by Helen Fields
‘Back to basics,’ Ava said. ‘We believe the killer lives to the west of Edinburgh, but within relatively easy driving distance of the city. There is a credible theory about how he chose Caroline Ryan, and it would have been easy to identify Kate Bailey through the SugarPa website by selecting Edinburgh in the geographical preferences. So the question is, how did he find Zoey and Lorna?’
‘The earliest victim is the most likely to have a personal link to offender,’ Callanach replied. ‘Preliminary victims are rarely random selections, unless a physical search is being made for, say, a lone female in a specific geographical area at night. Even then, the offender has usually selected the particular area because it’s well known to them.’
‘So let’s take another look at Zoey Cole in the context of what we now know about her murderer,’ Ava said. ‘Victim of domestic violence, living in a shelter. Limited social media use as she was keeping her location a secret. Query over Tyrone Leigh, boyfriend of the woman who runs the shelter.’
‘The Myers had alibis that were backed up by multiple witnesses. Tyrone Leigh can’t be linked to any of the victims who came after Zoey,’ Tripp said. ‘Lorna Shaw would have been a much more visible target. She had criminal convictions and was known to a variety of government agencies, as well as to the less charming personalities on Edinburgh’s drug scene. It’s not obvious how she might have come to the attention of a religious cult, but it could just have been word of mouth.’
‘Perhaps a reformed drug user, talking about people from their past,’ a uniformed officer suggested. ‘A lot of the addicts we deal with have been helped by church groups. There’s a substantial flow of unchecked information when users are trying to get drug-free. Addicts often have a very hazy recollection of the period.’
‘Good,’ Ava said. ‘So one resource we can check is unofficial help for addicts, running support groups or charities, who might have attracted our killer. We should extend that to groups offering support for victims of domestic violence, to see if there’s anyone we missed who might have been a cross-over factor between Zoey and Lorna. Tripp, you go with DI Callanach to make enquiries with the mother and baby unit about what external links they have. I’ll go to the domestic violence shelter and see if any of the women there have had any contact with religious groups offering advice or support.’ They stood up, gathering notebooks and coats on their way out of the door. ‘Luc, a word,’ she said, pulling him aside. ‘Lively wanted to speak to you earlier. Is everything all right?’
‘It was nothing important,’ he said. ‘He just wanted a phone number.’
‘Okay, fine,’ Ava said. ‘Did he say anything at all about the Melanie Long investigation? I just feel so bad …’
‘Ava,’ Callanach interrupted. ‘It’s not your problem any more.’
‘I very much doubt it’s anyone’s problem any more. It’ll probably just get filed away as a dispute between drug dealers. That’ll make for a quick and easy report to the board. No realistic prospect of a conviction. Investigation discontinued in the absence of further leads.’
‘I know this is hard. Go to the shelter. See if you can find something more than Tripp and I did. I’ll see you back here in a couple of hours, okay?’
‘Ask how baby Tansy’s doing for me, will you?’ Ava said. ‘I’ve been meaning to contact the mother and baby unit. I was hoping I’d have news for them by now.’
Twenty minutes later, Tripp and Callanach were dashing from the car into the unit through driving rain, soaking wet in just seconds. They stood in the corridor, shaking off their clothes and wiping their shoes on the mat.
‘Detective Inspector,’ said the unit manager, Arnold Jenkins, walking towards them and smiling gently. ‘We hadn’t expected to see you again. Do you have news?’
‘Not exactly,’ Callanach said, ‘but we do have a few questions.’ They walked to the manager’s office and sat down. ‘There’s a quasi-religious element to this case. Not anything mainstream, perhaps not obvious to the outside world, but it seems the killer holds very strong, radical, even poisonous views.’
‘Well, whoever could hurt a young woman like that is hardly likely to be on the normal psychological spectrum,’ Jenkins said. ‘What do you need?’
‘We’re wondering if Lorna, or any of the other girls here at the same time as her, had been offered help or support by a church group, whether advice for recovering addicts, funding or guidance. Do you know of any groups that work with girls like Lorna in Edinburgh?’
‘Many addiction support groups meet in church rooms, although to my knowledge religion is downplayed so as not to put attendees off. There are, of course, a variety of faith-based charities that offer free meals and hand out clothing during the colder months. Those may have an element of religious outreach, but none of it is the sort of thing you’re describing. These are all well established, and extremely well intentioned. I don’t believe they’d attract the sort of deviant responsible for murdering Lorna.’
‘No offers of counselling, or specific church groups that have expressed a particular interest in the moral welfare of the mothers?’ Tripp asked.
‘We don’t allow that sort of thing,’ Jenkins said sternly. ‘We apply two sets of principles here. The first is the law. Most of the women residing here have a court order that restricts where they can live and requires regular court reviews with reports on progress. We apply court orders to the letter. Beyond that, all medical advice is followed without question. If a baby is thought not to be thriving, or a mother fails to give a urine test or to take prescribed medication, we reference help immediately. What we do not tolerate, though, is judgment, so we ask staff to agree as part of their contract that no mention will be made of any religion or belief system inside this building. Whilst we respect the individual’s right to follow whatever doctrine they choose, they may not bring it to work with them. It is absolutely vital that this is a judgment-free environment, where none of the women we are trying to help are subject to moral questioning.’
‘It was here, though,’ Callanach muttered to himself. Tripp and the manager stared at him. ‘Sorry, you know when your mind makes a connection, but the pieces don’t quite fit together. Someone told me a few hours ago that they would pray for one of the victims. It was a phrase I’d heard before, only I couldn’t place where, but I’m sure it was here, from one of the nurses. Is that against your policy?’
‘Normally, yes,’ Jenkins said, ‘but if they were talking to you about Lorna specifically, I can understand why someone might feel it was different. It’s really the mothers we try to protect from issues of religion, unless they specifically request access to a particular church.’
‘Do you mind if we have a look around again? Just to see if there’s anything that strikes us as useful. We’ll be careful not to disturb anyone,’ Callanach asked.
‘Of course,’ Jenkins replied. ‘You know your way by now.’
‘And DCI Turner wanted to know how baby Tansy is getting on. Presumably she’s been moved elsewhere by now.’
‘The baby’s in temporary foster care, but we’re actively looking for an adoptive placement. I do hope the papers I sent to DCI Turner in that regard got to her safely.’
‘Um, I’m sure they did,’ Callanach said. ‘We should go.’ He motioned for Tripp to leave the office ahead of him, pulling the door shut behind them. He had no idea what papers the manager was talking about, but given how disillusioned Ava currently was with her job, he could understand why she might be looking for something else to give her purpose. A baby, though, might take her away from policing forever, and that would be a huge loss – to MIT, to Police Scotland and to the public she worked so hard to protect. And to him, after all they’d been through together.
‘Sir,’ Tripp said, ‘you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘Let’s start in the staff room.’ They walked through the unit together, checking the employee-only areas and staff facilities, but everyone was busy on shifts with the m
others and babies. ‘It’s no good. We can’t go into the private rooms and interrupt them. I’ll email Jenkins once we’re back at the station and ask him to share the email with his staff, see if that jogs any memories. Maybe DCI Turner’s had more luck.’ They made their way to the exit, past the reception area where a board on the back wall showed the hierarchy of staff, with photographs and names.
‘Hold on,’ Callanach said, scanning the wall of faces. ‘There, that’s her. She’s the nurse who said something about keeping Lorna in her prayers. Lydia McMahon.’
‘We’ve got a photo of her in the incident room, I think. Not in uniform though, so I wouldn’t have recognised her unless you’d pointed her out.’ Tripp walked around the reception desk to get a better look. ‘It must have got muddled in with another victim’s file at some point. I’m sure it’s not with Lorna’s information.’
‘Whose file is it in?’ Callanach asked quietly.
‘I’d have to look,’ Tripp said, as Callanach got out his mobile and took a photo of the headshot. ‘Excuse me,’ he called to a passing staff member. ‘Is Nurse McMahon working today?’
‘No, she’s off, but she’s back in tomorrow. Would you like to leave her a message?’ she replied.
‘That’s all right,’ Callanach said. ‘We can wait.’
Back in the incident room, Tripp was scanning the board to find the photo. ‘I don’t see it here,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere. What other photos do we have that aren’t pinned up?’ He opened the large box files – one for each victim – and took out stacks of paper and photos. There were printouts of the contents from each woman’s mobile phone – texts, photos and emails – as well as anything seized from their personal belongings that indicated boyfriends and upcoming plans. Flicking through increasingly fast, he began shaking his head. ‘This isn’t it,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to remember the context of the photo. It was taken outside. I just remember seeing her face, side on, and there was something in the background. Colourful. Like a line of washing or something.’
‘Bunting?’ Callanach asked. ‘Could that have been it?’
‘Yes, possibly, but I don’t remember which of the victims …’
‘Alibi photos,’ Callanach said, reaching for a different filing cabinet and pulling out a brown folder. ‘Zoey’s mother and stepfather were at a community fete the day Zoey was taken. They produced endless witnesses to back up their story and confirm the timeline.’ He spread forty or fifty photos out across the desk, checking each one then putting it in a pile. Tripp joined him. ‘That’s her,’ Callanach said, holding up a photo. ‘She looks different with her hair down. How did you remember this photo, Tripp? There are hundreds in the files.’
‘Her nose is very slightly upturned at the end. I didn’t notice when we saw her at the hospital. She must have been straight on to me when we spoke to her, but the reception photo is more in profile. I don’t recall seeing her name on Zoey’s stepfather’s list of alibi witnesses though, or we’d have noticed her earlier. Shall I get a uniformed squad to find her and bring her in to the station?’
‘No, let’s go to her. I don’t want to give her time to prepare for questions, and at this stage I’d rather keep it informal. As far as we know, right now, this is a coincidence. Let’s see if she’ll open up to us. I’m going to call DCI Turner to notify her. Call the mother and baby unit manager and ask him for Lydia McMahon’s address. Let’s see if this nurse can explain why she failed to mention that she knew the family of a different victim, when we were asking her about Lorna.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Lydia McMahon’s hands could be seen before the remainder of her body, scrubbing the inside of her front room windows. She answered the door wearing yellow rubber gloves, looking confused but keeping a smile in place.
‘DI Callanach, I wasn’t expecting you. Is everything all right at the unit?’
‘Yes, fine. DC Tripp and I have a few questions for you, though. Could we come in?’ he asked.
‘Certainly. Sorry about the mess. I was just cleaning. Would you like tea?’
‘Please,’ Tripp said. ‘We can sit ourselves down.’ They walked into the lounge as Lydia made for the kettle. Bowls of hot, soapy water, a vacuum cleaner and various sprays and polishes littered the living room floor. ‘You’re a few months early for spring cleaning,’ he called to her, as they checked the room for signs that other people were resident.
‘Oh, I know,’ she said, coming back in to put coasters on the coffee table before their cups arrived. ‘I have a bit of an obsession about cleaning. Probably why I’m still single.’ She gave a shy laugh as she exited for the kitchen again.
Callanach silently pointed out the mantelpiece, where ten small ornaments sat sparkling, devoid of dust, each spaced a precise and equal distance from the next. Lydia came back with a tray bearing cups, saucers and a bowl of sugar cubes with tiny tongs balanced on top.
‘Did you have more questions about Lorna?’ she asked as she sat down and handed cups around.
‘Just a couple,’ Callanach said pleasantly. ‘Were you aware whether or not Lorna had any particular religious inclination?’
‘I shouldn’t think so, given the life she lived,’ Lydia said. ‘Poor girl. I doubt her parents ever took her to a church in her life.’
‘You told me you’d keep her in your prayers. Was that something you’d discussed with Lorna? Your own faith?’
She paused, her eyes flicking briefly to the side. The first sign of nerves, Callanach thought. She hadn’t been expecting them, and she hadn’t responded guiltily when they’d asked to speak with her, but now she was uncomfortable. ‘We’re not allowed to, actually. It’s against unit rules. I try to keep my beliefs to myself. I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting you’d done anything wrong,’ Callanach said. ‘It’s much the same in the police. You learn to keep your professional and private life separate.’
Lydia gave him a more relaxed smile, with a kindred-spirit nod. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘But it’s hard when you see so much suffering, and you know that while we take care of people’s bodies, so much more could be done if we nourished their spirits, too. Are you a man of faith, Detective Inspector?’
‘That depends on your definition of it,’ he said. ‘I remain open-minded. Tell us more about the church you attend. Is it local?’
‘I’m new there, actually,’ she said, stirring sugar into her tea. ‘I attended a church in the city before, but I found they were more concerned with getting through the service and holding charity functions than focusing on the needs of the soul. I think I was looking for something more personal.’
‘So how did you find your new church?’ Tripp asked.
‘A friend of a friend attended there a few times when they moved to West Calder. I’d heard her talking about how she found it rather strict and oppressive, but a church is like a pair of gloves – it has to be the right fit for you. I enjoy the rigours of a disciplined religious community. I find it brings me closer to God. After all, rules are easy to live with if you just don’t break them. I can’t stand disorderliness.’
Callanach’s eyes strayed back to the mantelpiece. It made sense for a woman suffering from OCD to seek out order in her spiritual life to match the order she needed from her physical surroundings. What was strange was how at odds her work was with the doctrine of the church she’d chosen.
‘West Calder,’ Tripp was saying. ‘What’s the name of the group?’
Lydia lowered her voice and leaned forward. ‘Actually, we’re discouraged from discussing the group with non-members. They’re very distrustful, simply because others tend not to understand our beliefs. There’s quite a process to become part of the congregation. I’m afraid religious persecution can be brutal and our members seek to lead quiet, holy lives, free of unwanted attention.’
‘I’m sure,’ Callanach said. ‘Let me ask you about something different then. You attended a community fet
e a few weeks ago. We have a photo of you there.’ He produced a copy of it and handed it to her. ‘Can you tell us about it?’
She looked down at the photo, back up to Callanach, then to Tripp, her eyebrows drawing together. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘It was given to us in a batch of photos by a man called Christopher Myers. He and his wife Elsa were helping at the fete. Do you know them?’ Callanach asked.
Lydia took a sip of her tea, a splash of it escaping with the wobble of her hand and marking the cream carpet. She gasped, staring at the brown liquid sinking into the spotless fibres.
‘I have to get a cloth,’ she said.
‘Not yet,’ Callanach told her. ‘Do you know Christopher Myers?’
‘It’s going to mark the carpet,’ Lydia said, the shake in her hands increasing. She deposited the cup and saucer back on the tray with a clatter.
‘Did you know Christopher Myers’ stepdaughter, Zoey?’
‘I need to get a cloth,’ Lydia whispered. ‘Please.’
‘Just as soon as you’ve answered the questions,’ Callanach said.
Lydia looked at the spot on the carpet, rubbing her hands one over the other and breathing hard. ‘We can’t discuss other members of the group. It’s one of the rules. He never talked about his stepdaughter at church meetings. When her name came out in the papers, I had no way of knowing. She has a different surname.’
‘The name of your church group?’ Callanach said, staring at the tea, which had now soaked into the pile.