by Helen Fields
Chapter Four
Callanach sat with an expressionless video editor, and tried to avoid the pile of newspapers that some helpful person had left on his desk. What he needed to do was sift through the footage from four different cameras and see if anything recorded might resemble a lead. Thankfully the timelines were such that the job, initially at least, was a limited one.
The first two tapes were from static cameras, no operators. They both covered the front areas of the crowd, and the place where Sim Thorburn had been standing was a distant blur. The remaining footage was more difficult to navigate. One camera operator had been moving around on the stage, intermittently filming the band and looking out at the crowd. The second camera operator had been on a cherry picker crane to give more dynamic angles. It was painfully slow to sit through, but finally the first glimpse of the thankfully tall Niek De Vries emerged amidst the masses.
‘Stop it there,’ Callanach said, leaning forward and peering hard at the screen. ‘That area, can you make the section larger?’
The editor pressed a few keys and leaned back, hands behind his head.
‘Is that it?’ Callanach asked. ‘It’s too blurry.’
‘Yeah, you know that stuff in films where they can suddenly zoom in and it all goes super-sharp and you can see inside people’s pockets and read what’s written on a note? That’s all bollocks,’ the editor said. ‘There’s one picture, it consists of a certain number of dots. You can see closer but then it gets less sharp. If I had a pound for every time I’ve had to explain that.’
‘Zoom back out then, left a bit,’ Callanach said. ‘That’s Sim,’ he said. ‘Play it from there.’
As the screen came to life, Callanach could see Sim bouncing up and down, in and out of the line of sight. It was sketchy, but unmistakably the victim. He was bare-chested, like many of the men in the crowd, having presumably shed his T-shirt in the heat of the sun and the crowd. Sim was singing along, one arm in the air pumping in time to the music. He looked relaxed and happy. Behind him and slightly to the right stood Merel De Vries.
‘He has absolutely no idea what’s coming,’ Callanach said to himself. The camera began to shift to the right, and Sim’s face edged towards the far side of the screen. ‘No,’ Callanach shouted. ‘It’s just about to happen. Freeze the frame or something.’ The editor tapped the space bar. Callanach searched the picture but found nothing new. ‘Let it play,’ he said. Another tap and away slid Sim’s face, about to shift fully out of frame as he seemed to bump into the body of someone passing in front of him. ‘Stop! Right there. That’s it.’
Callanach’s mind filled in the blanks. The subtle shift of a body through the crowd, slipping the knife out of a pocket, pulling off the sheath, sliding the razor-sharp blade along Sim’s naked stomach as they passed, ready with a cloth to clean up and avoid bloodying anyone else. Slipping quietly away before the victim had hit the floor. They would have moved in a zigzag through the crowd. Taking a straight course through the masses, directly out of the area, would have been too obvious.
‘Play it back again,’ Callanach ordered. On a second view, it was clearer that Sim’s head hadn’t even turned. There had been no distraction, no conversation, no recognition. Had there not been the movement of a few blurred pixels, dark in colour, vague in shape, passing just in front of the lower half of Sim’s face before he’d fallen, it might have been murder by ghost. ‘You’re going to tell me we can’t improve that section of the picture, aren’t you?’ The editor simply raised one eyebrow. ‘I need the best quality print-off you can get of all the frames when his face and that blur are in sight.’
Tripp entered, holding a document that he was reading as he walked.
‘Forensics, sir. Just came through by email. Nothing on it.’
‘What do you mean nothing?’ Callanach asked.
‘Only what you already found out at the autopsy. Victim had no drugs in his system, trace amounts of alcohol. Healthy, no previous injuries except what looks like a childhood broken leg. He was clean. Cause of death as you’d expect,’ Tripp said.
‘Any new information since the press conference?’ Callanach asked.
Tripp looked edgy. ‘You’ve not heard, sir? You turned your mobile off again, then, did you?’ Callanach’s hand went to his pocket and came out again clutching a black screen. ‘Someone started a media site, people have been uploading every bit of festival footage from their phones. There are thousands of hours to view. Other than that, no useful leads. Then there’s the public outcry. I think DCI Begbie may have barricaded himself into his office. Media relations have been trying to get hold of you. Some journalist wants an interview.’
‘Do you think it will help?’
‘Not my call, sir. But I think one of the papers dubbed you Police Scotland’s answer to Brad Pitt, so maybe you won’t want to …’ Tripp’s voice faded out.
‘That’ll be all, thank you Tripp. Is the DCI available?’
‘He said only for people with good news,’ was Tripp’s parting reply.
‘Seems like we’re all going to have a disappointing day then,’ Callanach muttered.
He walked into Begbie’s office to find the Chief handing a bundle of files to a plain-clothes officer he hadn’t seen before.
Begbie pointed to a seat which Callanach decided not to bother taking.
‘No idea how long we’ll be here, I’m afraid,’ the plain-clothes officer continued, ignoring Callanach’s presence. ‘Obviously we’ll be working with your regional squad. We may also need a few of your men for on-the-ground inquiries.’
‘I’m afraid that as of yesterday all my lot are taken,’ Begbie growled, eyes closed. ‘Unless Callanach here has some unexpected news for me.’ Callanach stared out of the window. ‘Well then, you can have what office space you need, all the facilities, local knowledge to your heart’s content. Manpower is your problem.’
The officer made a non-committal noise, which Begbie ignored as he flicked the switch on the small kettle he kept in his room, presumably to minimise the need to walk the few yards along the corridor to make tea. Callanach took the opportunity to study the newcomer. The accent was recognisable as upper-class English, and the corresponding attitude was clear from the tone of his voice plus the slight upward angle at which he held his head.
‘Right, I’ll be getting along then. We’ll review our requirements and revisit the manpower issue at a later date, DCI Begbie.’ He left without a thank you, not quite bothering to ensure the door was shut. Callanach finished the job for him.
‘Anything I should know about, sir?’ Callanach asked.
‘Not today,’ Begbie muttered. ‘Got a suspect yet?’
‘Dark hair. Short, slight build, but that’s a guess as the crowd wasn’t disturbed by the murderer passing through. Could be male or female. My best description would be something along the lines of Professional Grade Murderer.’
‘Thank you Detective Inspector, be sure never to repeat those words in front of another living being. DI Turner is currently in her office trying to organise an investigation into a man she has, much like yourself, already named inappropriately. You may have a Professional Grade Murderer on your hands; Turner has The Crusher. Almost certainly male, heavy, strong, brutal and a raving psychopath if the autopsy details are anything to go by.’
‘Two in one night? Isn’t that unusual for this area?’
‘Unusual? It’s a disaster of monumental proportions, is what it is! Do you know what the headlines said this morning?’ Callanach still hadn’t braved the papers. ‘No? Well, let me halve my burden by sharing it with you. “Not safe on the streets, not safe in our homes. Edinburgh’s Night of Monstrosities”. Not catchy but pretty bloody appropriate, don’t you think?’ Begbie threw himself into the chair behind his desk so hard that it skidded backwards half a metre. ‘And I don’t have the money in the budget to pay for any overtime for the remainder of the year! Do something about it, man. I’ve got two bodies in the morgue and I daren
’t so much as answer the phone.’
Callanach didn’t wait to have Begbie vent any further. It sounded as if Ava was having an even worse day than him. He wandered in the direction of her office for some mutual bemoaning of fates, not bothering to knock. As he opened the door there was a sudden parting of bodies, Ava stepping quickly backwards and banging her hip on the corner of her desk, the man she was with looking more annoyed than embarrassed to have been interrupted. Callanach recognised him as the plain-clothes officer who had recently departed the Chief’s office.
‘Begbie didn’t introduce us. Seems he’s having rather a busy day. I’m DCI Edgar,’ he said.
‘Callanach,’ he replied, holding out his hand and shaking the detective chief inspector’s. ‘I interrupted. Apologies.’
‘No, you didn’t. What was it, Luc?’ Ava asked, brushing hair away from her face.
‘Thought I’d just see how you’re doing. The Chief said you’ve picked up a rough one.’
‘That’s the best kind, isn’t it?’ Edgar chipped in.
Ava made her way to the other side of her desk and sat down.
‘Joseph’s here from the National Cyber Crime Unit in London. An attack is imminent and there’s intelligence that it’s being organised from Edinburgh.’
‘Probably best to limit the spread of the information, Ava. I gather Callanach has matters of his own to worry about.’
‘I do,’ Callanach said, ‘so I’ll catch you later. Good to meet you.’ He closed Ava’s door, grimacing, and wiping the palm of his right hand on his trousers as he went.
Chapter Five
‘Some bastard leaked the autopsy summary!’ Ava yelled, slamming Callanach’s door and throwing herself into a chair. ‘Which means either someone in Ailsa’s office or a police officer here is responsible, as if this wasn’t bad enough already.’
‘Have you slept?’ Callanach asked.
‘Listen to this.’ Ava ignored his question, tearing open the newspaper she was clutching and beginning to read. ‘“Helen Lott, a forty-six year old palliative care nurse, was deliberately crushed to death in her own bedroom.” Of all the monsters I’ve ever dealt with, who would want to kill a nurse who looks after terminally ill patients? “Injuries included multiple fractured ribs and sternum, a collapsed windpipe and severe damage to internal organs, resulting in internal bleeding and asphyxiation. A neighbour alerted police after loud noises were heard coming from the property late at night. The autopsy report suggests that the murder was torturous and orchestrated to cause as much pain to the victim as possible. Mrs Lott will be sadly missed by work colleagues and patients alike, who have described her as nothing short of an angel who had dedicated her life to nursing.” Did you know there’s graffiti about the murders emerging on walls across the city? God only knows who started that off. And we’ve just been notified that concerned citizens are planning a Take-Back-The-Night-style protest march. Like we don’t have enough policing to do already. What the fuck is going on?’
‘Have you reported the leak?’ Callanach asked.
‘Of course I have. We’ve got two officers interviewing anyone with access to the information at the city mortuary, and a member of our technical services team is checking the digital route the document took from there to us to make sure the breach didn’t come from Police Scotland’s end. On top of that, all the usual media outlets have been contacted to see if anyone approached them offering the article for money. No joy there so far. Why is the first thing that happens always the last thing you need?’ Ava huffed.
‘You want coffee?’ he asked.
Ava shook her head. ‘Sorry about yesterday. With Joe. It was …’ her voice dwindled.
‘None of my business,’ Callanach said.
‘Joe and I were friends at University. He phoned me a few weeks ago to say he was likely to be posted here. You know how sometimes you just pick things up where you left them as if no time had passed at all …’
‘Forget it. You want to get something to eat on the way home? If I don’t get a shower soon my clothes are going to sue me for hygiene abuse.’
Ava looked down at her hands.
‘It’s fine,’ Callanach said, Ava’s unspoken plans hanging in the air between them. ‘I’ll catch you tomorrow. And don’t worry about the papers. New story every day, remember?’
That turned out to be good advice. In spite of the endless coverage afforded by two murders in one night, the media headlines the next day focused on an altogether different target.
The largest incident room was taken up with an array of well-dressed plain-clothes officers, freshly washed and scrubbed, who obviously had not been up all night watching endless mobile phone footage and scanning photos with no results.
‘Something happen overnight?’ Callanach asked Sergeant Lively as he passed by.
‘Fuckin’ snobby idiots strutting around, acting like they own the place. Hunting a bunch of nerds no one in their right mind gives a damn about. Makes you look almost like a frigging native.’
‘Look almost like a frigging native, sir,’ Callanach reminded him. Lively sniggered.
‘Aye, whatever.’ Lively wandered off, stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. Callanach and he hadn’t hit it off since day one. A long-in-the-tooth sergeant with decades in the job, Lively had his own preferred candidate pegged to fill the role of Detective Inspector when Callanach had transferred in. It was a fair assumption that Lively had overseen a campaign of piss-taking posters and nasty rumours that had undermined Callanach until he nailed his first case with Police Scotland. He and the detective sergeant had finally progressed from coming close to blows, to tolerating one another, although the verbal abuse hadn’t stopped. At least the influx of Scotland Yard’s finest had provided a favourable comparison.
Callanach’s phone was ringing as he reached his office. He took the call as he threw his jacket onto the desk. It was too hot for any sane person to be wearing more than shorts and a T-shirt. Shirts and ties were one of the drawbacks of promotion.
‘Callanach,’ he said.
‘DI Callanach, I’ve left several messages for you,’ was the opening line. ‘This is Lance Proudfoot. I’m the editor of an online news and current affairs blog. I was hoping to get a statement about the festival murder.’
‘How did you get this number?’ Callanach asked.
‘Switchboard put me through.’
‘That’ll be a career-shortening decision then,’ Callanach said, imagining the conversation he’d be having later with the idiot who had answered the phone. ‘No statements. You had everything we’re giving out at the press conference.’
‘To be fair to the young lady on your switchboard, I may have given the impression that I was a family member,’ Lance said. Callanach sighed. ‘And your media office occasionally forgets to invite the online press to your conferences, hence the need for a certain level of … inventiveness about sourcing information.’
‘I’m not sure you and I are equally content to supplement the word inventiveness for the term lying, Mr Proudfoot. And I’m afraid I have to get on with some work,’ Callanach said.
‘So you can’t comment on last night’s hacking scandal either then? Only I heard that Scotland Yard had sent a crack team of investigators to Edinburgh.’ The last phrase was heavily laced with sarcasm. It was all Callanach could do to stop himself agreeing. Instead, he opened a news site on his mobile and scanned the headline. A group calling themselves The Unsung had hacked into the accounts of various bankers and investors recently awarded some jaw-dropping bonuses, and transferred the funds. ‘Brilliant bit of anti-establishmentarianism,’ Lance continued.
‘Looks like plain old theft to me,’ Callanach replied.
‘I beg to differ. The hackers transferred the funds into the accounts of several good causes, anything from children’s hospices to animal shelters. Only took twenty-five per cent of each bonus, too, so they weren’t even greedy about it. They were just making a point about the obscenity of t
he highest paid compared to the desperate underfunding of non-profit-making causes,’ Lance said.
‘Well, it’s not a Major Investigation Team case, I’m afraid, so yet again, no comment,’ Callanach said, itching to put the phone down, only the journalist on the other end was proving remarkably hard to get rid of politely.
‘Ah, so they have called in the cavalry. Doesn’t surprise me at all,’ Lance said. Callanach mentally kicked himself for his indiscretion. ‘Take benefits away from single mums and the disabled and there’s not one politician available for comment. Nick some cash from a load of fat cats and the government mobilises.’
‘It’s still a criminal offence. We don’t get to make judgement calls about the morality of the crimes we investigate,’ Callanach said.
‘You’ve got to admit it was clever though. Now the losers have to report each unauthorised money transfer as a crime, which is how the press gets the details of the offences. Then the so-called victims have to ask for their money back from each charity. What would you do, DI Callanach? Say you got a four million pound bonus on top of already inflated wages, three million is still in your bank account. You going to make a spectacle of yourself and insist that the local war veterans’ society gives you your million back? Named and shamed doesn’t even start to describe how little love the public have for these guys. Quite some stunt, isn’t it?’
Callanach didn’t answer. Quite some stunt indeed. It certainly explained the peacocking going on in the incident room.
‘Anyway, I’m just after one comment on the record,’ Lance continued. ‘The public want to know that their city is safe. Will you not take the opportunity to reassure them?’
‘This is a murder investigation,’ Callanach said. ‘Not a game and not a publicity opportunity. Have some respect.’
‘Listen, I do this because I care about getting news stories out. I don’t work for a paper that’ll edit my words to meet the owner’s political agenda, or to maximise advertising revenue potential. I’m my own boss and I take responsibility for what I write. Do me a favour. Just one line. We’re not all bad, you know.’
