by Helen Fields
‘D’accord,’ murmured Callanach, reverting to French in his frustration. ‘Fine. Bring them in. Hold them until DS Lively returns from Falkirk then you can sit in on the interviews. Check their alibis, if they have any, and contact their probation officers. Assess what current threat any of them poses. But no one talks to the press or makes any move publicly without my consent. If we arrest the wrong man, we might push the killer into proving he’s still out there.’
‘You’re assuming I will accuse the wrong man, Detective Inspector,’ Harris said, terse for the first time.
‘Perhaps I am,’ he said. ‘Chief, there is another matter we need to discuss and I have little time.’ The professor said goodbye to DCI Begbie but didn’t bother with Callanach, not that he cared.
‘Speaking of the press,’ Begbie said, ‘I’m going to need you this morning. You assisted with the baby deaths case. I have to give a statement explaining that Ava has been suspended to investigate the complaint about her comments. I’d like you to end it with a summary of the case as it stands today.’
‘Which is?’ Callanach asked.
‘Sarah Butler’s priest has been charged with rape but isn’t talking. An undisclosed source is funding the best legal representation possible and those lawyers already have their hooks into the case. DNA evidence will prove if the girl’s right though and she’s below the age of consent. It’ll take a couple of days to process everything. Rebecca Finlan is too distressed to be coherent. That will take more time. Sister Ernestine has been charged with twelve counts of assault but there are many more pending.’
‘And the charges against the girls themselves?’ Callanach asked.
‘We had no choice but to charge the two whose babies died with manslaughter. We’re anticipating that they’ll both plead guilty with very substantial mitigation and receive non-custodial sentences. Hopefully, they’ll have access to the support they need to rebuild their lives.’
‘Poor kids,’ Callanach said.
‘I won’t disagree with you, there are no winners here. How’s Ava?’ the Chief asked.
‘Her best friend had a break-in yesterday. I’ve requested a uniformed team to investigate and I’ll oversee.’
‘It can’t distract you from the Buxton and Magee cases,’ the Chief warned, ‘and keep Ava out of it. She mustn’t do anything at all while we’re cleaning up this public relations disaster.’
‘I’ll pass that on.’
‘You’ve got to work with Professor Harris, Callanach. The Church is funding his consultancy for us to get results. I don’t need conflict within your team and I can’t run the risk of having to suspend another one of my detective inspectors, so play nice. Press room in half an hour.’
Callanach’s phone rang from a number he didn’t recognise. He almost switched it off, then thought better of it.
‘Luc, sorry to bother you, only there’s something new. I’m parked at the front of the station.’ Natasha’s voice sounded wobbly. He wondered how long she’d struggled with phoning him. She wasn’t the sort of person to make a scene.
‘I’ll be down immediately,’ he said, putting on his coat against the wind.
She flashed her headlights and pushed open the door as he got nearer. Dark circles underlined her eyes. She handed him an envelope and he put it on his lap.
‘You haven’t slept?’ he asked.
‘I look that bad? Thanks for the reassurance. I found these pushed under my back door when I went down this morning. They were loose, just scattered across the floor.’
Callanach opened the envelope and withdrew several stringy pieces of brightly coloured paper. Some were folded and crumpled. Horribly aware he was probably destroying vital trace evidence, he dropped them onto his lap before he ruined any fingerprints.
‘Do you know what they’re from?’ Callanach asked.
‘It’s a photo of me at a charity fundraiser that was featured in Scotland on Sunday. There are six letter shapes cut from the picture, as if someone’s put a stencil over the top.’
Callanach shifted the paper around with a nail. He could see an O, an N, a G and an M. ‘What are these two?’ he asked of the crumpled pieces.
‘C and I,’ she said.
‘Does that mean anything to you? Is it a personal reference?’
‘At first I wasn’t sure if it was an M or a W, and if the I was a 1 or an L. Then I worked it out.’ Natasha reached over and took the letters from his lap. Callanach began to protest. ‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘I’ve had my fingers all over them for the last hour.’ She rearranged them on top of the envelope to form a single word.
‘COMING,’ Callanach read. ‘You need to make another statement. No arguments.’
Callanach raced to the press conference and settled himself moments before the Chief started talking. Immediately, cameras began flashing and the police media liaison officer asked the photographers to stop during filming. The Chief was sombre and to the point. Lights shone in their eyes as camera operators adjusted tripods and tussled for the optimal viewpoint. Then the focus shifted to him. Callanach ran one hand through his hair nervously. For a second, he caught a glimpse of his own face on a camera monitor and realised how tired he appeared. Natasha must have thought he had some nerve, commenting on her exhaustion. He forced his chin up, stared into the black lens transporting his image across the country and imagined Ava at home watching what should have been her moment.
He was as brief as he could be, delivering the update with clinical precision, sticking to the facts. At the end he referred back to the press liaison officer who said the Chief would take questions but limiting it to five minutes. Then the onslaught began.
‘Will you be bringing in external investigators to process the complaint against DI Turner?’
‘Has the Vatican been in contact regarding the criminal conduct of the school?’
‘What’s happening to the third girl whose baby survived?’
‘Were the police investigating other possible charges against St Gerard Majella school?’
The Chief answered those he could, then stood to indicate time was up.
‘Has DI Callanach still not made any progress in the Buxton and Magee cases? And if not, why has he not been replaced?’
The room went quiet. It was an ambush. The reporter who had shouted the question moved forward, microphone pointed at DCI Begbie’s face. If the Chief said nothing, he was as good as hanging his detective inspector out to dry. If he made an excuse, it would look weak and defensive. Callanach stepped up to save Begbie from making the decision.
‘There is progress, but you’ll understand we cannot report every new piece of evidence that’s uncovered. We urge you to remain calm and understand that finding Elaine Buxton and Jayne Magee’s killer is our priority. A profiler is assisting the investigative team. You’re right to have questions about that case, but out of respect for the victims we’ve been discussing today, I would ask that you direct enquiries through the press office. Thank you.’
The room exploded into bursts of nerve-frazzling light as the photographers grabbed the moment. Every journalist in the room had another question. There was too much noise, people pushing him in every direction, too much light in his eyes. Callanach tried to take a breath and found that he couldn’t. He needed food and sleep. Most of all, he needed to be out of that room. Shoving his way through, he tried to cover the rising sense of panic at how ill he was feeling.
Ava was on the other end of his mobile before he could reach his office.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You did fine but you looked completely washed out.’
‘I’m fine,’ Callanach said. ‘Better than Natasha, anyway.’ He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. The less Ava knew, the better.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘I can’t. The Chief said you had to keep out of it and for once I agree. I’d feel better if she was staying away from her house though.’
‘I tried to pers
uade her to stay at mine last night but she was adamant,’ Ava said.
‘No, she can’t stay at yours because of the suspension. And if this is the same person who threatened you, then staying together might be the worst-case scenario. What about her family?’
‘No, they cut contact when she came out. She’s more stubborn than me, Luc, you won’t have much luck. I’ll phone her, see what I can do.’
‘I can’t stop you calling her, but nothing more.’ Callanach finally reached a coffee machine and thrust coins into it. It didn’t matter how bad it tasted. Only caffeine could save him.
‘Luc, you still there?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just getting a coffee.’
‘Do you think it could be your murderer contacting Natasha? Only she fits the victim type. Single female, thirties, living alone, top of her profession. I just can’t stand the thought that maybe …’ Ava didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
‘Natasha’s here now giving a statement,’ Callanach said. ‘And it’s very different. The break-in, the heart in the freezer, letters under the door today. There was nothing like that in the other cases. I have to go, Ava, but I give you my word, I will protect her.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Professor Forge had called in sick, he’d been told when he went to the departmental reception. King had raised his eyebrows to display the right amount of surprise, asked what was wrong with her, been told predictably that they didn’t know and it wasn’t appropriate to ask. He’d said he hoped she would be better tomorrow and left them to their nail filing and gossip about clothes and celebrities. He retreated to his room. Natasha had been so predictable. For such an intellectually gifted woman it was almost a disappointment. To be scared by such small events showed her vulnerabilities.
As for the letters under the door, he’d been embarrassed to stoop to such amateurish soap-opera tactics but it had been easy and quick. The heart had been more dramatic, if she’d even found it yet. He’d spent an unsettled night considering how his visit to Natasha’s house had altered his perception of her. In his head, her freezer was to have been empty except for a tray of ice, maybe some peas and a trout left too long at the back. There was to have been dry cleaning hanging from a doorway, recently delivered fresh to her door. A shopping order from a suitably high-class supermarket would have been imminent, with plenty of pre-prepared healthy salads, some mussels, smoked salmon, a few bottles of champagne and the harder to obtain wines. Instead he’d found a slow cooker with something resembling lamb stew bubbling away inside. The fridge was full, much of its contents home-cooked meals waiting to be reheated. Professor Forge, she of the endlessly chic clothes, tight deadlines and an unmatchable passion for hard work was a regular little homemaker, it appeared. His disappointment didn’t end in the kitchen.
King thought about her bed. It had been neatly made, scatter cushions everywhere arranged just so, comfortable and clean but overwhelmingly cosy. He’d imagined the most modern of furnishings, a black and white colour scheme perhaps, minimalistic. Instead, her floral pillow had smelled of her most regularly worn perfume. King had allowed himself the luxury of pushing his face into it for a few seconds, spreading his body out across the covers as if he could soak her up. He’d watched himself in her mirror and imagined her in front of him, breathing on her neck as she put on her earrings. Enrapt, he’d spent more time there than he should have, wondering how his hands would feel around her throat, imagining her begging him to stop as he squeezed. She would have been sorry then, apologised for her lack of attention, seen the power he commanded first hand. Her breath would shorten, she would gasp, her eyes would flutter before starting to close. As if she were his lover. As if she welcomed it.
King had had to drag himself away. If he didn’t remain in control of his senses he knew he’d make a mistake, leave identifiable evidence. King had made himself think of the consequences. It was not an option to be so submerged in her that he failed in his purpose. He’d entered her home to make her feel insecure. She needed to fear the unknown him. Perhaps this new her he’d found, if disappointing, was more likely to be afraid, the little lady who enjoyed her home comforts so much. Even if he preferred the old Natasha, the unreachable professional so icy he could imagine her melting beneath his touch, he knew so much more about her now and knowledge was unarguably power.
Preparing for another woman excited him. The room wasn’t really suitable for three. He’d never intended to have so many there. The time was coming when he’d have to dispose of either Elaine or Jayne – a sad thought after he’d put so much time and effort into taking them – but it was thrilling, too. He hadn’t wanted to admit that at first. There had been annoyance, frustration that they hadn’t served their purpose as he’d wanted. Then there’d been the spark he’d tried to quell. In bed last night, he’d imagined choosing the one. It had made him feel like a god. No, not like a god, like God. He’d relived the hours spent removing Jayne’s lower teeth, practising techniques learned from books and online, waiting for her to scream the way Elaine had. He’d strapped her arms and legs tightly, put down plastic sheeting so her bedding wasn’t ruined and waited for the distress, knowing he’d expend as much energy calming her down as loosening the gums before chiselling and prising out each tooth. But she hadn’t screamed. She’d accepted the anaesthetic injections with a grimace but without tears. There had been no hysterics. It was as if she was already dead inside.
With Elaine, he could feel her terror, see her pain, experience every emotion he wrought from her. Jayne gave him nothing. If at first he’d admired her self-control, it had become something closer to piety in his mind and he wasn’t sure he liked it any more. Elaine had endowed him with unforeseen attributes. Authority. Stature. Command. But she was piteous, mewling and physically repugnant. It was an impossible decision. One which had the unfortunate side effect of making him hard when he thought about it. It wasn’t just deciding who. There was the spectrum of possibilities concerning how. The last death had been clumsy and that was because it had been unplanned. Grace was always destined to die, of course, but not like that. Too much temper, not enough finesse. Perhaps he should let his next acquisition make all the choices. The thought made him shiver. She’d hate it but, then again, it would tame her.
King’s to-do list was unenviable. He needed yet another vehicle and still had to find a suitable body double for his new guest. He couldn’t risk returning to Glasgow’s red light district. The memory of that pimp leaning into his car brought him out in a cold sweat. More research would be required, perhaps in Dundee.
An email alert popped up on his computer. Professor Forge may have been feigning sickness but it wasn’t preventing her working from home. She wanted him to oversee the brochure printing for the next academic year. It was tedious work. He’d never understood why it wasn’t left to the marketing department but Natasha liked input from every member of the department. She also wanted a staff meeting organised for two days’ time. Not that she’d be attending, King thought. Natasha would be unavailable. The minutiae of her staff’s comings and goings would be the last thing on her mind by then. Still, he had to go through the motions. There was one task left to ensure she’d be where he wanted her, in the right place at the right time. Slipping on transparent plastic gloves, he took an envelope from a plastic bag that had been tucked away in his briefcase.
He waited until lunchtime when the majority of students were clear of the building and remaining staff members were eating sandwiches at their desks, filled his arms with files and headed down the corridor towards Natasha’s door. He was slow and deliberate. No one was around. He stuck the envelope to her door in one smooth move, tape positioned in advance, stripping the gloves off as he walked away. He just had to get through what remained of his working day and go home to his girls. There was much to do. Everything needed cleaning. King didn’t want the guest suite to be a stinking mess before his prize possession arrived. It would create entirely the wrong impression.
‘I’m bringing in two scrap-yard owners for questioning,’ Lively shouted down the phone, battling the industrial noise surrounding him. ‘We’ll hold them long enough that they’ll think we’ve got something on them, give the uniforms a chance to have a good dig around at the yards and see what they can turn up. What time are you available?’
‘I’m not. Another incident has taken over today and I need you with Harris to interview local sex offenders who fit his profile. I’ll ask DC Tripp to question your scrap-yard owners, he’s more than capable,’ Callanach said as the squad car he was riding in pulled up to the pavement and parked.
‘I don’t see what can be more important than this. You’re supposed to be leading this investigation and you’re hardly around,’ Lively bit back.
‘Save it, Sergeant. I don’t answer to you. Get on with your job and follow orders or I’ll replace you.’
‘When this is over,’ Lively said, ‘there’ll be a complaint, and it’ll be serious enough that not even your fuckin’ bigwig pals from Interpol will be able to save you.’
The line went dead before Callanach could reply. The constable who’d been pulled off traffic duty to drive him to the University was fiddling with her radio and doing her damnedest to pretend she hadn’t overheard, but the expression on her face said it all. She was waiting for Callanach to explode. Instead, he sat back in his seat and drew long, slow breaths. He had to get through this, go back to the station, check what everyone was doing then make it home without punching anyone. That was all. Right then, it was enough.
One of the Philosophy Department’s administrative staff had phoned Natasha to say that an envelope had been found stuck to her office door. The girl had removed it and dropped the contents on her desk, then called her colleagues over who’d helped unscramble the mysterious letters, moving them around until they’d made a word. The envelope and its contents were covered in fibres, fingerprints and assorted DNA. You couldn’t blame them, Callanach thought. It was the natural thing to do and they’d had no reason to exercise caution. Natasha had decided she wanted to keep what was happening secret from her staff, so that it neither upset them nor caused unnecessary fuss. Unfortunately, that meant they hadn’t been alerted to the possibility of contact from Natasha’s stalker. Callanach sighed. He just couldn’t seem to get it right at the moment.