Helen Fields - Perfect Prey

‘Was there something important, detective constable? Only I was hoping to get some sleep for the first time in several days.’

‘Of course, yes. Couldn’t send the files over the internet. No time to securely encode them. Here you go.’ Tripp opened a laptop, and clicked on a folder in which two items sat. As the first played, Callanach could hear the now familiar song that the band had been playing when Sim Thorburn had hit the floor. The footage was taken from a few rows in front of the victim, on a mobile phone whose owner was obviously taking a selfie of herself singing along. For a split second, in the background, a shadow passed across Sim’s face. As the shadow cleared the screen, Sim could be seen slightly out of focus, looking down towards his stomach, his face registering confusion. Then he lurched to one side, out of shot.

‘Is that all?’ Callanach asked. ‘It doesn’t tell us any more about the attacker.’

‘One more piece of footage,’ Tripp said. ‘Top right-hand corner of the screen.’

Tripp pressed play. More mobile footage, this time obviously designed to show the scale of the audience, mobile held high in the air, turning around in a three-sixty loop. After a few seconds, Tripp pressed pause and pointed.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Only in shot for a second, but it’s clearer than in the previous footage.’

Callanach looked more closely. Sim Thorburn was hidden from view, but he could see Merel and Niek De Vries. To the left of them, walking in profile, was an adult with dark brown hair flopping over their face. The attacker was wearing large, dark sunglasses. Tripp let the video play to show the person’s sudden change of direction away from the camera and into the crowd.

‘Male or female?’ Callanach asked.

‘Can’t be sure,’ Tripp replied, closing the lid of the laptop. ‘But not that tall, slim and therefore able to move about relatively unnoticed. Caucasian. Hair could be natural or dyed. Might even be a wig. Clothes didn’t stand out to anyone, so no help there.’

‘Perfect camouflage,’ Callanach said, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes.

‘Could it be someone from one of the homeless shelters, do you think?’ Tripp asked. ‘Sim would have come into contact with plenty of people suffering mental health problems. No one keeping tabs on them, no one to recognise them.’

Callanach shook his head.

‘I wish I believed that, Max,’ he said. ‘Because sooner or later the person you’re describing would get arrested for something else, have a breakdown and confess, get drunk and show someone the knife. This took planning. It needed care and consideration. More than that, it needed nerves of fucking steel. Can you imagine the psyche of a person who can walk through a crowd of thousands, take out a weapon, cut hard and deep and precisely, then not rush away? To walk on slowly through the crowd, certain you’ve done such a good job that you have the time to get out of there, whilst putting the knife out of sight, making sure you don’t emerge from the crowd covered in blood. This person knew how to cut. They may be a psychopath but they’re not mentally ill, not in the way we think of it. This is someone who feels nothing at all. No panic, no fear, no sense of danger. Nothing at all.’

‘How do we catch them then, sir, if they’re that good?’ Tripp asked.

‘You know what, Tripp? I don’t have a fucking clue.’

Begbie’s complexion was waxy and grey. Callanach saw Ava’s expression as they went in for a briefing, and knew she was worried too. Ailsa Lambert joined them seconds later.

‘For Heaven’s sake, what have you been eating, man?’ Ailsa screeched, walking over to the chief and staring closely at his skin, suffering none of Ava and Callanach’s reticence.

‘Don’t start on me, Ailsa,’ Begbie said. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got time to get on the running machine.’

‘You’ve enough time to consume high levels of fats and sugars by the looks of it. How much are you drinking?’

‘Can we not do this in front of my detective inspectors, if you don’t mind? We’ve other matters to discuss,’ Begbie grumbled.

‘You won’t be discussing anything unless you make some changes. The next conversation we’ll be having will take place with you lying motionless on a slab and me speaking into a voice recorder,’ Ailsa said.

‘You’ve had your say. Now would you take a seat?’ Begbie pointed to a chair.

Ailsa mumbled to herself but sat anyway, pulling a tablet out of her bag and tapping it furiously. ‘Morning, you two. Seems like we’ve been here before. Who wants to go first?’ Neither of them had time to answer before she continued, ‘Helen Lott. Crying shame. I know some doctors she’d worked with. Great loss to the city, this one. There aren’t many who can do her job. Vast amount of force used, trauma unlike anything I’ve ever seen deliberately caused. Horrible way to die, she’d have felt all of it. The good news is that we believe we have his DNA.’

Ava muttered what might have been thanks to some unidentified deity, then cut in, ‘Has it been run through the system?’

‘It has. No hits I’m afraid, but we can tell you that it’s from a male Caucasian. At least if you arrest any suspects, we’ll be able to confirm a positive identity. Other than that the crime scene was clean. No fingerprints. Gloves were definitely worn. No hairs that we’ve found,’ Ailsa said.

‘Where was the DNA?’ Ava asked.

‘On her forehead, just at the hairline. There was a droplet of saliva mixed in with a little blood. At some point, he leaned over her face, was obviously overexcited, and dribbled or spat, possibly whilst talking to her or watching her. I suspect he’d bitten his tongue or cheek, hence the blood cells. Definitely wasn’t from the victim and it was fresh, so it was from someone in the room with her as she died.’ The pathologist pulled out duplicate copies of photographs and handed one bundle to Ava and another to Begbie. ‘You can see from the photos that it was a frenzied attack, but I’d say planned in advance. Killer probably lost control in the middle of it. Initially, she received a blow to the face, hard enough to cause her to fall and prevent her from defending herself. Then the chest of drawers was placed on top of her, and I mean placed rather than randomly pushed. It was central to her body, well balanced, stopped her from getting up. The positioning caused maximum damage to her vital organs. Looks as if her ribs broke first, then her sternum was fractured when additional weight was applied. The pressure to her stomach made the poor woman vomit, adding to the asphyxia she was already experiencing from being unable to draw breath into her lungs. She had a variety of other limb fractures, and body-wide contusions. One of the broken ribs pierced her right lung, speeding up death and by then she was probably grateful for it. Her internal organs were fatally damaged at that stage. Internal bleeding was extensive, as you’d expect. She lost control of her bowels pretty much as she died. Just moving the drawers would have taken a tremendous amount of strength. You’re looking for someone very large, possibly who weight trains, works out regularly. Someone who was there for the specific purpose of making his mark.’

‘I’m not sure this one could be much worse,’ Ava said, rubbing a hand over her eyes.

‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Ailsa noted.

‘So no good news at all?’ Begbie asked.

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a pathologist. When I walk through your door, I’m never bringing good news.’

‘I meant in terms of identifying a suspect,’ Begbie said.

‘It’s someone so physically large that they won’t blend into a crowd, if that helps. And he’d have had her blood, and probably vomit on him as he left. He didn’t leave any clothing or gloves at the scene, so somewhere there is very damning evidence. If you’re willing to risk the public response, you can ask if anyone’s husband, son, brother, landlord, whatever, arrived home stinking, exhausted and bloody on the night in question. I guarantee there’s an evidence trail,’ Ailsa finished.