Helen Fields - Perfect Prey

A uniformed officer walked in with a large, overly bright greetings card in one hand and a pen in the other.

‘Did you want to sign the chief’s get well soon card, sir?’

‘Out!’ Callanach shouted, slamming himself back down into his chair. ‘Fuck,’ he yelled, standing straight back up, the pain a firework shooting through his backside. He grabbed the painkillers he’d been preparing to take, threw them into his mouth and chewed them dry. The bitterness was good.

Of all the people Ava could have told about his past, why DCI Edgar? Callanach had never asked her to keep quiet about it, and the bare bones of the story had already reached some ears at the station, but it could have been left to fade into history. Was it possible that she really felt he was pursuing her? They’d seemed to have become friends, spent time together, sometimes with other people, occasionally alone. If Ava felt intimidated by him, how come he’d never sensed that from her?

Salter appeared holding a cup of tea.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘DCI wanted a cuppa. Is he coming back, do you know?’

‘Not into my office, he’s not,’ Callanach said. ‘I’ll take the tea.’

Salter handed it over carefully, taking a few quiet paces over to the wall and picking up pieces of broken stapler from the floor. ‘Er, did you maybe want some biscuits with that?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said, slamming the cup down onto his desk, ‘but thank you,’ he managed. ‘Come on Salter, get someone else to carry on where you’ve left off with the CCTV. You’re coming back to the McDonald Road library with me. And phone Ailsa Lambert, see if she’s got some free time to meet us there. Tell her it’s urgent. I’m sick of waiting. Let’s see if we can’t figure out a bit more about our killer.’

‘All right, sir. Give me five minutes. I’ll drive,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t look to me as if you’ll be up to using the clutch.’

Callanach glared at his laptop screen. He was angry. Fed up with fighting a past he hadn’t asked for and that wouldn’t let go. Perhaps it was finally time to draw some lines under it all. Maybe that’s what it would take to move on. He had a couple of minutes before Salter would be ready. More than enough time to write the one email he’d thought he’d never have the heart to write.

‘ Maman ,’ he began, writing in French, speaking English in his head, forcing himself to move forwards and adopt the country of his birth as the place to build a future. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of emotion as he wrote. There had been too much of that. Too many months of grief and regret. His mother had slowly removed herself from his life as the months passed when he was awaiting trial in Lyon. Finally, with the trial date just days away, she had disappeared. His efforts to contact her had ended in changed mobile numbers and letters returned unopened. There had been no attempt by her to explain her reasons. Her absence alone was enough content for a novel. She had no faith in him. It had been too great a test even for a mother’s love. ‘Mum, It seems you’ve decided to have no more contact with me. I will leave you in peace. Luc.’ He clicked send, shut the laptop, and put on his jacket.

By the time Callanach and Salter reached the McDonald Road library to the north of Edinburgh city centre, Ailsa was outside waiting for them, eyes on her watch.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be at work today,’ she said, greeting Callanach with a pat on the shoulder. ‘Is it sore?’

‘Haven’t noticed it,’ Callanach lied, looking up over the building’s exterior.

‘I do like a bit of creative stoicism,’ Ailsa smiled. ‘I’ll be down in the cellar seeing what sort of shape the crime scene is in. Meet me down there, and don’t be too long about it. My clients may not be able to complain, but I still don’t appreciate keeping them waiting.’

The library was a stunning old three-storey construction, with a round turret on the corner. ‘None of the windows were broken and no locks were forced. The ground level doors were alarmed. So how did the killer get in?’ Callanach asked Salter.

‘Maybe they hid,’ Salter said. ‘Waited until everyone else was out and then reappeared.’

They walked past the police officers still protecting the crime scene, ducked the crime scene tape, and entered. Callanach studied the layout with fresh eyes. Beyond the front door was a foyer with a staircase to the right leading up to community rooms. The door past the stairs led into a large studio area. Straight ahead was the central section of the library. Extraordinarily light, with architectural glass ceilings and tables for reading and working, the main body of the library had notices that proclaimed the watchful eyes of its CCTV system. Callanach called over one of the CSIs working onsite.

‘What’s the last you found of Michael Swan on the CCTV?’ Callanach asked.

‘I can show you,’ she said, opening up a laptop. A fuzzy black and white picture came into view. ‘This is the victim here. He leaves the central library room from the staff area and walks towards the front doors. We’re assuming that was him intending to leave for the night.’

‘Run it back a bit,’ Callanach said. The footage reversed for a couple of seconds at high speed and Callanach hit the space bar to stop it. ‘Play it from here.’

Michael Swan could be seen from the camera at the rear of the main room walking towards the staff area at the right-hand side of frame. He paused once, turned his head. Walked out of frame, then came straight back, walking out towards the main doors. The latter part was the shot they’d watched initially.

‘He’s not carrying anything,’ Salter said.

‘Actually, if you look carefully you’ll see he has his keys in his hand when he walks back across. That’s what makes it obvious that he’s about to leave,’ the CSI said, sighing as she spoke.

‘How often do you leave work after a whole day with nothing in your hands?’ Salter responded.

‘It’s summer,’ the technician replied, brushing hair out of her eyes and adopting a tone of voice midway between stroppy and defensive. ‘He hardly needs a coat. I don’t see how this is evidentially important.’

Salter clearly had more to say. She looked at Callanach before continuing. It wasn’t like her to get involved in an argument, but he could see she wasn’t done yet.

‘Have you had another member of the library staff show you Mr Swan’s personal effects?’ Salter asked, ignoring the challenge and following her own line of thought.

‘Of course. There’s the usual work paraphernalia, mugs, pens, notes, a book he was in the middle of reading. Some other random personal correspondence. We’ve followed procedure. Everything’s been bagged and tagged.’

‘Could we see it, please?’ Salter asked. The tech called a uniformed officer over, who promptly disappeared then returned with a large clear plastic bag containing several other smaller plastic bags, each containing a single item. Every bag had a label with a unique reference number, time, date and location on it. Callanach and Salter looked through each one.

‘Here,’ Salter said, holding up one particular bag with a thick piece of card, bearing gold leaf edging and italic printing. Michael Swan’s name was written in pride of place. Salter read it out. ‘“You are hereby invited to attend Edinburgh City’s Community Achievement Awards.” This was being held the morning after his death. And it says very clearly that the invitation must be produced at the door for entry.’

The tech officer had stopped looking stroppy and was fiddling with her laptop instead.

‘So he forgot it,’ she snapped.