Helen Fields - Perfect Prey

‘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.