Scottish,’ he said. That much, at least, was certain to be true whatever he found out about his biological roots. It was also the easiest way to answer the question without lying. ‘I haven’t been surfing for such a long time. Years, in fact. I used to go down to Les Cavaliers regularly in my early twenties. It’s funny how work distracts us from the things we love.’
‘Tell me about it. My dream was to travel the world scuba diving. As a teenager, I used to carry around a list of wrecks and reefs I wanted to see. I managed a few of them, then it was all revision and research. There’s always a sacrifice, but it’s worth it. Those times when I long for the ocean, I remind myself of the good I’m doing.’
‘Speaking of which’ – Callanach took the opportunity to open the report and hand it to her – ‘here’s the preliminary report. We’re waiting for the full tox screen but basically it confirms your initial diagnosis.’ The coffee and food arrived. Callanach served as Selina read.
‘That’s a high level of DNP, more than the dosage would recommend even with illegal tablets. I’ve read up about her. She was a bright woman. She’d have known she was taking too much,’ Selina said.
‘We don’t understand what her motivation was yet,’ Callanach said. ‘Her children are terribly shocked, much the same as when you saw them at the hospital, but we found pills in her desk at work and in her handbag, too.’
‘I see that,’ Selina said. ‘They do the best fried calamari, don’t they?’ she commented through a mouthful. ‘What was the DNA source on the tablets in her handbag?’
Callanach took the report back from her, turned a page and read from the relevant paragraph.
‘Skin cells, hair fibres. Looks like plenty of DNA on the loose tablets,’ Callanach said. ‘The same goes for the bottle of pills in the bottom drawer of her desk.’
‘Which you’d expect. It’s her handbag. She’d have had makeup, tissues, pens, a hairbrush – every cross-contaminant you can think of. Her desk would be full of other items she touches regularly. But none of the DNA on the pills comes from fingerprints that I can see,’ Selina said.
‘True, but we don’t find fingerprints on everything. Objects get wiped or wet,’ Callanach said.
‘I handle tablets regularly. They have smooth, dry surfaces. The oil from my fingers or palms would inevitably leave some sort of print, but especially if I tipped them from a bottle into my hand, then manoeuvred them into a zipped section of my handbag. That’s why at the hospital we use gloves or pots to hand over tablets. If those pills had been handled by Mrs Muir, I find it impossible to believe they wouldn’t have partial prints on them.’ She picked up her coffee. ‘Oh damn,’ she said. ‘Now you have a look on your face that tells me you’re itching to get away. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Is your mind always so clear?’ Callanach asked.
‘Not when I’m near the sea. Then I can hear nothing but the waves and see only the light playing on the water. I wish there were two of me. One to work and the other to spend my time building campfires on beaches and staring at the stars. Will you at least finish your coffee?’ Selina asked.
‘I will,’ he replied. ‘Any other insights?’
‘Only this,’ she said. ‘I never spoke to Mrs Muir, but I met her daughter and that’s usually a good gauge for the maternal figure. She was immaculately dressed, prim, even. Precise in her questions, clean, short nails – I’m a bore for noticing these things. I suspect her mother was the same. I have trouble imagining her tipping loose pills into her handbag. If she wanted to take a few out of the bottle, it seems more likely she’d have put them into another container or at least a small plastic bag. Women know their handbags get full of dust and fluff. You wouldn’t want to swallow anything that had been loose, even from a side pocket.’
Callanach finished his coffee and took a last mouthful of the patatas bravas. ‘The food here is excellent. Thank you for suggesting it. I’m sorry that I have to leave so abruptly.’
‘Next time I’m going to refuse to talk shop with you if this is what happens,’ she said. Callanach stood up and put on his coat. She rose with him, slipped a gentle hand onto his shoulder and kissed his cheek. She smelled of vanilla and cinnamon, Callanach thought. ‘If you decide to keep hold of my mobile number and maybe call to ask me out for a drink next week, it might be easier if you know in advance that I’ll say yes.’
By the time Callanach arrived back at the station he couldn’t even recall how he’d responded to Sel
ina Vega’s final statement. She was neither arrogant nor presumptuous, just filled with an easy confidence and good humour. Given her combination of intellect, personality and looks, Callanach couldn’t imagine that any man had ever turned her down. The issue was that he was in no state to be inviting a woman on a date. That would create an impression of a future he would be unable to fulfil. It was better not to open doors at all, rather than scrabbling for excuses to close them later. He was impotent. Useless in a relationship. The irony of possibly having been conceived through rape, and left impotent as a result of a similar accusation was almost intolerable. Selina Vega didn’t know it, but she was better off without a phone call from him. Nothing but disappointment could follow.
He headed for Crystal’s offices. DC Tripp was due to meet him there with an employee who would open the premises for them. An MIT squad had visited Cordelia Muir’s offices briefly before but it wasn’t a crime scene and hadn’t been cordoned off.
‘You’re the polis, are you?’ a woman asked at Cordelia’s office front door. ‘You don’t look like I’d expected. I’m Sian,’ she said.
‘DI Callanach,’ he responded. ‘Is there an alarm on the premises?’
‘Don’t need one. There’s no cash here, no products. I suppose you might fancy burgling the place if you had a crush on multi-coloured packs of post-it notes. Is there news? Do you know what happened to Cordelia?’ she asked.
‘That’s still confidential, I’m afraid. I appreciate you letting us in,’ Callanach said, looking around for Tripp. ‘I’ll go on inside, but my colleague will arrive shortly. Sorry to ask, but would you mind waiting out here? We need to minimise disturbance.’
She didn’t bother to answer him, continuing the conversation where she’d left off. ‘None of us knows what’ll happen to our jobs. I hate to sound mercenary but Cordelia was a bit of a one-woman marvel. We managed the day-to-day, but she was the driving force behind all the large-scale fundraising and the international relations, as well as handling all the legal stuff. We haven’t been told anything. I don’t even know who’ll approve our wages this month. I may work for a charity but that doesn’t make me one,’ Sian said.