by Helen Fields
Raised voices from the room they’d walked through stopped them in their tracks.
‘Here,’ Jean-Paul said, handing the photo over. Callanach caught a glimpse of a young woman photographed from some distance above. It was blurred but her face was showing, and there was a baby in her lap where she sat in a tiny back yard, barbed wire marking out the boundary of the property. It was impossible to say if the wire was to keep the woman in or to keep others out. Most likely both, he decided. Madame Lebel gave a small cry and sat cradling the photo. ‘Keep quiet about who we are and what we asked you, and I’ll arrange to get you further updates about your daughter. Agreed?’
‘Yes,’ Madame Lebel said. ‘Thank you. Yes.’
The door crashed open. The Lebanese police officer had her weapon drawn and pointed at the three previously sleeping men, now very much awake, knives drawn. Joseph reacted first, not hesitating to draw his own gun, stepping forward and barking orders in a language Callanach didn’t understand. The effect was immediate. The men dropped back a few paces, allowing Jean-Paul and Callanach the space to get out of the veiled corridor.
‘Go,’ Joseph ordered.
They filed out into the main corridor, following Joseph.
‘Not the way we came,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe now. Someone will have phoned down to say we were here.’
‘What happened?’ Jean-Paul asked.
‘White men seen going into Madame Lebel’s rooms,’ Joseph said as he rounded a corner, checking first that no one was waiting for them. ‘The range of services she offers tends to be for minorities around here. The assumption is that you’re police. Down this staircase, quickly,’ he motioned them forwards.
‘Shall I call for backup?’ Jean-Paul asked.
‘Only if you want to kick off a major incident. As soon as they hear sirens, each door will be locked and there’ll be a weapon in every hand. Let’s get to a lower floor and try a window.’
Footsteps behind them were approaching fast. They opened the nearest door and slammed it behind them. There was no key. Joseph held it shut, bracing his feet against the bottom as he leaned back, holding the doorknob tight. Peeling back the paper over the windows that had been improvised as curtains in what seemed to be an abandoned storeroom, they looked down to the ground. They were fifteen feet above ground level overlooking a rear passageway that led out into the street.
The door rattled. Joseph gripped the doorknob more firmly as Jean-Paul tried to open the window. In spite of its rotting frame, it wouldn’t budge. Callanach kicked a pile of boxes aside, finding nothing but mildew and a dead rat.
‘Hurry,’ Joseph said. There were shouts beyond the door now, more people approaching.
Callanach took out his gun, re-engaged the safety, and aimed the butt of it centrally in the window, covering his face. The third blow smashed the pane. He ran to the door, grabbing the handle from Joseph, Jean-Paul standing back to provide cover.
‘You two jump first,’ Callanach told the undercover officers. ‘And just disappear. You don’t want to get caught with us. Make sure control knows our position and is ready to pick us up.’
They didn’t argue, clearing the remaining glass with the cardboard and jumping immediately. Jean-Paul waited until they were both down and out of sight, sitting on the window ledge with his feet hanging out.
‘I’ll cover you,’ he said. ‘When you’re ready, run for the window and just jump. I’ll be right behind you.’
The door was beginning to splinter from the kicks beyond. The fact that no one had tried to shoot through the wood yet was a good sign but, even if Callanach and Jean-Paul were the only ones with firearms, there were enough bodies out in the corridor to pose a serious threat. Callanach took a deep breath and positioned himself to run.
It was only four strides from the door to the window but by then the door was wide open and men were rushing in. There was a gunshot as Callanach grabbed the ledge to vault out, then he hit cool air and sunlight, his stomach objecting to the fall. He hit the ground hard, one ankle giving way. He let himself relax, falling, rolling, getting straight back up and seeing Jean-Paul mid-air. There were angry faces in the window above. Callanach drew his gun and fired at the wall above the window, aiming to miss any live targets but dissuading them from following.
‘Come on,’ he yelled at Jean-Paul. He was still on the ground, rubbing at his eyes. ‘Shit, did you land badly?’
‘Burning!’ Jean-Paul screamed.
Callanach squatted beside him, putting one arm around his shoulders, keeping his gun aimed up at the window.
‘Got to move,’ he said. ‘Let me help you.’
Jean-Paul got to his feet, one arm across his upper face, the other clutching Callanach’s shoulder. They staggered away along the passage. As they reached the archway that welcomed them into the street, the men began to jump from the window. A black van screeched to a halt in front of them, a side door opened, and men in black clothes dragged Callanach and Jean-Paul inside.
‘It’s all right,’ Joseph told them from the back of the van. ‘You’re safe.’
‘Jean-Paul, let me see your face,’ Callanach said.
His friend pulled his arm away. Everything from his lips to the peak of his forehead was red and beginning to blister. Small pockets of yellow liquid were already forming across the tops of his cheeks. His eyes were raw, filmy and closing as the irritant worked into his body.
‘Hospital,’ Callanach ordered the driver.
They screeched around a corner, meeting a horde of bodies exiting the building.
‘Turn right,’ Joseph said, drawing his gun again as fists began to thump the rear of the vehicle.
Callanach sat on the van floor, his friend’s head resting on his thighs, his breathing laboured, rasping. As they left the angry crowd behind, joined ahead and behind by police cars that eased their passage through Paris’ gridlock, he wished it hadn’t taken him two years to return to France and to bridge the void between the two of them.
Chapter Twenty-One
The restaurant wasn’t one of Edinburgh’s best known, but it was well-loved by its regular clientele. Today it was closed to the public as the Major Investigation Team worked with a camera crew, and uniformed officers booked in those people they knew had been dining or working there the night Bart Campbell had disappeared.
It was a full house. Two people working the bar, the owner/manager was on site, five waiters including Bart, seven bodies in the kitchen, and every table full. There was only one CCTV camera, and it had captured nothing of value as there was a second door through which anyone could have come and gone without detection. A lack of internal cameras meant that there was no record of what had happened inside. Only three people had proved uncontactable in terms of bookings. All were last-minute walk-ins.
The cameras rolled. A young actor had been engaged to play Bart. He could be seen working his usual tables, moving from bar to kitchen. Witnesses were released once they’d played their parts and confirmed their earlier statements. Finally they filmed the section where Bart sat at the bar for a few minutes, all his tables cleared, the last few diners remaining, being served by the two waiters still working. He had a drink in front of him that he drained, before putting on his jacket and heading for the front door. His exit had been caught on camera, and that section was to be replaced by the original footage. Then the actor took over again as Bart headed away from the restaurant towards the lamppost where he always locked up his bike. One of the media team’s liaison officers then got to his feet, explaining the procedure for contacting the helpline with useful information.
Filming was wrapping when Ava turned up. Tripp was deep in conversation with the editor from the production company they’d used, setting a timeline for getting the footage out. The restaurant manager was treading a fine line between looking deeply concerned for his employee’s well-being and deeply concerned about getting his restaurant reopened for trade. A woman on the corner of the street was looking into the res
taurant, hands lifeless at her sides, face blank, swaying slightly. Ava walked to where she stood.
‘I’m DCI Ava Turner. Are you all right?’ The woman looked at her, the skin beneath her eyes so dark she might have taken punches, but Ava recognised grief like a brand, all shallow breathing, scrunched muscles and twitchy far-away stares. ‘Sorry, we haven’t met. Are you Bart’s mother?’ The woman gave a single, sharp nod. ‘Come with me.’
They walked to a table outside the restaurant and sat. Ava took the arm of a passing police officer. ‘Could you ask the manager for a pot of tea, please? I’ll pay.’
Mrs Campbell sat to attention, unable to take her eyes off the scene unfolding within and the young man standing in for her son who was in the process of changing back into his own jacket. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Bart, Ava saw. It must have been almost ghostly for his mother. Reconstructions were hard on victims’ families. Forever having last known moments reduced to a film strip, to be viewed over and over again. More often than not such events were recorded at a stage too late to change the course of events. Ava hoped that wouldn’t prove true for Bart. She waited for the tea to arrive before attempting any further conversation, pouring a cup and adding a spoonful of sugar when Mrs Campbell didn’t respond to the question of whether she wanted it or not. She managed to pick up the cup and take a shaky sip.
‘What’s Bart like?’ Ava asked.
‘Easy to love,’ Mrs Campbell replied. Ava felt a lump form in her throat. ‘How long will you keep looking for him?’
‘As long as it takes,’ Ava said. ‘We’re just getting started. Thank you for all the photos you gave us. It really helps. Publicity is very important.’
‘I don’t feel anything,’ Mrs Campbell said. ‘I’ve heard people say they knew when their child was dead, or that they felt they were still alive. I have no sense of him at all. Am I doing something wrong?’
‘No,’ Ava said. ‘Everyone feels things differently, and sometimes people imagine a sensation or a link that makes processing their experience easier. It’s obvious that you and Bart are extremely close, so I can see why you would feel there should be a tangible sense of what’s happening to him.’
‘There’s a dead boy, isn’t there?’ she asked.
Ava hesitated. The link between Malcolm Reilly and Bart Campbell was still speculative, and she’d made the decision not to have officers pass the details of Malcolm’s death on to Bart’s family and friends. Now she was going to be asked questions that Mrs Campbell really wouldn’t want her to answer.
‘There is,’ Ava said. ‘I believe you were asked if Bart knew him, and you said no.’
‘That’s right. But then I looked it up on the internet. I found an article but it was in French. The translation from the search engine was …’
Ava could imagine. The true facts were awful enough without filtering them through a search engine.
‘There’s no evidence that Bart is with the same people who were responsible for Malcolm,’ Ava said. ‘We need to investigate all possibilities. I know it’s hard not to overthink, but speculation is a dark cave.’
‘How did Malcolm disappear?’ she asked.
Ava didn’t want to answer, but better that Mrs Campbell got the facts from her than spending hours on the internet, wandering into God only knew what forums and true crime chat rooms.
‘He was at his gym. It looks as if he met up with a woman briefly, followed her out, then he wasn’t seen again. His body was found in Paris. One of our officers is over there working with Interpol and the French police.’
DS Tripp patted Ava on the shoulder.
‘Ma’am, you’re needed inside urgently,’ he said. ‘Mrs Campbell, are you warm enough? I can make space for you inside.’
‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can.’
Tripp nodded respectfully, motioning for another officer to join them, whispering in his ear. The policeman sat down at the table as Ava stood up, immediately picking up the teapot to refill Mrs Campbell’s cup. A flash of gratitude hit Ava for her squad. They were fierce and relentless when needed, caring and gentle in the alternative. A rare breed.
At a table indoors, a man and woman were looking wide-eyed at one another.
‘Mr and Mrs Williams,’ Tripp whispered. ‘They’re regulars. They know Bart from the times he’s served them.’
Ava sat down at the table with them and introduced herself. The Williamses were in their late sixties, maybe early seventies, and sat holding hands. Ava smiled in spite of the circumstances.
‘I wonder if you could tell DCI Turner what you told me just now?’ Tripp said.
‘You say it,’ Mrs Williams told her husband.
‘All right then. We were in a bit later than usual as we hadn’t been able to find our cat. We don’t like her being out too long in the evening. She has a tendency to get into fights,’ he said.
‘She does,’ Mrs Williams agreed.
‘So it took a while to find her, then we arrived here at about half past eight, and then it was busy so we didn’t get served for ages. That’s not a criticism,’ he turned his head and looked in the direction of the manager. ‘Anyway, we didn’t get our main course until about nine thirty. I had lasagne and my wife had the cannelloni.’
Ava didn’t rush the story. Whatever spell had been cast in the Williamses’ recollections by virtue of the reconstruction was worth maintaining.
‘We’d had pudding and were taking our time over coffee when I moved my chair back so my wife could get to the bathroom. We’d been rather squashed into our table as it was so busy. Again, not a criticism.’
‘He’s such a gentleman,’ his wife added.
‘Anyway, the back of my chair hit something. There was no table directly behind me so I hadn’t been careful and looked the way I normally would. I saw a woman standing at the bar, next to young Bart. It was her leg I’d bashed. I apologised immediately but she just tossed her hair. Didn’t acknowledge the apology or me.’
‘We gave each other a look, as you do,’ Mrs Williams said.
‘I might not have remembered. She was there one minute and gone the next, but my wife commented on the size of the ring she was wearing.’ He nodded at his wife who continued the tale.
‘Very ostentatious,’ she said in a half whisper, as if the woman were still there and might be offended. ‘A sapphire, if it was real. It looked like one of those efforts you sometimes see sold on those television jewellery sales programmes, you know dear?’
‘I do,’ Ava said. ‘May I ask which finger she was wearing it on?’
‘Her ring finger, like you would an engagement ring. My mother would have called it flashy, by which she’d have meant trashy.’ Mrs Williams gave a wink.
‘Can you recall anything else about her?’ Ava asked.
‘Brown hair. She had a long coat on so I couldn’t be more specific about clothes. She’d have been in her mid-twenties. Attractive in an obvious sort of way,’ Mrs Williams said.
‘Could you spend some time working with one of our artists, see if you can come up with a likeness of her?’ Ava asked.
‘Anything for Bart,’ Mr Williams announced. ‘He’s a lovely boy. I only hope this helps. I’d never have thought about it without doing this. Your police officer there coached us to think through each course and remember everyone around us. It wasn’t until I shifted my chair back again to leave that the movement prompted the memory. He’s a good one, he is.’
Ava smiled at Tripp.
‘He is indeed,’ she said. ‘Thanks so much for your time and assistance. Will you excuse me? DS Tripp will take over again from here.’
She shook their hands and rejoined Bart’s mother at the outside table.
‘Mrs Campbell …’
‘Maggie, please.’
‘Maggie,’ Ava smiled. ‘I know you’ve been asked this before, but are you absolutely sure Bart wasn’t seeing anyone? A woman who might have been a little older than him, for example, or someon
e who’d shown an interest in him at the restaurant?’
‘No one,’ she said. ‘He’s a very open boy. We don’t have secrets. I know all his friends, who’s seeing who. If he’s interested in a girl, he tells me. I’m not judgemental. He’d have had no reason to have kept quiet about it.’
‘So there’s nothing he wouldn’t have told you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have cared. Bart knows he can tell me anything. I just wanted him to find someone who made him happy.’
‘I see,’ Ava said. ‘Thank you.’
‘The only thing I put my foot down about, ever, was him messing around with someone who was already taken,’ she continued. ‘Bart’s father felt the same. Old-fashioned values and proud of it.’
Ava looked inside at the Williamses who were writing out new statements with Tripp.
‘So if there had been someone in his life who was, say, engaged or married, Bart would have known you wouldn’t approve?’ Ava asked quietly.
‘I sincerely hope he’d never do anything so wrong. He was well aware of my feelings on the subject,’ she said. ‘He certainly wouldn’t have dared bring her under my roof. My boy knows better than that.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Callanach stood in the second hospital in as many days, waiting for news on another friend. He ran over the sequence of events in his head for the hundredth time, wondering what he could have done differently, wishing they’d secured a better route out of the building before getting themselves trapped. They were lucky it had only been a fifteen-foot drop. Any further than that and they’d all have impact injuries. Callanach’s ankle ached like hell, Joseph had sprained his wrist in the fall and his cover was blown, his partner had already been reassigned to a different city, and still none of that compared to what Jean-Paul was going through. Interpol had called in a chemical weapons expert and all attending doctors were white-suited and fully masked.