Perfect Death

by Helen Fields

  ‘Then I should probably say that, actually, he’s not a complete tosser. For the record. And in case there’s trouble with Detective Superintendent Evil Overlord on this one.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant,’ Ava said. ‘No doubt your statement will reflect that. Preferably in more appropriate terms.’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ Lively asked. Ava hung up.

  Three dead, Ava thought. If she’d just left it alone, those three men would still be breathing and that didn’t take into account the trouble at the prison. Another visit to Glynis Begbie would be required and contemplating that made Ava’s blood run cold. She could dress it up a thousand different ways, but it still boiled down to the fact that the Chief, for a while, had lost his way so badly that he’d been no better than the men he’d put behind bars. The money Begbie had stolen had come from endless victims: drug money, the proceeds of prostitution, protection rackets – who knew what else. It was dirty money, and Ava knew that Glynis would feel as if she would never wash her hands of it. Ava sympathised. Having broken every rule in the book for a man who’d betrayed everything Ava thought he stood for, it was a hollow victory knowing that Glasgow’s streets were safer without Ramon Trescoe’s malignant presence. Dimitri gone, too. Rough justice, Begbie and Dimitri dying for the same common bad deeds so many years after the event. Lively was right. Begbie had been a bloody idiot, but it was done. Least said, soonest mended. That was the phrase. Never truer than right then.

  Ava stood up, stretched her back and flexed her shoulders. The world around her looked slightly less rosy. Police work was grim most of the time, but then most of the time you could sleep at night believing your team were the good guys. Begbie had rocked that solid foundation for her. It would heal, but it was going to take a while.

  She sighed. You never really knew people, Ava thought.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  A few days later, Ava wandered down Albany Street clutching tickets and a family sized bag of popcorn. It was dark already, although soon the evenings would start to get lighter. The street was tranquil in spite of the buzz up at York Place just a few hundred metres away. Passing the boutique hotels and family homes, Ava wondered if Callanach wouldn’t be happier going back to his beloved France and trying to rebuild his life there. If nothing else, he could stop moaning about the rain. The problem now was that she would miss him. There were few people in life who truly had your back. Ava could count her closest allies on one hand with some digits to spare.

  She stuffed the tickets into her pocket and hid the popcorn inside her coat as she climbed the stairs to his apartment, knocking on his door gently.

  ‘J’arrive!’ he shouted. ‘I’m coming.’ He pulled the door open, his eyes widening at the sight of her.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I should have called first. And I’m a mess, I get it. Just couldn’t be bothered to dress up. Can I come in?’ she asked, walking into his lounge and falling onto the sofa.

  ‘I was going to call you. It took a few days for my vision and hearing to normalise after the concussion. I won’t be using my forehead as a weapon again. Sorry if work has been chaotic without me,’ Callanach said. ‘I heard about what happened with Cadogan. It was brave of you to go in there.’

  ‘Ailsa may never speak to me again. She says I have a death wish,’ Ava said. ‘Sergeant Lively is back home. The hospital said he discharged himself after a row about how many portions of pudding he was allowed. Though I gather you were a big hit with the nurses during your stay.’

  ‘Don’t start,’ Callanach said. ‘Listen, about Lance. I’m sorry I got a civilian involved.’

  ‘A civilian?’ Ava laughed. ‘You got a journalist involved, taken hostage and held at gunpoint under threat of death no less. Is he okay?’

  ‘He’s fine. Well, not fine. He’s bruised, with lacerations, a couple of broken ribs and a concussion. But he’s not dead.’ Callanach looked at his watch. ‘In a bizarre sort of way, I think he actually enjoyed it. Not being tied up and assaulted, obviously. He said it made him feel alive again when it was all over. I’m not sure I agree, but Lance is his own man.’

  ‘He’ll have to be careful,’ Ava said. ‘Trescoe’s brother still has plenty of reach among Glasgow’s finest.’

  ‘I find generally that people are concerned about their own lives more than settling scores for others. With Ramon Trescoe dead, the old gang will lose its power. How’s Mrs Begbie?’ Callanach asked.

  Ava took a deep breath in. ‘Relieved the score has been settled, but terribly concerned about the injuries you, Lively and Lance Proudfoot suffered. She feels as if somehow she should have known what was going on and stopped it. I feel just as guilty.’

  ‘How did you first find out that the Chief was involved? I know what was in Louis Jones’ file, but there must have been more to it than that,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Between us, there was an obscene amount of cash in used non-sequential notes concealed behind boards in the Chief’s loft. More than Glynis and I realised when she first discovered it. Then when Louis Jones went missing too, I did some homework and everything pointed towards the recently released Ramon Trescoe.’

  ‘Is Glynis Begbie going to be all right?’ Callanach asked. ‘That’s a lot to deal with.’

  ‘Actually, she’s doing better than I thought possible. Originally the life insurance company refused to pay out on the suicide, so Glynis had her solicitors challenge the decision. Ailsa Lambert provided evidence about sudden police suicides from long-term undiagnosed post-traumatic stress disorder. The insurance company didn’t want to be seen to be acting unfairly towards public servants, so they’re paying out. There’s been some recent case law that was helpful, according to the lawyers.’

  ‘So, she’ll cope financially then?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘She’ll cope well enough that she doesn’t need to rely on any of the money the Chief had stashed away. She’s given it to Ailsa who’ll ensure it goes to a good charity. Lucky, really, as that’s where I’d said it had gone. Turns out it’s one less lie I’ve told in the last few weeks,’ Ava said.

  ‘And you, how are you doing?’

  ‘I hate the Chief, though I still miss him, and I can’t help but wonder how many nights’ sleep he lost thinking about what he’d done. The worst thing is that I’m sort of glad he’s dead rather than dishonoured and living out the rest of his days in prison. Is that terrible?’

  ‘Not at all. I think Begbie would have chosen that option, if he’d had the choice. Either way, he’s at peace now. Lance will keep quiet about it, too. He’s old-school, even if he is a reporter. Don’t forget all the good George Begbie did, Ava. He saved lives, put himself in harm’s way, balanced the scales. If you’re going to judge him, you’ve got to judge him on the whole picture, not just a snapshot.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, smiling faintly. ‘I guess that applies to your mother as well. I know I shouldn’t have meddled. Have you and she …?’ The question hung between them.

  ‘We’ve talked, more than once, since she left. It’s not easy exactly, but it is better. There was a lot I didn’t know. If you hadn’t decided to force the matter, things between us might never have improved. I don’t think I thanked you properly,’ he said.

  ‘Or at all.’ She grinned. ‘Anyway, enough of that. I’m here to rescue you from your dull evening. There’s a movie playing up the road, part of the late-night classics season. I saw it and thought of you.’

  ‘Ava, I really can’t …’ Callanach muttered.

  ‘Oh, come on. It’s The Liquidator. From the book by John Gardner, Rod Taylor starring as Boysie Oakes? The alternative Bond? It has the best publicity poster. “His lips are on fire, his gun is not for hire, he fills girls with desire!” Honestly, if that isn’t the most appropriate movie for you, then I’m going to struggle to find it,’ Ava laughed.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, it’s just that the timing is wrong.’ Callanach said.

&
nbsp; ‘Look, we’ve both got a ton of paperwork. I still haven’t faced Superintendent Overbeck in person. I’m not even sure how to start writing up the Trescoe case and I know you and Lively both put yourselves at risk, professionally and personally, on that one. But it’s a problem that can wait until tomorrow. I just wanted an evening with you like it was before all this started. You refusing to eat popcorn at the cinema. Me refusing to let you speak until the credits have rolled. No one else there because apparently there’s no other person in this whole city who’ll come to the late-night showing of decades old films with me. Except you. And I may be a rank up, but I’d just like one evening with my friend. No police talk. No formalities. Anyway, you have to come because I’ve already …’

  The knock at the door was brief, confident. Callanach was on his feet in a second.

  ‘Hi, you ready?’ a woman’s voice echoed as she walked straight in. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had someone else here.’

  ‘No problem,’ Callanach said. ‘Selina Vega meet Ava Turner.’

  Ava stood up, releasing the tickets she’d had in her hand and offering her palm to shake Selina’s.

  ‘Selina was the registrar present at Cordelia Muir’s death,’ Callanach offered.

  ‘And you’re Luc’s boss, I understand,’ Selina said. ‘Sorry if I’ve interrupted a briefing.’

  ‘Not at all. Just seemed like the right thing to do to check that my DI was in one piece following the week’s events. I’ll let you two enjoy your evening. It was nice to meet you, Selina,’ Ava said. ‘Make sure you’re fully fit before you come back to work, okay?’ she smiled at Callanach. ‘There’s no rush. The statements can wait, and you’re due some leave in lieu of overtime if that helps.’

  ‘Won’t be necessary,’ Callanach said. ‘I’ll be back in Monday morning.’ Ava nodded and made her way to this front door. He followed her.

  ‘Ava, if I’d known you were coming …’

  ‘Have a wonderful evening,’ Ava said. ‘We’ll have a team debrief Monday. Everyone’s pleased you’re safe.’ She left.

  ‘Shall we have a drink here or go straight to the restaurant?’ Selina asked, appearing with a bottle of wine in her hand.

  ‘Let’s go straight out,’ Callanach said, aware of the dents Ava had left in the cushions on his sofa, the covers still warm from her body. ‘It’d be nice to go somewhere new.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ Selina said, walking forwards and leaning against him. ‘Only can we get this over with first?’ She leaned against his body, rising up slightly on her toes to kiss him. Callanach closed his eyes, back in The Maz, holding onto Ava as they almost kissed in the foyer. He forced his eyes open, brought himself back to the moment, back to Selina.

  Slipping on his coat, he thought again of The Maz. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced death. It was just that every other time he’d been scared of it. These days he was more scared of living. Callanach wrapped a scarf around his neck and ran a hand through his hair. Enough was enough, he decided. He couldn’t be ruled by the past. It was time – finally – to see what Scotland really had to offer him.

  Can’t get enough of the D.I. Luc Callanach series?

  Then read on for a sneak peek of the next book …

  Chapter One – Zoey

  Skin scraped stone. Gravel lodged in raw flesh. Still Zoey crawled.

  Death was a ghoul in the dark, creeping up behind her one scraping footstep after another. Soon its freezing fingers would land on her shoulder. Then she would stop, but not until there was no blood left inside her. She was grateful for the pitch black of the autumn night. It meant she could not see the grotesque mess of her own body. What little strength remained in her upper arms deserted her. On her elbows, she dragged her body forward, hope still pulsing through her veins where plasma had once flowed.

  Bad girl, she thought. The man had promised she would live if only she confessed. ‘Bad girl,’ Zoey whispered into the dirt. She did so want to survive.

  The agony took her, planting her face down at the roadside, humbled by the devastating scale of it. Until that day, she had believed herself to be something of an expert on pain. There had been broken bones, a burst ear drum, a busted nose, but none of it had prepared her for how much torment the human body could withstand before death descended.

  Picking her face up off the road, she forced her unwilling right knee forward a few more inches. Someone would come, she thought. Soon, someone would come. But she’d been thinking that for days. Where were those movie-screen nick-of-time rescuers when you needed them?

  Ripped from her normal life on a Sunday afternoon, it had been a week since her nightmare had begun. Time had transformed as if in a fairground mirror, bloating grotesquely with slowness as she waited pathetically for her imprisonment to end, and splintering into nothingness when the end – her end – was finally in sight.

  Zoey had lain for days on a cold, hard table in low light. The cruel joke was that she had been kept fed and watered, relatively unharmed until the end. The sickness was that she had allowed herself to believe she might survive. Years of watching horror movies, of smugly knowing which victim would die and which would live, and still she had fallen into the age-old trap. She had allowed herself to believe what she was told in order to get through the next second, the next minute, without terror consuming her.

  Zoey had a new perspective on fear. There was plenty she could teach the other women at the domestic abuse centre now, not that she would ever get the chance. A bolt of pain dragged from her spine all the way through to her stomach, as if her body had been pierced by a spear. The scream she let out sounded more animal than human as it bounced from the asphalt and echoed down the country road. No one was coming. With that thought came a new clarity. She hadn’t been dumped at the roadside in the middle of the night to give her a chance of survival. This was her final punishment. It was her grand humbling.

  Her decision wasn’t hard to make.

  Zoey put her face to the pillow of road and allowed one leg after the other to slide downwards until she was laid out flat. With the last of her strength she pushed herself over to one side, rolling further into the road, away from the trees at the verge. It didn’t hurt. The good news – also the bad news, she supposed – was that all the pain had gone. All sense that her body had been torn in two had dissolved into the bitter October air. If there was nothing else left, she could stare at the moon one last time. Complete dark. She wasn’t within the boundaries of the city, then. No light spilled to dampen the shine of the stars. Scotland’s skies were like nothing else on Earth. Zoey might not have travelled much, but she never underestimated the blinding beauty of her homeland, never tired of the landscapes and architecture that had birthed endless folklore and song.

  The stars had come out for her tonight. Perhaps they were doubled or trebled by the tears in her eyes, sparkling all the more through the brine, but it was a night sky to die for. She wasn’t a bad girl, she thought. No point pretending anymore.

  ‘I’m good,’ her lips mouthed, even if there was no sound left to escape them. Had there been enough blood in her muscles to have fuelled the movement, she would have smiled, too.

  Happier times. There had been some. Early days when her mother had doted on her father, before her brother had left home. A day when her father had pretended it was their six monthly trip to the dentist, only to take the family to a dog rescue centre. They had spent the afternoon cooing over every mutt until they found a scruffy little terrier forgotten in the last pen. They had called him Warrior, a sweet joke, although he had proved a fiercely faithful pet from that day on. Every day Zoey wondered if she would tire of walking, feeding and grooming him as she’d seen her friends grow bored of the neediness of animals they’d been given. Not so. Warrior had remained by her side from the age of five until she was twelve. He had slept on her bed and quieted her crying when the big girl from over the road had bullied her every day for a month straight until her father had had a qui
et word with the girl’s parents. Warrior had let her carry him around the house like a doll when she was sad. He sat on the doormat of their house Monday to Friday at half past three waiting for Zoey to walk in from school. It had always astounded her that dogs could tell the time. And Warrior had pressed his furry muzzle into her face as she’d cried when her father’s car had been hit by a vehicle containing a man with more alcohol in his bloodstream than anyone had a right to. There had been no trip to the hospital, no long farewell, only a police officer at the door, solemn-faced and softly spoken. Her mother had evaporated in grief.

  Eighteen silent months later her stepfather had arrived. A year later her brother had celebrated his sixteenth birthday by signing up to join the army with their mother’s consent. Zoey had hated her for it. She wondered if she would be able to find forgiveness with her last breath, but forgiveness required effort and concentration. It needed to be nourished by hope. There was none left where she was lying. Her brother’s escape had been her entrapment. There was no barrier left between Zoey and her mother’s new husband.

  The fists her brother had tolerated until he could leave were turned to her. Her mother, a shard of broken china, said and did nothing. Perhaps she didn’t care. Perhaps she was only grateful the blows did not touch her. The bruises were limited in their geography. Zoey’s face remained untouched until the school summer holidays came around and then it was a free-for-all, the fear of prying teachers alleviated for a while. Zoey had cried her tears into Warrior’s warm fur, and shivered into his skinny but comforting frame in her bedroom at night. Until her stepfather had found the love she had for the hound too much joy for Zoey’s life. He had declared himself allergic, and the dog food too expensive, in spite of their large house and his good income. Letting out the odd, badly faked sneeze, he had said the dog must go.