Perfect Death

by Helen Fields

  Callanach stretched out, lying full on the floor, staring at the ceiling. ‘It’s not just you, Ava. The buck doesn’t stop at your door. Every woman and man in MIT, the uniformed officers who provide backup, the forensics teams, the civilian administrators. All one team, working for a single cause. You think you’re responsible because you’re emotionally invested in these cases? If you weren’t, there would be something very wrong with you.’

  ‘Wrong like Overbeck?’ Ava asked, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and brushing her hair back from her face.

  ‘Exactly like our beloved Detective Superintendent,’ Callanach said. ‘But you’re not her. So don’t quit now. There’s too much at stake.’

  Ava let her body roll backwards onto the floor, lying at Callanach’s side and putting one hand beneath her head. ‘I feel like shit,’ she said. ‘Tell me what to do.’

  ‘Respirez juste une minute,’ he said, twisting onto his side to look at her. ‘Just breathe for one minute. All these problems will still be here sixty seconds from now, and you’ll be ready to deal with them.’

  Ava closed her eyes, forced her body to relax, and made her mind blank. She had been lurching from crime scene to crime scene, crisis to crisis, without stopping to take control of it all. Police work was in large measure about being reactive. At this point she needed to be proactive, to out-think, out-manoeuvre Christian Cadogan. By the time she opened her eyes, Callanach was sitting up and leaning against her desk. She stood.

  ‘I’m better,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I see that,’ he replied, ‘but you’re allowed to crumble from time to time, Ava. Having emotions is what separates us from the sociopaths.’ He walked towards the door.

  ‘Hey, you asked for permission to read the original Louis Jones case file. Did you find anything?’ she asked.

  Callanach shook his head. ‘Just being thorough,’ he said. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

  It had been well hidden, no doubt about it. The casual observer would never have found it. But Callanach had known what he was looking for in the file and, sure enough, tucked away in the police officers’ notebooks, in the list of materials deemed unnecessary to prove the case, was what he’d been searching for. In the previous investigations of Ramon Trescoe, one Police Constable Dimitri had been first to the scene. Searching Ramon’s premises, PC Dimitri, then just twenty-one years of age, had found no relevant evidence. Interviewing Dylan McGill, PC Dimitri had – in his naivety or so it had appeared – failed to properly caution the suspect and the evidence was thrown out at trial. Only when Begbie began working with Louis Jones had a case been put together that did not fail. There was no doubt that Chief Inspector Dimitri had been on the gang’s payroll for decades. While they’d been away, he’d risen through the ranks, and now Dimitri was everything Trescoe and McGill could ever have dreamed he would be.

  Ava didn’t need to know. She was in enough danger. Messing with Trescoe’s boys, trying to investigate Begbie’s death under the radar, protecting his widow against retribution and financial ruin. A line had already been crossed. Callanach had to fix it without involving her. He put his head around the incident room door.

  ‘DS Lively,’ he said, ‘I’m swapping PC Monroe back onto the Eustis and Muir murders. I’ll need some help with the Louis Jones case though. You’re with me.’

  ‘Does Monroe not make your coffee quite how you like it, sir?’ Lively asked, to a round of laughter.

  ‘I don’t need anyone with such a high IQ on my investigation,’ Callanach said. ‘Thought you’d do perfectly. My office, two minutes.’

  Lively appeared ten minutes later.

  ‘I’m more use out there. That bastard’s going to strike again. Monroe is desk-bound anyway and the Jones case is a dead end …’

  ‘Sit down and keep your voice down,’ Callanach said. For once Lively did as he was told without question or comment. ‘There’s a corrupt police officer helping cover up the Jones murder. Just how much crap will rain down on MIT if we expose him?’

  ‘Well, that’s going to start a shit-storm of a magnitude no amount of umbrellas will protect us from. Who knows?’ Lively asked.

  ‘Me, you, Monroe.’

  ‘You’re certain about this, are you?’ Lively checked.

  ‘I don’t have any tape recordings of him making a drunken confession to a prostitute, if that’s what you had in mind. Do I doubt my judgement? No. I believe it goes back many years,’ Callanach said.

  ‘So, what’s stopping you from reporting it?’ Lively asked.

  ‘I want to convict Louis Jones’ murderers first. If they figure out we know who’s helping them, they’ll disappear. Also, the police officer involved outranks me. We’re going to need to prove more than a series of evidential blunders and a telephone call that happened earlier than it should have done.’

  Lively leaned forward in his chair. ‘Please do not tell me you are about to take down a chief fucking inspector. That’ll be career suicide for everyone involved. As I recall, you’ve some experience with that from Interpol, so maybe think again about giving it a second bash, no?’

  ‘It’s organised crime. The main players have been off the streets for a long time, but they’re out of retirement and gearing up to get back in the game. More people will die, Sergeant. They need to be stopped, Dimitri included. What do you know about him?’

  Lively gave a quick, wry smile. Callanach got the impression the Detective Sergeant wasn’t all that surprised to hear Dimitri’s name. ‘He’s popular with a small band of the old type and some of the younger ones who’re willing to do anything to get convictions,’ Lively said. ‘The brass like him because he gets things done. Personally, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but that won’t help. You’ll need to incriminate him in the middle of something big. No half measures or we’ll all be wondering what’s going to happen to our pensions.’

  ‘I’m giving you the chance to walk away from this. If you don’t want to run the risk with your career, then fair enough. You decide,’ Callanach said.

  ‘It’s not like I can leave a former aftershave model to handle it on his own, is it? You might break a nail. Besides which it’s almost impossible to understand anything you say with that accent. You could accuse Dimitri of assassinating JFK and no one would have a clue what you were talking about. My personal feelings about you aside, sir, a team’s a team. You’re in Scotland now. This is how we do things.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Tripp, Monroe and three other officers paraded into Ava’s room carrying nine files between them. They sat down.

  ‘What do we know?’ Ava asked.

  ‘Of all the Christian Cadogans we can find, two have military backgrounds,’ Tripp said. ‘One served time abroad in active war zones, the other was a flight instructor. Neither has a disciplinary record and we have good background checks on them.’

  ‘Any chance the one who saw active service is suffering post-traumatic stress disorder, making him delusional and dangerous?’ Ava asked.

  ‘If that’s the case, it’s not indicated in his medical records. Left the army with commendations. Currently works in private security,’ Tripp said. ‘Of the nine men with the same name, we can exclude three on an age basis, and two who aren’t caucasian. Leaves us with four.’

  ‘We’ve been through the DVLA records and cross-checked against the passport office. There are photographs of all the possible candidates. None is a visual match,’ Monroe said.

  ‘People can change their hair colour, wear contact lenses, use prosthetics. The photos could be a lie, or his current look could be a disguise. The name too, for that matter, but it’s all we’ve got for now. I want the outstanding four interviewed, and I mean today. Contact the relevant police authorities. I’ll speak with the brass and get the enquiry extended. What else do we know?’ Ava asked.

  ‘Randall talked about playing guitar. His sister told me about a club he’d been attending. His family knew all about it,
apparently, although his mother didn’t let on as she wanted Randall to feel he was pushing boundaries in a controlled way,’ Tripp said. ‘It’s called The Fret. I just had a call from the officers who circulated the artist’s impression of Christian Cadogan there for verification. Staff have confirmed the likeness and say they saw him with Randall on more than one occasion. The manager also said there were rumours a barmaid had a one-night stand with Cadogan. I’m waiting for the address, then we’ll be straight round to see her. What’s interesting is the timescale. Randall and Cadogan have been going to the club for months. That means Cadogan met Randall before he started volunteering at Cordelia Muir’s charity.’

  ‘You think he targeted Cordelia because of Randall? How does that fit with Lily and Mina?’ Ava asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. The sisters were close, on everyone’s account. Their parents, Mina herself, friends, even their social media posts were full of nothing but love for each other,’ Tripp said.

  ‘Jeremy, aka Christian, gave his surname as Dolour,’ Monroe interjected. ‘Grief. That’s what he’s achieved. It’s almost as if the murders were incidental. He befriended two young people, identified their primary source of love, and took it from them.’

  ‘Which would explain why he didn’t care about being present for the actual deaths,’ Ava said. ‘The killings weren’t the point. He wanted to experience Mina and Randall’s grief first-hand, close-up.’

  ‘Sick piece of shite,’ one of the other officers muttered.

  ‘Sick and dangerous,’ Ava said. ‘DC Tripp, go ahead and release the artist’s impression to the public. Keep the name quiet for now. Anyone suspecting they’ve seen him should contact us. If we make him run without catching him, he’ll just cross a border and start killing again under a new name. Get hold of that barmaid, see what she knows. Report straight back to me as soon as we’ve checked every Christian Cadogan in person. Timer’s running out of sand. No one goes home until we’ve made some progress.’

  ‘Hey, how’s it going? I’m sorry, you won’t remember me. We met at the auditions for that theatre group. I’m Jackson, and you’re Sean, right?’ The man held out his hand.

  Sean shook it. ‘Wow, great memory. That was a crazy day, it’s all a bit of a blur to me now. Are you having lunch? This is a great bar, although almost too close to the theatre. I have to force myself to walk past and buy a sandwich instead most days. Not enough willpower for that today, obviously!’

  ‘Yeah, I was supposed to meet a friend here for a drink but she got caught in traffic. I guess this is really close to the theatre. I hadn’t thought about it. What are you rehearsing at the moment?’ Jackson perched on the edge of a chair as Sean swallowed a mouthful of sandwich before answering.

  ‘The Arts Council commissioned this great new play about the death of one generation giving birth to the next, from the perspective of the ghosts of the forefathers. It’s about loss, regret, hope and change. Beautiful writing. You should come and see it,’ Sean said. ‘What about you? Are you working at the moment?’

  ‘Filling in, bit of this, bit of that. An actor’s life, you know how it is.’

  Sean laughed. ‘Do I ever? Would you like to join me? I’m just grabbing a bite of lunch before I get back to it, but I’m not waiting for anyone.’

  ‘Just for a minute then,’ Jackson said. ‘I’m out shopping, not that I can afford it at the moment, but I’ve got a free pass for a night club tomorrow night. The Lost Boys, do you know it?’

  ‘I do. I quite often end up there myself on Friday nights. Who’re you going with?’ Sean asked.

  ‘It’s a Billy No Mates night out. I’m quite new to the scene here. Thought I’d see if I could meet some new people,’ Jackson said. ‘I never know what to wear the first time at a club. Somehow I always end up sticking out like a sore thumb.’

  ‘It’s a mostly denim kind of place,’ Sean said. ‘Definitely dress down rather than to impress. Listen, do you want me to meet you there? I know tons of people. I can introduce you, help you out. I know how it feels to start in a new city. If I hadn’t met my partner, Brad, I’d probably have given up and gone back to Belfast.’

  ‘I don’t want to put you out,’ Jackson said.

  ‘Don’t talk daft. We’d have ended up there anyway after a few glasses of wine, we always do. Ten o’clock, okay? I’ll meet you outside,’ Sean said.

  ‘I won’t say no,’ Jackson said, standing up, ‘but you have to let me get the drinks. Looks like I have some new jeans to buy. See you tomorrow.’

  Christian waited until he’d diverted into a new street before texting Bradley.

  ‘Can’t wait any longer. I know it was the right thing to break up with my fiancée. You’re all I can think about. Can we talk tomorrow tonight? I’m busy earlier on, but we could meet somewhere at about 10.30pm.’ He pressed send.

  It was five minutes before Bradley replied. ‘Sean out clubbing tomorrow night. I’ve made my excuses. If you fancy coming here we’ll have the flat to ourselves.’

  ‘Only if you’re sure. Be nice to have some privacy. Text me the address. Can’t wait,’ Christian replied before putting his phone away. He really did have shopping to do, although not the kind that could be accomplished in the high street. An appointment had been made with the sort of man who went by a single name, usually regarded as a noun. He couldn’t quite recall what it was. Wolf? Coyote? Something canine, ridiculous and a clear signal to the authorities that he would neither pay taxes nor park legally. Then Christian would need to rest. He could function when tired, but his memory wouldn’t be as sharp, the enjoyment not quite so acute. Bradley wanted him but was still in love with dear, insignificant Sean. It would make for an odd combination of loss and guilt, not dissimilar to what Randall had experienced. Apparently, the boy had committed suicide. It had been inevitable, Christian had known that from the second he met him. There was so much about Randall that had been pathetic. So convinced that he hated his mother, when all he’d ever really expressed was his dependence on her, and entrenched love of her. The only other female Christian had ever heard him long for was that slut of a barmaid – Nikki – and he’d made sure she wouldn’t bother looking in Randall’s direction. A few beers, a sympathetic ear and one night in her bed had accomplished that. He couldn’t have the boy turning to anyone other than him in his hour of need. That would have defeated the object. Just like Bradley. Christian would be there when he was needed.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Nikki Breakwater, The Fret’s much admired barmaid, opened the door to her Craighouse Terrace bedsit wearing an inside out t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. ‘What?’ she said, looking Tripp up and down. ‘You’re polis. I paid that fine.’

  ‘You’re not in any trouble, Miss Breakwater. Can I come in so we can talk?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘About?’ she asked.

  ‘This man,’ Tripp said, holding up the sketch of Christian Cadogan. ‘Your manager at The Fret thought you might be able to tell us a bit about him.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ Nikki sighed. She backed into the sparse room, leaving Tripp to follow as she threw herself onto the bed, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Do you mind if I open a window?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘Do you mind changing the season from winter to summer first, or agreeing to pay my heating bill?’ Nikki replied. Tripp stood as far away from the smoke as he could manage. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘What name did he go by in The Fret?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘I only ever called him Chris, but I think it was something posher than that,’ Nikki said. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘We need to eliminate him from our enquiries in a serious matter, so any information that helps us find him will be very important. We can treat anything you tell us in confidence if that makes you feel easier,’ Tripp said.

  ‘Oh my God, that was proper policeman spiel, that was. How much do you know?’ she asked.

  ‘We understand that you and Chris may have become intimately acquain
ted. Sorry to ask you such private questions, but it’s an important matter,’ Tripp said.

  ‘We screwed once, about three weeks ago, if that’s what you’re asking,’ she said. Tripp winced. ‘Fucktard never phoned, didn’t show up to The Fret again afterwards and left me with dirty sheets. Whatever he’s done, I never want to see him again.’

  Tripp looked at the bed she was slouched across. The sheets were hanging out from beneath a grubby blanket, grey at the edges, the pillow case shining yellow with grease.

  ‘Um, Nikki, this may be a bit personal. Please don’t be offended. I was wondering if you’d washed your sheets since your evening with Chris?’

  ‘Are you judging me?’ Nikki asked. ‘There’s no bloody washing machine here, pal. I’m not even on minimum wage. I work ’til three in the morning. Do you think I want to spend my day at the launderette? How often do you wash your sheets anyway?’

  ‘I’m not judging at all. I can’t even start to imagine how hard things are. You should be proud that you have a job. Many people wouldn’t bother. But if you haven’t washed your bedding then Chris’ DNA will still be on it. If we can find him soon, you might be helping us save lives. I need to put that sheet and the pillowcase in a bag and take it away. You won’t get it back, as it’ll be evidence. What I can do is give you £20 to buy new bedding instead. You’ll just need to give a statement about Chris and tell us who else’s DNA might be on there, so we can exclude them.’

  ‘Just mine, you cheeky scrote. You think because I’m a barmaid that I pass myself around?’

  ‘Not at all, but I had to ask. Could I get you to stand up so I can strip the bed, please?’ Tripp took a twenty-pound note from his wallet and handed it over as he took an evidence bag from his other pocket. Ten minutes later he was racing towards the forensics lab, blues and twos flashing and wailing as he radioed the news in to the control room.