by Helen Fields
‘Just do the frigging press conference already,’ Detective Superintendent Overbeck told Ava. ‘I’m not standing up there to do it for you. This bizarre balls-up of an unproven serial killer case is not having my face attached to it. And don’t give it to one of your underlings. Take responsibility, Turner. It comes with the pay grade.’
‘I understand that ma’am, but the press liaison office can read out a prepared statement with the artist’s impression. There’s no need for me to be involved personally,’ Ava said.
‘Unless you count the fact that I’m telling you to. In case you’re interested, I am in the process of explaining the death of a seventeen-year-old boy to the board, no less than the son of a murder victim, that occurred when you and DC Tripp were on the premises having just interviewed him. So my recommendation is that you follow orders and don’t add to my currently excruciating list of MIT fuck-ups. How about that?’ Overbeck said.
‘I think that’s clear,’ Ava said. ‘I’ll have my report on Randall Muir’s death on your desk tomorrow.’
‘You’ll email it to me before midnight tonight. I’m in front of the board tomorrow trying to save your arse and present a vaguely believable answer to the question of why I thought you were qualified for the post of Detective Chief Inspector. If it helps, you might just be able to keep your job if you can stop the people of Edinburgh from being terrified in their beds at the thought of a serial poisoner roaming the streets unchecked and befriending their precious children.’ Overbeck hung up. Ava stared into the receiver. As harsh as it felt, Overbeck was only dishing out what Ava knew she deserved. Avoiding the press conference had been a long shot, and it was for one reason only. If Knuckles and Perry hadn’t identified her yet, they sure as hell would after her face had been splashed all over the press. Too late now. And Overbeck was right. Ava had to make amends for Randall Muir’s death.
She phoned the press liaison office. ‘Press conference, one hour. Get as many outlets there as you can. Make it clear it’s a big story. We want maximum air time and column space. Online press as well.’
The press liaison office went into action. The deadline wasn’t a problem. Stories like those guaranteed viewers and newspaper sales. The media would be all over it. In an hour’s time the phones would start ringing and they wouldn’t stop all night. They began making calls, television first and the larger news outlets after that. Finally, they reached out to the online press, using mobile numbers to ensure attendance rather than simply emailing.
Nearing the bottom of their list, a press officer dialled Lance Proudfoot’s number. It went to voicemail. The officer cut off the message and tried dialling a second time. That time the call was cut off in the middle of ringing without passing through to voicemail. The press liaison officer gave up and moved on to the next name, at exactly the same moment as Lance’s mobile was put out of action forever.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Pollok wasn’t Glasgow’s finest area – that was how Lively had described it to Callanach – and it seemed a fair assessment as they drove through looking for Brian Perry, The Maz’s hired muscle. The housing had a lifeless air. December might have been to blame, but people walked with hoods up, avoiding eye contact, and there was little sense of community spirit. DS Lively had let slip to a few of Dimitri’s known police associates that MIT had a firm lead on one of Louis Jones’ killers, and that a raid was planned to facilitate an arrest at 3am when the suspect would hopefully be asleep and taken unawares. That was why they were approaching Perry’s flat at 3pm. A quick check of his local authority information confirmed that Perry lived alone, which was why they had chosen his address over father of three, Knuckles. It was going to be a long day but Callanach’s senses were telling him that the excruciating hours of piss-taking from Lively would all be worth it in the end.
He let Lively knock on the door while he waited round a corner. That had been Lively’s idea. In the Detective Sergeant’s words, Perry was no way going to open the door to a man who looked like a ladies’ underwear salesman. Callanach admitted that whilst Lively could have been less insulting about it, he had a point.
Lively hammered on the inset glass pane a few times. A huge figure appeared in blurred outline a couple of minutes later.
‘Yeah, what?’ Perry bellowed.
‘I’ve got some info that my boss wants sending on to your boss. Too much heat to go straight to The Maz at the moment. We think there might be surveillance,’ Lively said.
‘How did you find me? Knuckles usually deals with this stuff,’ Perry shouted.
‘We’re polis, you numpty. Finding people’s what we do. Dimitri said you’d help. Now let me in before the entire population of Pollok knows you’ve a cop on your doorstep having a cosy wee chat.’
‘Load of fuckin’ bollocks this is,’ Perry mumbled as he opened the door. ‘I’m not even working at the moment. Supposed to be able to have a lie in. I was at the club until 2am this morning. Don’t you shites ever rest? Come on then, get inside.’
Lively stepped into the kitchen and drew his taser, pointing it directly at Perry’s bare chest. ‘Take my advice, don’t try and run. This hurts like a bugger on bare skin.’ Callanach entered behind him, closing and locking the door.
Perry was all bulging eyes and jitters. ‘Aw no way, man, I’ve had enough of friggin’ tasers to last me a lifetime. Dimitri can’t do this. He doesn’t want to fall out with Ramon. Have you lost your minds?’
‘Calm down, Mr Perry,’ Callanach said. ‘You don’t need to worry about anything. As long as you do as we ask, you won’t be harmed. Do you have any coffee?’
‘Who are you?’ Perry shouted. ‘Who the fuck’s he?’ he directed at Lively, pointing to Callanach. ‘I’ve met Dimitri’s men. I sure as hell never met him before. I’d remember that one.’
‘We only wheel the pretty cops out for very special customers,’ Lively said. ‘Now, would you be more comfortable sitting here in the kitchen or going through to the lounge? If you ask nicely we might let you put a jumper on, only those armpits are level with my nose, and they’re not making me feel very welcome.’
‘You don’t work for Dimitri,’ Perry mumbled, casting his eyes backwards over his shoulder as he trudged into the lounge.
Lively smiled. ‘I’ve been on the force three decades, man. You think I can’t tell when someone’s about to try and bust out on me? I’d hoped it would be more civilised than this, but however you want it. On the floor, son.’
‘I’m co-operating,’ Perry said.
‘I’m delighted. Now lie on the floor on your stomach with your fingers laced on the back of your head.’ Lively extended the taser until it was no more than inches from Perry’s neck. ‘You should see the burns these things leave. If you’re really out of shape it can give you a heart attack. I hope you don’t mind my saying but a little more vitamin D and giving the chips a miss might be an idea.’
Perry hit the taser away and made a dash for the hallway. Callanach followed, kicking him hard in the back of one of his knees and sending the big man crashing to the floor. The sound of Perry’s knee caps hitting tiles made Lively wince.
‘Oh come on, I told you not to. I’ll be amazed if one of those knees isn’t broken.’ Lively kicked Perry in the side. He rolled over clutching his knees to his chest. ‘Now I’ve got no choice but to tie you up and I won’t be able to hand you a nice cup of tea.’
Callanach picked up a chair, grabbed Perry under the arms and hauled him up, securing his wrists with handcuffs.
‘Don’t touch my legs,’ Perry screamed. ‘My right knee’s broken, I swear it is. I need to get to the hospital. You bastards! First that fucking police woman tasers me in the balls, now you’ve broken my leg. Aw, Christ that hurts!’
‘Which police woman would he be talking about?’ Lively asked Callanach.
‘Probably best not to ask too many questions,’ Callanach said. ‘Is he secure?’
‘He’s going nowhere,’ Lively replied. ‘If you’re
making coffee, though, I strongly recommend rinsing those cups with boiling water. My instinct is that Mr Perry here is unfamiliar with proper housekeeping traditions.’
Callanach smiled. ‘Sugar?’ he asked.
‘Two, thank you. Very kind of you, sir,’ Lively said. He had a policy of enjoying every cup of tea he drank. The way Lively figured it, you never knew which brew might turn out to be your last.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Ava was reviewing the reports on the various men in the UK known as Christian Cadogan. It was useless. Every one of them could be excluded. Responses from the press conference were starting to flood in, but the problem was following up the reports. A couple of additional positive identifications from The Fret’s regular crowd had been noted, and another from the newsagents near Cordelia Muir’s offices, but nothing advancing the enquiry.
DC Tripp was still at the lab waiting for the DNA from the sheet to be analysed. Some things couldn’t be rushed, but Ava had ordered him to remain there until the results were in.
‘So if we work on the assumption that Christian Cadogan is not his real name, then it’s either random in which case he’s played a blinder wasting our time, or it has some particular meaning to him,’ Monroe said.
‘Such as?’ Ava asked, closing the files on her desk.
‘I don’t know, something literary, a cult figure, maybe someone musical as he targeted The Fret. Could be anything,’ Monroe said.
‘All right. Not much else left to check, see what you can find. Have you heard from DS Lively? He’s not answering his phone,’ Ava said.
‘He went off with DI Callanach as soon as they transferred me back on to the Cadogan case. Hasn’t been in the incident room since. I can check with the control room if you like, see if they’ve reported in?’ Monroe offered.
‘No need. I’ll call DI Callanach myself,’ Ava said as Monroe left her office.
There was no response from Callanach either and no one had a trace on them. It looked as if they’d taken one of their own cars rather than a pool vehicle, wherever they were. Ava quelled a sense of unease and reminded herself that Callanach could look after himself. They had agreed to split the investigations. She needed to focus on her end.
Her landline rang. She snatched up the receiver.
‘Turner,’ she said.
‘Tripp, ma’am. The DNA results are in. We’re currently running it through the database to check for matches. Any progress there?’
Monroe walked in without knocking.
‘Hold on, Tripp,’ Ava said. ‘What is it?’ she asked Monroe.
‘We’ve found an interesting alternative Christian Cadogan,’ Monroe said.
‘Putting you on speaker, Tripp,’ Ava said. ‘Do we have an address?’
‘Not exactly,’ Monroe replied. ‘Unless you count Seafield Cemetery.’
‘This Christian Cadogan is dead?’ Tripp asked. ‘Then I don’t see how it helps.’
‘Bear with me,’ Monroe replied. ‘There’s a case file. I’ll read you the summary. We’ve got photos too, and I’m rarely squeamish but I’ve had to shove them to the back of the file. Christian Cadogan died in police custody. He was arrested following an enquiry when a primary school notified social services that a child had failed to attend for several weeks and that the mother couldn’t be contacted. The boy in question was only five years old at the time, had just started school and wasn’t well known to the teachers. There’s a report on that aspect available from social services. The attending officers’ statements are grim. Let me read directly from the first police officer who entered the flat. “I attended at 12.30pm after a call from social services requesting police follow up. I could hear a child crying within the flat so I rang the doorbell and knocked repeatedly. There was no response at the door. I lifted the letter box and proceeded to look through the opening. The smell from the property was overwhelming. There was plainly something wrong. At that stage I could not see any movement or evidence of inhabitants. The flat was on the ground floor, so I proceeded to the side of the property checking for open windows. At that point I could hear the child crying more clearly and began knocking windows to establish contact with whoever was inside. I also called for backup and was informed that other officers were on their way to assist.” There’s a plan showing the layout of the property,’ Monroe said, handing a document over to Ava. ‘These photos show the external state of the place.’
Ava flicked through them. The windows were dirty to an extreme, preventing any view into the flat. Externally, the place told its own story of decay and isolation. A smashed glass pane that had been boarded rather than replaced, peeling paintwork on window frames that would have done nothing to keep out the freezing air, grime running down the outside walls from gutters above that might not have been cleared for years.
Monroe went on. ‘The officer continues after backup arrives. “Having consulted, we made the decision based on intelligence from the school and social services, that we should force entry to immediately secure the well-being of the minor. Using a baton, we broke the glass in the back door to the flat, although the key was not inserted in the lock to enable entry. At that stage we kicked the door to break the lock and entry was made. Initially we had no choice but to remain outside and cover our faces. The odour of rotting from within the property was so strong my eyes were watering. I called out to announce the police presence and requested anyone inside to present themselves immediately. At that stage, we could no longer hear the child crying.
‘“I entered the property first, followed by PCs Hutchins and Delaware. We went through the kitchen where tables and chairs had been overturned. There were large amounts of towels in the sink covered in what we believed to be human faeces. We heard movement from the lounge, announced our presence again and our intent to enter the property fully. I drew my baton and positioned myself ready to defend myself or disarm attackers. There was no verbal response to our announcement.” These are the photos of the kitchen, ma’am,’ Monroe said, handing over a pile of faded photographs. Ava scanned them and dropped them onto her desk almost immediately.
‘Carry on,’ Ava said quietly.
‘The police officer continues,’ Monroe coughed, frowned and carried on, ‘he continues, “In the lounge we found a man holding a boy whom I estimated at that stage to be between four and five years old. The man was huddled into the corner of a settee, clutching the boy to his chest. The boy was crying quietly but clinging to the man and shaking visibly. The child was naked and extremely dirty. At that moment, the cause of the smell also became apparent. The decomposing corpse of a woman was in an armchair in the room, also naked. My fellow officers entered behind me. The smell was so strong that PC Hutchins was forced to exit so as not to vomit in the crime scene.” Do you want me to carry on?’ Monroe asked.
‘Oh God,’ Tripp said.
‘Get it over with,’ Ava added.
‘Right, “I asked the man to hand over the boy but he did not immediately comply. I tried to engage him in conversation but his words were incomprehensible and I formed the impression that he was under the influence of either alcohol, drugs or both. I put down my baton, stepping forward with my hands raised. At that point the man slid his hands into the space between two sofa cushions and withdrew a gun. He pointed the weapon at me first of all, then at his own head, and finally at the boy’s head. At this point I backed away rapidly. The boy started crying again as the man began to rant. He was twitching and becoming increasingly erratic. By then we had withdrawn slightly towards the kitchen to calm the situation and avoid an escalating conflict scenario. The child’s screams were becoming louder and more desperate. The male began shouting repeatedly at the child to shut up. I attempted to engage the man in conversation. This approach was unsuccessful. He pushed the gun hard into the child’s forehead and pulled the trigger. At that point, the gun failed to fire. Myself and PC Delaware immediately tackled the man. He dropped the boy and resisted arrest but we were able to restrain and immob
ilise him. He was handcuffed and removed from the property.” I’ll read the forensics evidence now as that has the more relevant sections,’ Monroe said.
‘The pathologist’s report states, “The victim was female, aged between twenty-two and twenty-five years. She had been dead for approximately two weeks. Decomposition was well underway. The material of the chair beneath and surrounding the body was soaked with leaked fluids, although it is possible that contents of both bladder and bowel were emptied whilst the victim was still alive. Cause of death was respiratory failure following opioid use. Extremely high levels of opioids were found in blood and tissue samples. Needle marks on arms suggest long-term drug use prior to the massive dosage that rendered her unconscious and stopped her from breathing. Brain function would have ceased thereafter. One particularly marked, poorly administered needle puncture wound into her left outer thigh leaves unresolved questions. It is unlikely that this was self-administered. Evidence suggests that the deceased was right-handed and thus self-injecting the outer left thigh was unlikely. The puncture wound was large at the surface, suggesting severe force and movement when it was administered, unlike normal regular drug user entry marks. A 4cm scratch below the puncture wound suggests carelessness or roughness with the needle point on exit. Bruising around the puncture wound is consistent with extreme force in inserting the needle. The puncture wound goes directly in at 90 degrees to the outer surface of the leg, unlike usual drug needle entries. This is the only needle puncture wound on her legs, and there is no scarring on this area of her body. Additionally, she had lacerations and bruising to her face suggesting a fight some time prior to death. She had unset ageing fractures, and a new fracture to her cheek bone that had not begun to heal.” That’s the main thrust of it,’ Monroe said.