Читать книгу Perfect Prey: The twisty new crime thriller that will keep you up all night - Helen Fields - Страница 20

Callanach used his mobile call log to dial Lance Proudfoot’s number.

‘Detective Inspector! Goodness me, I hadn’t expected you to call. Are you phoning to gloat about the seizure of my hard drive as evidence? Only I’m having a bad enough day as it is.’

‘Tell me about the email you received with the photos this morning,’ Callanach said.

Lance sighed. ‘The email came in early. Initially I assumed it was one of those viruses hidden inside junk mail, you know? Then a mate from a newspaper phoned to check if I’d been sent the same thing they had. One of their interns had opened it, completely contrary to instructions, but seventeen-year-olds – what can you do? Anyway, the photos were in a downloadable file, return address didn’t work. No sender details. They were in colour, looked like they’d been taken using a phone camera. Horrible. And they’d been sent to every press outlet you can name. Three photos of the girl’s body from different angles, all taken once she’d been put in the dumpster, one of the outside of the dumpster, one of the road sign. The lighting is blown out, the edges are dark, so I’d say they were taken using flash at night rather than first thing this morning.’

‘Do you know who was first on the scene?’ Callanach asked.

‘No idea. Wasn’t me and you can be damned sure it wasn’t a police officer either. Whichever journalist downloaded them first would have made sure they got the story before calling it in.’

‘Leeches,’ Callanach hissed as he scribbled notes.

‘Can I quote you on that? Only your delightful superintendent may think that’s not a good example of promoting the police/press supportive working relationship,’ Lance laughed.

‘Do you ever want to get your hard drive back?’ Callanach asked.

‘Come on, Inspector, I was joking. For what it’s worth, I agree with your assessment that sometimes my colleagues’ ethical code is not all it should be. However, I’m running a different angle. Seems to me there’s not much left to explore from the victim perspective. That horse has well and truly left the stable. I’m covering the graffiti angle, gauging public outcry. I’ve been photographing the sites across the city. Do you have a comment on the words left on the wall in High School Wynd, near the junction with Cowgate?’ Lance asked.

‘I’ve got more pressing things to worry about than graffiti, Mr Proudfoot. Call the city council if you want something done about that,’ Callanach said.

‘Really? Only I took your call to me as a sign of desperation.’ Callanach had no response to that, other than to remind himself why he usually avoided private conversations with journalists. The experience most often resembled wrestling a snake. Had Proudfoot not been made a part of it by virtue of the emailed photos, Callanach would never have made the call. ‘I was on my way to photograph the High School Wynd graffiti when your boss called that last press conference. I went there afterwards, and what I found is deeply confusing. Concerning even. And I think it might just turn out to be important. Meet me there? I want to see what you make of it,’ Lance said.

‘Just tell me what—’ but the dead line tone was already an indication of how useless finishing the sentence would be. Callanach looked at his watch. He could be there in a few minutes and wouldn’t lose more than half an hour, and although he didn’t want to admit it, he was curious. Against his better judgement, he went to find Lance Proudfoot.

Callanach hadn’t thought about the address before he’d left, but it made sense now. High School Wynd was the short stretch of road from which you entered the mortuary car park. Cowgate ran through a stretch of the old city, from Grassmarket to Holyrood, and housed those historically uncomfortable bedfellows – extraordinary wealth and extreme poverty. The wall there had become one of the many sites of an ever-expanding canvas of graffitied social commentary since the killings began.

As he approached, an ancient, battered motorcycle pulled up beside him and the driver dismounted. He tugged off a helmet that looked held together more by stickers than substance, and greeted Callanach with an unexpectedly friendly slap on the shoulder.

‘You came,’ Lance said. ‘I’ve got to say, I wasn’t entirely expecting that. Quite refreshing to meet an open-minded copper.’

‘Truth is, I can combine this with a visit back to The Meadows. Also, it’s a first and final act of tolerance. I generally dislike people who try to win mystery points by putting the phone down while I’m speaking,’ Callanach said, staring with something that felt rather like envy at the old BSA Bantam. He hadn’t been on a bike in years. Suddenly, it looked and sounded like the definition of freedom.