Читать книгу Perfect Death - Helen Fields - Страница 8

Five months into her promotion, Detective Chief Inspector Ava Turner was still suffering from chronic impostor syndrome. It wasn’t having so many people under her command, or the meetings she was expected to attend, nor the new office. It was simply that she no longer felt able to hang around in the incident room, drinking coffee and dissecting the day’s events, having a bit of a laugh when circumstances allowed it. What she liked even less was the pressure of balancing the public well-being with Police Scotland’s magically shrinking budgets. It felt as if the word ‘no’ had become her go-to response recently. Could they afford another expert for a certain case? No. Could the Major Investigation Team have a few more uniformed officers to help with enquiries? No. Could they trial some new software technology to filter CCTV footage? What the hell do you think the answer to that is? It wasn’t that Ava regretted taking the promotion. It was more that every step up the ladder turned her dreams of doing good and solving crimes into something that felt more like a dripping tap of disappointment.

Whilst her professional life was being lived in an increasingly public space, her private life had taken on a positively desolate quality. The women and men from MIT felt the distance between themselves and their Detective Chief Inspector was too great to invite her for their occasional trips to the pub, and Ava would have felt obliged to make an excuse even if an invitation had been extended. Her peers were too busy with children or spouses to want to socialise after work. The youngest of her rank in her mid-thirties and as yet unmarried, Ava had no such distractions. Her best friend was in the throes of a new relationship hotter than a Carolina Reaper chilli pepper and would be unavailable until either she or her latest girlfriend remembered that the rest of the world was still functioning beyond their bedroom door. The price of success, apparently, was endlessly long evenings. Ava stared at her office phone, knowing better than to want it to ring, understanding that her need to be occupied could only come at someone else’s cost.

Detective Sergeant Lively, in his late fifties and unaware of the concept of political correctness, appeared without knocking. Ava considered reminding him that announcing his intention to enter was commonly considered good manners, but was too pleased to have company to issue any sort of reprimand.

‘Did you find DI Callanach?’ Ava asked.

‘I did. We checked the men’s toilets first. He’s usually to be found not far from a mirror. Surprisingly though in this instance he was out doing some actual detective work, ma’am.’

‘Thanks for that, DS Lively. If you’ve finished your jibes you might like to tell me what case your commanding officer is attending,’ Ava said.

Lively grinned. He and Callanach didn’t have the best of relationships to begin with although more recently they’d settled for casual avoidance and occasional insults. ‘A body’s been found in the hills up at Arthur’s Seat. There’ll have to be an investigation but initial reports are that no foul play was involved. The pathologist has been to the scene. There are no obvious injuries or signs of violence. The body’s been taken for autopsy. Only outstanding matter is identification. Once the victim’s name is ascertained and the family has been informed, looks like it’ll be a straight forward case. Nothing to bother you with, I’m sure.’

‘Even so, would you ask DI Callanach to brief me once he gets back? I’d like to keep up to date with it,’ Ava said. She looked at the mug in DS Lively’s hand. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance that’s for me?’ She smiled.

Lively took a long sip. ‘Sorry ma’am, I’d have made you one, only I know that’s frowned upon these days. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you expected the rank and file to make you coffee. Flies in the face of modern policing, that does.’ He left.

Ava leaned back in her chair, cursing the adrenalin her body had generated at the mention of a new investigation. It was a sick and sad indictment on policing that they should become bored rather than delighted when they had nothing to do, but there it was. It was tragic that a soul had perished up on Arthur’s Seat, and Ava was grateful there was no suggestion of criminal involvement, but she needed something to occupy her other than signing off on the annual MIT dinner.

Some humorist had arranged for it to take place at a French restaurant this year – a sarcastic homage to DI Callanach, she imagined – his half-French half-Scottish ancestry still the butt of as many jokes as when he’d joined Police Scotland from Interpol a year earlier. Even his accent had paled into insignificance compared to the mickey-taking he’d had to endure when his squad had found out about his history as a model. Callanach had the sort of face it was hard not to stare at, and women regularly did. His dark eyes, long eyelashes, strong jaw and olive skin were never destined to fit in with the crowd, a fact Ava found constantly amusing when they socialised. Or when they used to socialise, Ava corrected herself. Since her promotion they’d played an awkward game of saying they really should do something together soon, never defining what or when.

She had one hand on her phone to call Callanach for an update as it rang in her fingers. She snatched it to her ear. ‘Turner,’ she said.

‘Goodness me, could you not answer the phone like that, please? I’d rather not have people contacting the Major Investigation Team feeling as if you’re mid-crisis before they’ve even introduced themselves. We’re not mid-crisis, are we?’ Detective Superintendent Overbeck asked.

‘No, ma’am,’ Ava said. ‘Sorry. I was just about to …’

‘Good, good. I have the shortlisted applicants for the open Detective Inspector position. I thought you should have a chance to look through them before we interview so I’ll email the list to you this afternoon. If you could let me have your thoughts some time tomorrow that would be helpful. You were invited to drinks with the City Fellows this evening but I gather you’re not attending. Why is that?’

‘Oh, that’s this evening? I’ve got a physiotherapist appointment. Didn’t want to take any time off work for it, so I arranged it in the evening. It’ll be another month if I cancel tonight,’ Ava said, glad the Superintendent was quizzing her by phone rather than in person. In spite of years watching other people lie convincingly during interviews, Ava still hadn’t honed that particular skill.

‘Fucking right you shouldn’t take time off work for a quick massage. Too late to change it now I suppose, but in future you need to remember that this is how the game’s played. Don’t miss the next one. And keep the overtime levels low again next month. We’re within budget for once, which means I’m not getting shit from the board. I’d like to keep it that way,’ Overbeck sniped.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Ava said, already talking to a dead line. She dropped Dr Ailsa Lambert, Edinburgh’s Chief Pathologist, an email asking for an update on the body at Arthur’s Seat, then allowed herself the guilty pleasure of checking what films were on at the cinema. She preferred the reruns of old classics that occasionally made the late night showings, but right now she’d settle for anything mindless with a large popcorn. Luck was with her. There was an 11pm showing of Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in The West. Ava had a date with Charles Bronson, which was an improvement on another night home alone, and was close to a lottery win compared with the City Fellows’ drinks party. There was tedious, then there was being called ‘dearie’ by eighty-year-old men who felt entitled to ask you to fetch them another drink just because you happened to be a different gender to them, and who wanted to talk golf handicaps while you stood silently and looked impressed. Detective Superintendent Overbeck might have become adept at playing those promotion inducing games, but Ava was both less tolerant and less ambitious.

Her door opened again and DS Lively reappeared.

‘Would you give me a break?’ Ava sighed. ‘If you’ve come to taunt me about the coffee, can I recommend …’ She caught the look on his face. The usually sour, perpetually hard-done-by grimace was slack but his neck was drawn in tight, his throat working hard but producing no sound. DS Lively was, she realised, doing his damnedest not to cry. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘It’s DCI Begbie,’ Lively said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Ava stood up, knowing what the look on her detective sergeant’s face meant, needing to hear him say the words anyway. ‘Stop apologising, Lively, and just say it.’

‘Ma’am, I’m not sure what happened. His car’s been found. Too late to do anything. The Chief’s dead.’

Ava felt a stab of pain in her chest. She was winded, crushed, the sentiment producing a remarkable physical effect. Her former commanding officer and decades-long friend was gone.