Читать книгу Perfect Prey: The twisty new crime thriller that will keep you up all night - Helen Fields - Страница 13

Begbie’s complexion was waxy and grey. Callanach saw Ava’s expression as they went in for a briefing, and knew she was worried too. Ailsa Lambert joined them seconds later.

‘For Heaven’s sake, what have you been eating, man?’ Ailsa screeched, walking over to the chief and staring closely at his skin, suffering none of Ava and Callanach’s reticence.

‘Don’t start on me, Ailsa,’ Begbie said. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got time to get on the running machine.’

‘You’ve enough time to consume high levels of fats and sugars by the looks of it. How much are you drinking?’

‘Can we not do this in front of my detective inspectors, if you don’t mind? We’ve other matters to discuss,’ Begbie grumbled.

‘You won’t be discussing anything unless you make some changes. The next conversation we’ll be having will take place with you lying motionless on a slab and me speaking into a voice recorder,’ Ailsa said.

‘You’ve had your say. Now would you take a seat?’ Begbie pointed to a chair.

Ailsa mumbled to herself but sat anyway, pulling a tablet out of her bag and tapping it furiously. ‘Morning, you two. Seems like we’ve been here before. Who wants to go first?’ Neither of them had time to answer before she continued, ‘Helen Lott. Crying shame. I know some doctors she’d worked with. Great loss to the city, this one. There aren’t many who can do her job. Vast amount of force used, trauma unlike anything I’ve ever seen deliberately caused. Horrible way to die, she’d have felt all of it. The good news is that we believe we have his DNA.’

Ava muttered what might have been thanks to some unidentified deity, then cut in, ‘Has it been run through the system?’

‘It has. No hits I’m afraid, but we can tell you that it’s from a male Caucasian. At least if you arrest any suspects, we’ll be able to confirm a positive identity. Other than that the crime scene was clean. No fingerprints. Gloves were definitely worn. No hairs that we’ve found,’ Ailsa said.

‘Where was the DNA?’ Ava asked.

‘On her forehead, just at the hairline. There was a droplet of saliva mixed in with a little blood. At some point, he leaned over her face, was obviously overexcited, and dribbled or spat, possibly whilst talking to her or watching her. I suspect he’d bitten his tongue or cheek, hence the blood cells. Definitely wasn’t from the victim and it was fresh, so it was from someone in the room with her as she died.’ The pathologist pulled out duplicate copies of photographs and handed one bundle to Ava and another to Begbie. ‘You can see from the photos that it was a frenzied attack, but I’d say planned in advance. Killer probably lost control in the middle of it. Initially, she received a blow to the face, hard enough to cause her to fall and prevent her from defending herself. Then the chest of drawers was placed on top of her, and I mean placed rather than randomly pushed. It was central to her body, well balanced, stopped her from getting up. The positioning caused maximum damage to her vital organs. Looks as if her ribs broke first, then her sternum was fractured when additional weight was applied. The pressure to her stomach made the poor woman vomit, adding to the asphyxia she was already experiencing from being unable to draw breath into her lungs. She had a variety of other limb fractures, and body-wide contusions. One of the broken ribs pierced her right lung, speeding up death and by then she was probably grateful for it. Her internal organs were fatally damaged at that stage. Internal bleeding was extensive, as you’d expect. She lost control of her bowels pretty much as she died. Just moving the drawers would have taken a tremendous amount of strength. You’re looking for someone very large, possibly who weight trains, works out regularly. Someone who was there for the specific purpose of making his mark.’

‘I’m not sure this one could be much worse,’ Ava said, rubbing a hand over her eyes.

‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Ailsa noted.

‘So no good news at all?’ Begbie asked.

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a pathologist. When I walk through your door, I’m never bringing good news.’

‘I meant in terms of identifying a suspect,’ Begbie said.

‘It’s someone so physically large that they won’t blend into a crowd, if that helps. And he’d have had her blood, and probably vomit on him as he left. He didn’t leave any clothing or gloves at the scene, so somewhere there is very damning evidence. If you’re willing to risk the public response, you can ask if anyone’s husband, son, brother, landlord, whatever, arrived home stinking, exhausted and bloody on the night in question. I guarantee there’s an evidence trail,’ Ailsa finished.

‘And the festival death?’ Begbie asked, quiet again. He was slumped in his chair, his chin almost to his chest.

Ailsa took another long look at him before answering.

‘Only confirming what you already know. The incision was just above the waistline of his shorts, which were, I think the phrase is, low-slung. He wasn’t wearing a T-shirt, so the flesh was accessible. Incredibly skilled work, if you’ll forgive how extraordinarily distasteful that is as a concept. The attacks are polar opposites of each other. Odd on one night, but isn’t it true that the least likely coincidences are always bound to happen? That one’s going to take some old-fashioned boots on the street police work.’

‘And with one less person than you normally have on your team, Callanach,’ Begbie added. ‘DCI Edgar needs a detective with local knowledge to work with his men. They’re stepping up the investigation since the cyber attack.’

‘Sergeant Lively,’ Callanach responded immediately. Finally Ava gave a tiny smile. ‘He knows the city better than anyone.’

‘He’s also the least tech-savvy member of the squad. Even I’d have more chance of understanding the cyber crime unit briefing than him. I’m moving Max Tripp over. You said yourself you’ve no leads at present. You’re all just sitting around waiting for divine intervention. And Tripp gets all this digital stuff. You can do without him for a couple of weeks.’

‘Sir, not Tripp. He’s a good DC. I need him.’ Tripp was Callanach’s go-to detective constable, arriving early, leaving late, who even managed to signal exhaustion with a bright smile. He was occasionally wearying to be around, but a welcome antidote to the older officers’ cynicism.

‘It’s done, Callanach. Get some results and you can moan to your heart’s content. Under those circumstances I might actually listen. And the media department is up in arms that someone gave a statement to the press yesterday without going through them. Find out who it was and bollock them for me.’

Begbie’s phone rang and as one, they took it as their cue to leave.

Ailsa caught Ava’s arm in the corridor as they were parting. ‘How are you doing, dear?’ she asked.

‘Getting on with it,’ Ava replied.

‘And your parents? I’m dreadful about keeping up with old friends. Not enough hours in the week and all that. You’ll apologise for me, will you?’

‘Not necessary, Ailsa, they know how busy you are. Which is why I’d better let you go.’

‘Forgive me, Ava, but you know how people speculate.’ Ailsa took a step closer, dropping her voice a notch. ‘Your mother has missed several of the clubs she usually attends. Our mutual friends are concerned. Some have contacted me to ask if I know why.’ She let the question hang, her face showing nothing but compassion and care.

Ava wanted to lie, knowing that the truth was the opening of a gate that meant she would have to talk about what was happening to increasing numbers of people. And talking about it meant having to think about it even more than she already was.

‘She has cancer, Ailsa. She’s getting treatment. Everyone has been wonderful.’

‘Poor her,’ Ailsa said softly. ‘And poor you. I won’t ask you any more. Not here. But I’ll be thinking of you all. And if there’s anything I can do …’ she finished.

‘I know that. And I won’t hesitate, I promise,’ Ava said, closing the conversation down as politely as she could.

‘All right then. Now call if you have any questions. And be careful with this case. Whoever killed Helen Lott is operating beyond the extremes of violence that even we are familiar with.’

Ava was dealing with a terrible case, Callanach thought. Close-up police work, dealing with levels of extreme brutality, could be too much for anyone. He pretended to be busy looking through the Sim Thorburn autopsy photos that Ailsa had left for him, but studied Ava peripherally. She was tired and not herself. Her best friend Natasha was away, spending a semester at a university in the States as a guest lecturer. Ava didn’t have her usual support network available and Callanach had been too distracted to notice. If he was honest with himself, avoiding Ava might be closer to the truth. He waited until Ailsa left.

‘We still haven’t christened that fishing rod you gave me,’ Callanach said. ‘When this is over and you and I finally get some time off, how about I take you up on your offer of showing me the lochs?’

‘I’m not sure I can think about that now,’ Ava said. ‘Too much going on.’

‘I understand,’ Callanach said. ‘Then how about a movie tonight? We could both do with thinking about something else for a while.’

A figure appeared beside them. Callanach hadn’t been aware of being watched whilst he’d been talking to Ava, but DCI Joe Edgar had obviously caught the gist of their conversation.

‘That’s nice. Always good to see work colleagues supporting each other. I’m afraid Ava and I are having dinner with her parents tonight though. I haven’t seen Percy and Miranda for years. Can’t wait to tell them what I’ve been up to,’ Edgar said. ‘And I’ve moved that young DC of yours over to my incident room. He’ll do better mixing with my team full-time. He’ll have to buck up though. We keep pretty high standards. Hope it won’t be too much of a shock for him.’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Callanach said, a tiny muscle at the corner of his lower jaw flexing. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate Tripp.’

‘Good, we need them bright and on the ball for the stuff we have to deal with. See you later, darling,’ he said, giving Ava a pat on the shoulder. ‘Callanach,’ he nodded on his way out.

Callanach shoved his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath as he watched Edgar leave.

‘He’s just a friend,’ Ava said, shaking the shoulder Edgar had touched.

‘Dinner with your parents? Thought you couldn’t stand that sort of thing. Or them, for that matter.’

‘What the hell would you know about me and my parents? God, could you just not comment? For once? You know, Luc, you’re the most closed-off person I’ve ever met and you’re lecturing me on my family relationships. You’ve got some nerve.’ She paused, staring at him. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

Callanach stood still until she’d walked round a corner. Keeping a steady smile on his face and his pace measured, he went back to his office and shut his door. Then he slammed one foot hard into the base of his desk. The wood splintered. His toes ached. He grabbed his coat and headed out into the city.

It was a long way to The Meadows from the station but he needed the air.

There was a greater uniformed police presence on the streets than usual. Understandable in the circumstances. Of course, if there was another attack, the chances of the police being in the right place at the right time was still highly unlikely, but people felt better when there were uniforms around. The reality was that for all the protests and outrage, life went on. Though not for Sim Thorburn’s girlfriend, not for a while, anyway. And not for Helen Lott’s extended family, who’d made statements on the news about her terrible passing.

Perhaps the most visual scar left on the city was the graffiti. It had started with one scrawling that an eagle-eyed news reporter had captured the day after the first murder. Callanach made his way to it – a pilgrimage of sorts. Near the centre of the city, where Guthrie Street emerged onto Cowgate, on the curved wall of a hostel in bright blue paint had been left the immortal words, ‘A Charity Worker!’ The fact that the enraged graffiti artist had bothered to punctuate the phrase spoke volumes. The press had embraced the simplicity of expression and adopted the image as their own banner of social indignation.

Sim Thorburn wasn’t a drug dealer who’d sold one tab too many. This was no illegal immigrant with an unpronounceable name, or prostitute long since unrecognisable to friends and family. This was a symbol of Scotland’s heart and soul. The very innocence of the victim was a crime in itself, the press had made that clear. Callanach walked until he found the tag. Below it was the statement, ‘A hospice nurse’, no punctuation this time and the writing was smaller, in red.

From there the copycats had taken over, using the walls in every part of the city to vent their fury at the violation of their peaceful lives. Callanach couldn’t blame them. Such violence was shocking. He’d investigated many terrible cases – child sex trafficking, drugs tested on Eastern European orphans, weapons experiments dressed up as religious wars – they had all come down to money. But this felt like something else. Perhaps just the sheer hell of it. That was what he saw in the words left on the city walls. Futility.