by Helen Fields
‘Fine,’ Callanach said. ‘My car’s in Hollybrook Street.’
‘That’s it?’ Ava asked.
‘I think we should get back to Edinburgh, don’t you?’ Callanach asked.
‘I think we need to establish when you’ve crossed a line,’ Ava said, starting her car.
‘Convince me you’re not in any danger, that I’ve misconstrued the whole thing, and I’ll gladly play the humble fool,’ Callanach said. ‘But given the fact that you’re still shaking, I guess I’m not going to be apologising any time soon.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘My sister called a doctor out,’ Randall slurred down the phone to Christian. ‘He offered me a sedative and I said no, but my sister told me it was that or they were going to send me somewhere I wouldn’t have any choice about taking medication.’
‘She’s just looking out for you,’ Christian said. ‘The sedative will help you rest. Where are you now?’
‘In the guest room. They won’t let me back in mine until they’ve cleared it all up. They say I made a mess, but it was just my nest, Chris, like you suggested. It was helping me remember her.’
‘Shit, man,’ Christian said. ‘I never imagined it would cause trouble. Was it bad?’
‘The police were here. They kind of busted into my room. My sister says I have to see a counsellor. It’s like they want someone to officially confirm that I’m a screw up. You’re the only person who listens rather than lecturing me. I mean, not that I don’t have any other friends, you know, but they’re younger than you. I don’t mean that you’re old. Fuck, I’m such a dick. Nothing I say comes out right.’
‘Hey, Rand, it’s cool. I know what you mean. How about you get some sleep. I’ll check on you tomorrow.’
Christian hung up. Randall stared at the phone, wondering if he could call back so they could carry on talking. Of course he couldn’t. His sister was running him a bath and it would be ready in a few moments. He’d had to agree to leave the bathroom door open, though. Couldn’t have him falling asleep in the water with so much sedative in his system. His sister had insisted on the bath before he was allowed to get into bed when she realised he’d lost control of his bladder as the police had pulled him from his nest. He hadn’t even felt it go. The expression on her face virtually screamed that she believed it was all just some juvenile attention-seeking stunt.
He climbed slowly into his dressing-gown, keeping his back to the doorway where every few minutes his sister would check on him. As if he needed to piss himself to get attention. If he was that desperate he could do a hundred more impressive things. Walking out of the front door, for a start. Going missing for forty-eight hours might be a good idea. All his sister saw when she looked at him was a problem that needed solving. Handling. Perhaps he should save her the effort and handle himself. He wandered into the bathroom, waiting until his sister had finally left the room before removing his dressing-gown. She would be back in a few minutes.
He slid open a bathroom drawer and searched the contents. The top layer was the usual bathroom debris – tweezers, cotton buds, plasters. Below that were random items of makeup, lip salve, dental floss. At the bottom were the sharps. Nail scissors, a splinter needle, a packet of razor blades. They’d belonged to his mother who had always wet-shaved her legs. It seemed as if those were her final gift to him. Everything else had been taken or tainted by the police and his sister, but these were his.
He freed a blade from the pack, picked up a bar of soap and a flannel, then stepped dreamily into the bath. Sinking down he rubbed his left inner arm with the soap, softening the skin. He could hear his mother’s footsteps on the stairs. No, stupid, not his mother. That was his sister, coming back to check on him. He slid the blade inside the flannel, folding it over and balancing it on the side of the bath. She put her head round the door.
‘Oh good, you’re in. Ten minutes, okay? The doctor said the sedative would kick in soon. Make sure you’re cleaned up and I’ll be back to help you out. You need some sleep. We all do. I’ll make you some warm milk, like Mum used to. Just hang in there, Randall.’ He wondered how to respond, what the appropriate answer was to being told to hang in there. What was he supposed to hang on for? His mother wouldn’t reappear. She had gone to join his father in some distant place he didn’t even believe in. He had no desire to attend her funeral, full of well-intentioned, well-dressed gentry. Why hang in there to be told he had to go and live with his sister, watching his every move and rationing his pocket money.
Taking the razor blade from the flannel, he ran it gently along the skin of his arm, tracing the path of the vein from wrist to elbow. He knew how to do it properly. Not across the wrist. That was for idiots who were issuing pathetic and stoppable cries for help. He had to open the vein lengthways, several inches, to ensure it would bleed fast enough to leave him beyond help. The metal was slippery in his fingers. He lost it twice into the bath water before figuring out that gripping it through the flannel was easier.
This was what he was fated for. It was obvious now. Everyone at school would be horrified. They would wonder if they could have done more to befriend him. They would talk about him in hushed tones, huddled in corners. Teachers would check their form rooms for signs that others might follow his lead. These events caused suicide clusters. He’d read about them online. Perhaps they would put his photo up on the wall at The Fret. Perhaps the barmaid – Nikki – would look back and wish she’d got to know him. It was his one regret, never getting round to walking her home. That, and the feeling that he was letting Christian down. But Christian understood him. He might be the one person who would mourn the loss of Randall’s potential.
With the blade gripped firmly through the flannel in his right hand, Randall held out his left arm, closed his eyes, and prepared to cut.
* * *
He lay on his bed, reading the multitude of Cordelia Muir obituaries, scanning online for any police update on Lily Eustis’ death. The reality was that the media had a short attention span. The second a new, juicier, story came in, the recently dead became nothing more than worm food. Except to him. For him, their passing was a gift. The first time he’d seen Lily she’d been at a restaurant with her family. Sitting between her mother and her sister, she’d been giggling at a joke their father was telling. He’d been working the bar, casual labour for minimum wage. What he recalled was the girls’ hands. They could have been aged five and three, their hands clasped, fingers laced between one another’s, the sister playing with the beads on Lily’s bracelet. At one point Lily had leaned her head on her sister’s shoulder, staring up with adoring eyes. They were both so beautiful. Their love was pure. Only family did that for you. Girlfriends, boyfriends, even husbands and wives, came and went. Lily and her sister were contented and blissfully unaware of the vicissitudes of life. He had loved them, both of them, on sight. Loitering behind them, delivering drinks, listening to their conversation, it had been easy to overhear their names and figure out that the sister - Mina - was studying engineering at Edinburgh University. From there on, finding Lily had been child’s play and killing her had been sublime. For a brief, heavenly moment he’d felt truly alive. Still, it wasn’t enough. He was grateful he had another planned already, something to look forward to. This time he would be even closer to it. He could watch it happen, stand in the middle of the action, not spectate from the sidelines, witnessing only the collateral damage. It would take a greater degree of planning than before, not to mention a more polished performance, but the trap was already laid.
He unwrapped the package he had just picked up. The heroin contained in the clear plastic wraps looked harmless enough. To the unsuspecting eye it might resemble light brown icing sugar. To novice users it was rapture. To an addict it was the only thing between staying alive and juddering into an early grave. He calculated the amount he needed. This was science. He was getting to the stage when he could write a book on it: How to subdue people until you’re ready to kill them. It would have a
limited audience, he recognised that, but to the few who required the information it would prove invaluable. This time he needed his prey to remain upright. Too heavy to carry far, if he was unconscious it would result in an ambulance being called, and that was unthinkable. His moment – his pay-off – would be ruined.
He opened a slim plastic case, withdrawing a plastic syringe, running the tip of one finger down the shaft of the needle, careful not to prick himself. Not that there was any danger of infection. This beauty was unused, still waiting to find purpose.
Replacing it in the case, he shut his eyes tight. Another needle had started all of this. His mother wasting away in a chair that would soak up the fluids she would lose as she wallowed in her own death. She’d beckoned to him, or perhaps that had been her death twitch, a final hurrah from muscles she could no longer control. As mesmerising as it had been, he’d found he could not go to her. The thought of touching her was intolerable. She had begun to rot long before the moment that had sealed her fate. This next event would be his homage to that day. Not long to wait now.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ava parked her car, regretting spending the previous few hours in stilettos. Walking towards her front door, she caught the outline of a man in the shadows to one side of her porch. She thrust one hand into her bag, withdrawing pepper spray as she braced for an attack.
‘Vraiment?’ Callanach said. ‘Really?’
‘You scared the pants off me, you moron,’ Ava said, striding to her door and unlocking it.
‘Are you sure? Given the length of that skirt I was wondering if you’d bothered wearing any tonight,’ he said.
‘Not funny. I thought we’d finished this discussion in Glasgow. Did something happen between there and here?’ Ava asked. Callanach side-stepped her and walked into the hallway.
‘You thought we’d finished the conversation? I’m not sure if your promotion has had an adverse effect on your intellect or if all the makeup you’re wearing has left you rather thick-skinned, but we hadn’t finished the conversation. It just wasn’t safe to continue it two blocks from the club you were staking out with no backup and no warrant. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’ He walked into her kitchen as Ava disappeared into the bedroom, reappearing two minutes later wearing a sweat shirt and jeans.
‘Say what you want to say, let’s get this over with then I’m going to bed,’ Ava said.
‘We’re off the clock, so you can stop giving orders now,’ Callanach said. ‘Given that everything you’ve done this evening was without police authority, I should also caution you against reminding me of your rank.’
‘Actually, it’s the fact that you’re in my house that gives me the right to call the shots, but you can keep polishing that chip on your shoulder if you think it’ll look better shiny.’ Ava sat down and picked up the cup of coffee Callanach had made her.
‘Can we start again?’ Callanach asked, sitting next to her. ‘I was worried about you, that’s why I turned up in the club. How’s the hand?’ he asked, reaching out and turning over her palm to inspect Ailsa’s handiwork.
‘Sore,’ Ava said. ‘But it gave me a reason to taser a man in the balls.’
‘Anyone I know?’ Callanach asked.
‘Probably the man who killed Louis Jones,’ Ava said. ‘Does that help?’
Callanach sat back and thought about it for a moment. ‘You’ve identified the suspect in a murder case for which I’m responsible, and you didn’t tell me? A man who’s also guilty of assaulting you. A man who Ailsa believes is part of an organised crime setup given the style of execution they employed with Jones, and you went after him on your own. You want to know if that helps? I’m trying hard not to shout at you, Ava, but you’re not making it easy this evening.’
‘There’s the door.’ She pointed.
‘All right. Let’s do this in policing terms. If I had a name for one of Louis Jones’ killers, I could work the case backwards then present the evidence to the Procurator Fiscal in the correct order. No one would ever need to know. Perhaps it would solve your problem, whatever that may be, at the same time. We both get our man,’ he said.
‘It’s not him I’m after,’ Ava said. ‘You’re right about Jones being executed. I want the people who ordered it, rather than the trigger man.’
‘That’ll be impossible. There won’t be a record of a conversation, nor any witnesses. The only way you’ll prove something like that is if you flip the killer, and they’ll still be looking at a life sentence so nothing to gain,’ Callanach said. ‘Do you have any wine because your instant coffee hasn’t improved since I was last here.’
‘Bottle of Lagavulin in the cupboard next to the TV,’ Ava said. ‘Get two glasses.’ Callanach brought the bottle to the table, breathing in the scorched earth scent and pouring generously into each glass. Ava took hers, closing her eyes as she leaned back. ‘I know I won’t get anyone to give evidence against the men who ordered Jones’ killing. I was planning on handling it differently. That, believe it or not, is why I was dressed like something out of a bad vampire movie and hanging around a place dedicated to the love of breasts.’
‘Want to let me in on the plan?’ Callanach asked.
‘Nope. Do you want to tell me what happened with your mother, because you’ve had a face on you ever since,’ Ava replied. Callanach emptied his glass and poured another. Ava did the same. ‘You see? We both have secrets. Now is about the time you’re supposed to climb down off that ridiculously high horse you’ve been riding for the last hour.’
‘A secret is a different thing from a death wish. You can hate me if you like, but if I have to have you followed every day until this thing is over, I will. The people who ordered Louis Jones’ death will have no scruples about ordering yours. If you’ve already been injured by one of their thugs then you’re marked. Come on, Ava. You’re brighter than this. Nothing is worth playing those sorts of stakes.’
‘Suppose Louis Jones wasn’t the only hit that was ordered. Suppose there was someone else involved. Someone who Jones had dealings with in the past.’
‘Is this about the Chief’s relationship with Louis Jones?’ Callanach stared at her. ‘You don’t really think Begbie’s death is tied up in all of this? Ailsa signed it off as a suicide. No one challenged the findings,’ Callanach said.
‘I couldn’t. I still can’t. Glynis Begbie will be devastated if I go official with what I know, and she’s been through enough already. Officially the Chief sat in a car and waited for it to fill with carbon monoxide, but I don’t believe he did so of his own free will. I won’t tell you more than that. I meant what I said about there being a line between giving you information and the two of us entering a criminal conspiracy. We’re standing on that line right now, and I’m not taking you over it, so don’t ask.’ She put her glass on the table and rested her head on her drawn-up knees.
‘Ava …’
‘No. I’ve made up my mind. You wanted me to trust you, and I have. That’s as far as I’m prepared to go. If you don’t back off, you and I will find working together very difficult indeed.’
‘So give me the information that relates to Jones. Maybe if I know who I’m looking for it’ll help,’ Callanach said.
‘All right,’ Ava said. ‘Tomorrow, though. I can’t think straight now. My office at 8am.’
‘Fine,’ Callanach said. ‘But you have to promise never to set foot in that club again. Non-negotiable.’
‘My pleasure. The music was terrible anyway,’ Ava said, standing to walk Callanach to the door.
He leaned against the doorframe as he did up his coat. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t all just a ruse to get me to kiss you at the club?’ he asked.
‘We didn’t kiss. That would have required mouth to mouth contact. And if I ever lose my mind sufficiently that I decide to kiss you, I’m not the kind of woman who needs to make up an excuse,’ Ava said.
‘Still, that not-kissing-thing we did’ – Callanach smiled as he stepped away from her do
or – ‘It lasted a while.’
‘There were a lot of people to avoid. You’d best go home and let your ego get some sleep. It’ll have another arduous day of imagining being admired to deal with tomorrow.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ava was at her desk by 7am in spite of the amount of single malt she’d consumed the night before. She skimmed the update on the Louis Jones’ case that had been left for her to review, although there was so little evidence that studying it was pointless. No relevant phone records. No car left to inspect. No witnesses at the scene. Ava scanned a note from Tripp who’d been chasing the road traffic investigator for her. There was a name and email address, but still no report on file. That would need chasing straight away. Below that was a post-it bearing the name Janet Monroe with a mobile number. Ava frowned. It rang a bell but she couldn’t place the name immediately. She was emailing the road traffic accident investigator for an update, when Callanach walked in.
‘You couldn’t sleep either?’ he asked.
Ava shook her head. ‘I’m back to square one with the forensics on Louis Jones. Sounds like we’re not the only ones in early,’ she commented as the sound of smashing crockery echoed up the corridor. ‘Did you call a briefing?’
‘Tripp and Lively are here putting together the evidence from Cordelia Muir’s office and house. They’re in voluntarily so if it’s overtime you’re worried about, there’s no need,’ Callanach said.
‘I’ll leave the money worries to Superintendent Overbeck,’ Ava said. ‘Shut the door, would you? Anything I tell you has to stay between us.’ Callanach did so then sat down with a notepad.