Читать книгу Perfect Prey: The twisty new crime thriller that will keep you up all night - Helen Fields - Страница 8

‘The cut came from a single weapon, but the implement would have been customised by skilled hands,’ Ailsa Lambert said. ‘Two perfectly paired scalpel blades must have been bound together with a spacer between them creating a gap of four millimetres. The combination would have rendered the wound impossible to close or suture, even had he been in hospital when he’d been attacked. The twin incisions are …’ she paused as she picked up a flexible measure, ‘twenty-eight centimetres in length. They have pulled apart substantially, causing a gaping wound resulting in massive trauma. His organs then moved, sliding down and forward, so that much of what should have been in his abdominal cavity exited his body as he fell and rolled. Some of it even has identifiable shoe marks from those around him. Blood loss caused his heart to stop.’

‘I get it,’ Callanach said wearily. ‘Not much doubt over cause of death. Anything else I need to know?’

‘Tox screen will be a while. He has no other visible injuries, seems superficially healthy, his lungs tell me he wasn’t a smoker, good boy,’ she patted the corpse’s hand with her gloved one and smiled grimly. ‘But this weapon, Luc, this weapon wasn’t designed for self-defence. And you can’t pick it up at the hardware store either. Someone crafted it, adored it. The cut was deep, even, and yet very little force seems to have been required to puncture far into the abdominal cavity. Whoever did this took pride in it, thought about efficiency, understood the mechanics of it. This was no impromptu stabbing or weapon grabbed in the heat of an argument.’

‘An assassination then?’ Callanach asked, bending over the body and taking stock.

‘More like a ritual, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘This was dreamed up, practised and perfected.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Between eighteen and twenty-two, I think. Five feet, eleven inches. Active, no spare fat, good muscle mass but not one of those types who live at the gym. Size ten shoe. Brown hair, hazel eyes. No defence wounds. Never saw it coming.’

‘So he didn’t recognise his attacker as a threat when they came for him?’

‘Most unlikely. You don’t look well yourself, Luc. Are you sleeping?’ Ailsa asked as she peeled off her gloves and made notes.

‘I’m sleeping just fine,’ he lied.

‘Eating properly? You’re pale and you have broken blood vessels in your eyes.’

‘I’ll phone you tomorrow for the tox results,’ he evaded. ‘Anything before that and you have my mobile number.’

‘Give my regards to DI Turner, would you? I haven’t seen her for an age. I used to catch up with her mother regularly at an opera appreciation group but I haven’t bumped into her recently either,’ Ailsa said, stretching her back. In her mid-sixties, tiny and birdlike, she was a force to be reckoned with.

‘I’ll pass that on,’ he said, stripping off his own gown and dropping it into the bin outside the door.

On his return to the station, a grim welcome party sat around in the incident room. Callanach looked directly to Detective Constable Tripp.

‘Just following up a lead from a phone call, sir,’ Tripp said. ‘Young woman called in to say she and her boyfriend got separated at the festival. He hasn’t turned up yet. I’ve sent a car to pick her up.’

‘Did she give his name?’ Callanach asked, grabbing coffee as he sat at a computer.

‘Sim Thorburn,’ Tripp replied, pressing a couple of keys and waiting for a photo to load, one step ahead as ever. Some new social networking site popped up in seconds with a multitude of larger than life photos. In each one, the lad was smiling, laughing, his expression carefree and guileless. In the last, he was hand in hand with his girlfriend. Without a doubt, it was the same hand that Ailsa Lambert had been patting a short while ago.

‘That’s him,’ Callanach said. ‘So what do we know?’

‘At the moment, everything that’s on his home page. He didn’t bother with privacy filters, so it’s there for the world to see. He’s twenty-one, Scottish, lives in Edinburgh.’

‘Police record?’

‘Not that we can find.’ A phone rang behind Tripp and someone passed him a note. ‘The girlfriend’s here, sir. And DCI Begbie wants to see you as soon as you’re done.’

‘Of course he does,’ Callanach said, standing up. ‘Do you have any idea where DI Turner is, Tripp? Only Ailsa Lambert was asking after her.’

‘Off duty,’ DC Salter shouted from the corridor. ‘Said something about maybe being in late tomorrow too. Did you want me to get a message to her, sir?’

‘No thanks, Salter,’ Callanach shouted after her. ‘It’s nothing that can’t wait.’ Unlike Sim Thorburn’s girlfriend, no doubt already suspecting the worst but who’d be downstairs holding out for a miracle. She would be imagining some mistake, hoping perhaps that in spite of the evidence, her boyfriend had met some friends and wandered off without telling her. Any number of excuses for his disappearance would be going through her mind. Until she saw Callanach’s face, he thought. People knew the second they looked at you.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as soon as he saw her. Introductions were pointless. She wouldn’t remember Callanach’s name in a few seconds’ time, anyway.

‘You can’t be sure that it’s him yet,’ she whispered. ‘You haven’t even asked me about him.’

‘We found several photos on an internet site of the two of you together.’ He held out an example that Tripp had printed off in anticipation. ‘Is this Sim?’

She sobbed and took a step away from the photo as if the paper itself was a weapon.

‘Have you seen him?’ she asked. Callanach pulled a chair out for her and she sat.

‘I have. I’m sure it’s him.’

‘What … what …’ she couldn’t say the words.

‘He received a knife wound. It proved fatal. It would have been very fast. The ambulance didn’t have time to get to him.’

‘A knife wound? I thought maybe a ruptured appendix or a blood clot or … he was stabbed? It’s not him. No one would do that to Sim.’

‘He wasn’t in any trouble that you knew of? It might be something as simple as a family feud, money problems, someone settling an old score?’

‘Don’t be so stupid!’ the girl snapped. It was an understandable reaction given what she was going through. What she didn’t understand was how cold the trail would get with every passing minute. ‘He was a charity worker. He earned minimum wage and still spent every spare moment doing extra unpaid voluntary service.’

‘Can you tell me more about that?’ Callanach asked.

‘He worked in the homeless shelters, ran the soup kitchens in the city, organised fundraising. Sim was the gentlest, kindest person you could ever meet. He gave away every last penny. It was the only thing we ever argued about.’

‘And you didn’t see anything strange yesterday? No one following him?’

The girl shook her head, shock taking hold. Callanach knew he’d got all he was going to get from her by then. He handed over to Tripp to organise the formal identification of the body and obtain family details. Callanach had to get a lead, and fast. Somewhere, the man or woman who had slaughtered Sim Thorburn had undoubtedly already hidden the weapon and neutralised any incriminating forensic evidence.

‘Salter,’ Callanach shouted on his way towards the incident room. ‘Find out who’s controlling the footage from the concert. I want it available tonight. And try to keep the Chief off my back for a while, would you? I’ve got work to do.’

‘So have I, Detective Inspector,’ DCI Begbie said, appearing in the doorway. Lately he seemed larger every time Callanach saw him. It wasn’t healthy, putting on weight that fast. The Chief hadn’t been exactly slim when Callanach had joined Police Scotland, but now he was working his way towards an early grave, for no apparent reason. ‘Is something wrong, DI Callanach?’ Begbie asked. He realised he’d been staring at Begbie’s straining shirt buttons.

‘No, sir, just distracted.’

‘Frankly, that’s not very reassuring. What leads have we got?’ Callanach tried to find a way to express the completely negative nature of the case so far, and struggled to answer. ‘That good, huh? Well, somebody must have seen something. Thousands of potential witnesses and we’re stuck. Bloody typical. Have media relations organise a press conference. Might as well do it immediately. We can’t have people scared on the streets. There’ll be a rational explanation for this. No one walks up to a complete stranger and slashes them. Get answers, Callanach. I want someone in custody in the next forty-eight hours.’

‘Chief …’

‘Got it. You don’t like doing press conferences. Duly noted.’ Begbie walked off, puffing as he went. Callanach considered following to ask if his boss was all right, then recognised that for the career-ending move it would be and made his way back towards the incident room. He was starving, but the idea of a fish and chip supper being consumed straight from newspaper was making him queasy. There was no prospect of getting home for twelve hours and the healthiest food at the station was probably an out of date packet of crackers abandoned at the back of a cupboard. Callanach was getting his thoughts together to lead a briefing when someone thrust a carrier bag into his hand.

‘Stop looking at everyone else’s food as if they’re eating poison. It’s off-putting. You’re not doing anything to help your reputation for French snobbery,’ DI Ava Turner said, pushing a fork into his free hand. ‘Prawn salad. Not home-made, so you’re safe from my pathetic efforts.’

‘I thought you were off duty and not coming in until late tomorrow. Have you been demoted to the catering division?’

‘You can always hand it back,’ she said, checking her phone and frowning.

‘Too late.’ Callanach ripped open the packaging and tucked in. ‘Ailsa Lambert was asking after you. Do I take it that Edinburgh’s elite social circle is not functioning properly?’ he smiled.

‘How do you tell someone to shut up in French?’ she responded without looking up from her phone. Ava had spent much of her career trying to distance herself from the privilege she was born into. The expectation that she would become a doctor, lawyer, actuary or similar – at least until she settled down and produced grandchildren for her eager parents – had spawned a rebellion landing her in the grimy world of policing. But even at work she couldn’t escape the fact that her family’s closest friends included the upper levels of Police Scotland brass, politicians, CEOs and even the city’s chief forensic pathologist.

DC Salter interrupted, handing over two pages of A4 and checking her watch. ‘DCI Begbie said he knew you were busy so he’s organising the press conference for you.’ Salter was trying not to smile. Turner ruined the effort by laughing out loud. ‘I’ve written out some notes for you, sir. Media will be gathered in about an hour.’

‘Wow. Reduced to using the media circus already? This time tomorrow morning women will be swooning over your face on the front cover of every paper. So Police Scotland’s pin-up detective is getting back out there, is he?’ Ava said. Callanach had been with the Major Investigation Team in Edinburgh for eight months, and in that time Ava had never missed an opportunity to make fun of him. His distant career as a model made him a particularly easy target.

‘It wasn’t my idea,’ Callanach muttered. ‘Merde!’

‘Language,’ Ava admonished.

‘I thought you couldn’t speak French,’ Callanach said.

‘You’ve been mistaking my ignoring you for failing to understand you. It’s a different concept,’ Ava said.

‘Do you not have work to do?’ Callanach asked, shaking his head at her, watching the grin spread across her face. Ava was the sort of woman who left men wrong-footed. She looked innocent enough, her long brown hair a tangle of curls, with grey eyes that shifted colour depending on the light. But she could cut to the chase in a second. Being direct seemed to be the only way she knew. When he’d arrived from France his head had been a mess. Too much had happened for him to walk away unscathed emotionally. The last few months had been curative, and Ava had played a large part in that, mainly because with her he could just be himself.

‘Earth to Callanach,’ Ava said, waving her hand in front of his face. ‘I was only teasing. It’s that bad then? You’ve really got nothing to go on?’

‘Less than nothing,’ Callanach said.

‘DI Turner!’ Begbie shouted from the corridor.

‘I’m off duty, sir,’ Ava shouted back. ‘In fact, I’m not even in the building. You’re imagining me.’

‘Too bad for you I have such an active imagination. Get a squad over to Gilmerton Road. There’s been another murder.’