by D C Macey
‘Here, boss.’ Stephens, the photographer, newly arrived in the office, was waving a large white envelope as he pressed through the rest of Wallace’s team who had all fallen silent, tuning in, hoping for good news. ‘You said get them to you by lunchtime, here they are.’
Wallace stretched out a hand for the envelope. ‘What time do you have your lunch at, Stephens?’ he grumbled, but his tone and the slightest of smiles made clear the arrival was welcome.
Wallace, Stephens and Brogan sat round the desk looking at the pictures, other copies had been channelled back to the waiting crowd.
‘Good quality pictures, we could ID someone from these, easy,’ said Wallace.
‘Thanks, I do my best,’ replied Stephens, taking the compliment.
‘I don’t know the man, never seen him before. But this woman, I know her face,’ Wallace looked up, seeking confirmation, inspiration, tapping the photograph. ‘But where? I’ve seen her recently, I’m sure.’
Stephens nodded. ‘Now you mention it, she does seem familiar. I’ve seen her too. Just can’t quite place her. Sorry, I’m stumped too.’
‘Well I’ve never seen her,’ said Brogan. ‘So where have you two been hanging out together recently?’
‘Well done, sergeant!’ Wallace almost shouted as he leapt up and turned to the filing cabinet against the wall behind him, ‘I’ve got it.’
DS Brogan looked a little puzzled, ‘Got what?’
‘Who she is. Look…’ Wallace pulled out the file of photographs taken at Archie Buchan’s memorial service. He started to flick them down on the desk.
‘There! There she is, outside the Dunbar church,’ he jabbed a finger down on a photograph featuring the media crowd. Wallace flicked down another picture. ‘There again, yes? It’s her?’
Brogan gave a little whistle. ‘I think you’re right boss, it is her! But who is she?’
Stephens looked a little bit sheepish. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t recognise her. She’s not one of the regular press photographers; I pretty well know them all. I thought if she’s new maybe I could chance my arm for a date, but nobody knew who she was.’
Wallace tapped his finger on the picture. ‘It all keeps coming back to the church, doesn’t it? But still, who is she? Where is she?’
‘Maybe I can help you there,’ said Stephens, taking what remained of the photos from DCI Wallace. Flicking through them, he stopped and nodded to himself. ‘Yep, this is the one. That’s her car.’ He handed back a photograph of a saloon car pulling away from the kerb. ‘Snapped her driving off, thought I might have been able to trace her through the licence plate, try for that date. There just hasn’t been time to follow her up.’
‘Wallace took the picture and looked at it triumphantly then tapped it against the photographer’s head. ‘Lucky for you that you didn’t, you old dog; that would have been breaching privacy rules. And you nearly tried to date the most wanted woman in the country. God knows what she would have done to a police photographer. Well, now we’ll follow her up for you.’
‘Sergeant, it’s the same model of car as in the video. Trace this car number now. Let’s get a team scanning every bit of CCTV between that housing scheme and the city centre. Look for this model of car. We know she was there. Find her car and track it to its destination. Let’s get moving now; I want everyone working on this.’
CHAPTER 29 - SUNDAY 23rd JUNE
Helen and Grace supported Elaine between them as she shuffled along the ward. Elaine had had enough. Yes, she could cope with the rods holding her face together. Yes, she was unsure how the amputation of her finger was going to affect her, though she fully expected to cope. Yes, the nursing staff had been wonderful. Yes, the heat was intolerable and yes, she was going home before she died of heat stroke. She fully intended to be out of hospital by lunchtime.
The new Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh sat to the southern edge of the city: a white and shiny state of the art building, it provided great healthcare for its patients and had highly acclaimed green credentials. Sadly, credentials that made summer a time of misery for many of the staff and patients on the wards. The natural ventilation scheme employed to minimise risk of cross infection worked well on paper and saved a lot on summertime air conditioning costs but rarely worked so well in practice, almost invariably leaving the human occupants suffering in stifling heat.
The three women emerged from the Infirmary. Even in her discomfort, Elaine got an instant lift from the fresh air touching her face. Grace supported her mother with an arm while Helen carried Elaine’s small overnight bag. They headed for the car park where Sam was waiting to drive them home.
‘Everything’s quiet now, Elaine, I really think they’ve been scared off. The detectives are confident of catching them too,’ said Helen.
‘Hmmm,’ replied Elaine. She was not convinced that such violence would simply vanish, but things still hurt too much for her to argue, ‘Hmmm.’
• • •
DCI Wallace was outside the police station. When he needed a break from phones and screens he’d step out of the building, move a little distance away from the front door and light a small cheroot. Now he was leaning against his favourite piece of wall. Basking in the sun, he alternated sips of coffee with gentle puffs as he allowed the latest information to percolate through his mind.
His team had traced the car registration and it had proven of no use. The car had been registered in the English Midlands to a business down there that seemed to exist only to host the lease agreement. It was insured with open insurance cover for any driver, the perfect arrangement to ensure legal compliance on the surface combined with comfortable anonymity. Still no name for the woman.
The team had found and tracked the car’s travels on CCTV. Traced its journey into the city centre, saw it finally end with the car disappearing into an underground car park in one of the lanes behind Princes Street. Once they had fixed the location, the team had trawled back through old recordings and confirmed the car to be a regular visitor. So no woman’s name but definitely a base. When he’d finished his smoke it would be time to strike. He could see several vehicles assembling in convoy across the road. He was trying hard to avoid the occupants’ eyes right now. This would probably be his last quiet moment for some time.
• • •
Cassiter’s team was waiting for him beside the reception desk. No emotion showed in the sour faced receptionist’s eyes, and the rest of the team were all equally blank. They were experienced, knew the form and had all been briefed by the lawyer. If things did not go well then they knew how to respond; this was a nuisance and an occupational hazard, but they were not prone to panic. The slightest of clicks heralded Cassiter’s arrival as his private office door opened.
He nodded to the team, if they were going to be busted it would be today. But everything here was clean, a legitimate international trading business with records to prove it. Certainly, the churchwomen could link him to events, but he had plans to remove the three women today. He gave a little smile. Before he let them die, they would tell him about the two priests: the final step in the purging.
He’d also taken the precaution of making one or two phone calls; there was no point in collecting people in high places if they were never used.
Time now to go and deal with the women. His team were to stay put, not trapped, not sacrificed; if Wallace was coming, it made sense to have everyone in one place, all singing from the same hymn sheet. And his was a well-practiced choir.
‘Okay guys, you know the score. Sunday trading today, the world market doesn’t stop for church services. Let’s get to it.’ Cassiter looked round at his little team and read the confident nods and grins. Two of his team were missing, Sharp and Barnett. They had made mistakes, it was clear they were compromised and now they were fulfilling a special task for him. He saw others exchange high fives. They would do. He nodded to sour face who responded with what passed as a smile and an unseen flutter in her heart as she released the lift door. It
opened and Cassiter entered. Now for the churchwomen, a final sweep and everything would be clean, order could return to his world.
• • •
From just inside the entrance to the basement car park DCI Wallace looked over to the lift doors. This was an odd access arrangement and he was struggling to understand why the place was not on his radar. No one in the force had seemed aware of its existence. A small international trading company, no profile, no reputation, no form. The evidence pointed here, but it seemed clean as a whistle. What if he was wrong? He shrugged and knew it was time to move. Armed response teams were already in place, one in the fire escape, a second team gathered in front of him. They would go up in the lift first, just in case.
‘Boss. Boss,’ DS Brogan’s urgent half whisper came to him from the lane outside the basement. Wallace turned and looked up the drive ramp to find out what could be so important to justify distracting him right on the kick off.
‘What’s up man?’ he asked.
‘They’ve found her car, boss. Over at Silverknowes, on Marine Drive.’
Wallace was annoyed at the interruption but intrigued too. ‘What the hell’s it doing there? Is she walking a dog or something? Have they got her? ‘He fired out the questions, needing answers quickly in case they impacted on his next move here. Marine Drive was an isolated sweep of road to the north of the city. It ran along the foreshore, popular with lovers at night and dog walkers through the day.
Brogan joined him at the foot of the ramp. ‘She’s in the car, boss. A man too.’ The absence of elation in Brogan’s voice alerted Wallace to problems.
‘And?’ he asked.
‘They’re both dead.’
Wallace was stunned. ‘What? How?’
‘Shot. The patrol boys who found the car say they can see two handguns inside, looks like they shot each other.’ Brogan gave a half shrug. ‘They are clearly dead so the lads haven’t opened up the car yet. Waiting for a forensics team, and you.’
Wallace tried to consider how this news should affect his approach here. One thing for certain, he wasn’t buying any sort of murder-suicide pact. He nodded to Brogan and briefly patted the sergeant’s arm, a mixed message: thanks and we’ll work it out later. Then he turned back to look through the car parking bay towards the lift. Before he could order a move the armed response team outside the lift suddenly tensed, bringing their guns to bear on the lift entrance. The lift was descending.
The lift door opened and Cassiter stepped out directly into a storm of shouts. Cassiter knew the procedures well enough to present the safe response. Without a moment’s hesitation he raised his arms and knelt, then lay down. Prone, he waited for the police to handcuff him. He cursed silently; he was not going to get to the churchwomen.
Wallace had watched the arrest from a distance - he did not recognise the man. Now he closed in, looked at the unfamiliar face for a moment then waved him away to the lockup. He pointed his team into the open lift doors, they moved in, the lift doors closed behind them and the assault began.
CHAPTER 30 - MONDAY 24th JUNE
Cassiter sat in silence in a St Leonard’s police cell. No emotion, no signs, motionless. But his mind was not still.
The police had come too early for a perfect wrap. Nevertheless, all the evidence at the office had already been removed or destroyed. He knew the police search would show only a clean little trading company.
Jim Barnett and Fiona Sharp had gone. Good operatives, but they had become expendable. They were too close to events; if any evidence was linking Cassiter to the crime it would be theirs. It did not matter whether or not they had really been compromised or allowed evidence to leak, their necessary and properly presented sacrifice would lead the police along another path; a lunatic couple, a modern day Bonnie and Clyde, choosing to exit together when they felt events and their rampage were running out of control. It had happened before and no doubt, it would happen again. So an easy option for the police - it would give everyone an out.
But he was puzzled. The police did not seem to be linking the three churchwomen as witnesses to the killings in St Bernard’s. The women must have got out of the church somehow and kept quiet about their presence there. It was a bonus, certainly, but he didn’t understand why they had kept quiet. They must have something to hide, something so big they were willing to withhold evidence from the police. It was excellent; they could link him to the crime scene and for whatever reason, they were staying silent. They could not change their story now without incriminating themselves for withholding evidence: they could not stand witness against him. Had the police not arrested him, the three women would by now be dead - perhaps he could let them live after all, perhaps he should.
But there was another question - one that he had not foreseen and which he could not yet address. A question that had left Wallace and his sergeant looking so very pleased. Cassiter could not yet think through how to address it; this was an unexpected turn of events that would require some careful consideration. Or he might be inside for a very long time.
• • •
Unless it was part of an active investigation, DCI Wallace did not like making house calls, but this was one visit that had given him real pleasure. At the same time, he was wondering whether maybe it should be his last call too. Maybe he’d done his bit now; he should retire, time to get out while his wife was still speaking to him… While he still had a wife. He liked this American girl. He was sure she was holding something back, but for some reason it didn’t seem to matter. She and her group were victims and he could report the all clear. It felt good, was what policing should be about. And he could read Brogan like a book. The sergeant was also enjoying delivering good news.
Bringing it all to a conclusion had been touch and go for a while. The little group in their eagle’s nest of an office had put up no resistance; it had felt almost as though he was dealing with the military. Names, ranks… he’d half-expected numbers too. Then silence, they said nothing, as if they had a routine drilled into them. The offices had been clean, nothing shady, so suspiciously innocent it screamed guilty. For a little while he’d had nothing. It had all looked a bit flaky and of course, the chief constable had been wittering away in the background. Predictable as ever, the man seemed more worried about the media image than the murders. He certainly seemed to like the desperate villains argument; Bonnie and Clyde, clean, simple, everything finished, neat and tidy. But Wallace didn’t like it.
None of the suspects had behaved like normal folk; they had sat silent, unflinching, stoic. He’d had to admit he had nothing on any of those he’d lifted from their office, on the face of it, they did seem to be international traders, and initial feedback on the contents of their computers showed a real business. He knew they were involved but suspected he’d soon have to let them go, along with the sour faced receptionist, but their cards were marked. The slightest step out of line and he’d have them.
The man they had taken at the lift was the biggest mystery. Like the others, he had only spoken once, to identify himself as Clive Innes, then silence: cold, expressionless, detached. Wallace knew he wasn’t a Clive Innes, regardless of legitimate documents that said he was. From his manner, he was a leader, the leader. But Wallace didn’t have the slightest idea who the man really was. He was a ghost, a shadow and like the others had been in line for release; without evidence there was no sustainable charge. Then just when it looked as though his team had come up empty handed they got a break, they cracked it.
Wallace had been fending off some arrogant, high-priced lawyer when the call had come through from forensics. One moment the fat cat had been threatening action against the police for compensation - for wrecked careers, ruined reputations, the works. The next moment he was struggling to keep his feet, like a novice on an ice rink.
One little bit of steady police work had set ‘Clive Innes’ on a one-way trip to Saughton. No, Wallace corrected himself; he was not supposed to call it that anymore. They had to call it ‘Edinburgh
Prison’ now. Perhaps that was another sign it was time for him to go. This was a new era when even the prisons were getting image makeovers. He grunted in disgust.
It was methodical police work that broke the case. A fingertip search and then DNA from a bloodstained handkerchief found near the little path behind the church; it put Innes right in the middle of the crime scene. Bingo.
Wallace had read the relief on the women’s faces as he broke the news. He felt the atmosphere of fear lift. Had been happy to spend half an hour over a cup of tea, putting their minds at rest. There was a lot of work to do and more evidence to gather, a case to build, but they had their man and the evidence to hold him, nailed. Clive Innes was going nowhere, and Wallace knew it.
CHAPTER 31 - THURSDAY 27th JUNE
On police advice, the elders had taken steps to ensure the manse was not left unoccupied. They had asked Helen to move in as a temporary occupant and she had readily agreed.
Helen and Elaine sat in the back garden of the manse. Both tucked under parasols, enjoying the still air and afternoon warmth while avoiding the direct sunlight. Helen shading her fair skin, Elaine keeping her wounds covered. It was a rare quiet moment for the pair to share together. They relaxed, having begun the process of steadily unwinding in the wake of DCI Wallace’s earlier news. Helen did the speaking and Elaine gently nodded or shook her head in response, throwing in the occasional supporting mumble for reinforcement. It would be a while yet before Elaine was able to talk properly.
Scottie, Elaine’s counter-surveillance expert, had been round the previous day. He had swept the manse again, just to give Helen some peace of mind. He gave the place a clean bill of health, but Helen was still just that bit happier chatting outside rather than indoors. She knew she’d get over it soon enough, but trust was still at a premium. Scottie had not been able to shed any more light on the origins of the surveillance devices he’d found previously. They were certainly not currently available on the market, definitely leading edge. Must have been developed by a national security service somewhere, he didn’t know which one. He didn’t have any idea how Innes had been able to get hold of the technology, but clearly he had.