by Helen Fields
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.
Chapter Twelve
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.
‘I don’t think so,’ Salter addressed Callanach directly. ‘His wife told us he’d been looking forward to that. It would have been on his mind all day. I don’t believe he was ready to leave when he went towards the door.’
Salter rewound the CCTV footage again and hit play.
‘You see here, sir,’ she said, pointing at Michael Swan’s face as he turned mid-walk. ‘He hears something or is distracted by something. We know then he picks up his keys and goes towards the front door. I reckon he opened the door for someone else to come in. Not for him to get out. That’s why he hadn’t picked up the invitation yet.’
Callanach watched the footage one more time, then looked back at Salter.
‘Remind me again why you missed the last round of sergeant exams, DC Salter,’ he said.
‘I was on honeymoon, sir,’ Salter said.
‘Make sure you’re available to take them next time. That’s an order,’ Callanach said.
‘I might b
e too busy in six months’ time,’ Salter said. ‘I could get talent-spotted by a Hollywood agency or appear on Masterchef and end up opening my own restaurant.’
‘I doubt that,’ Callanach said. ‘I’ve tasted your toasted sandwiches. Seriously. You’d have passed the exams at the last sitting. Don’t let it wait.’
‘Detective Inspector,’ Ailsa Lambert shouted from the doorway. ‘You only have me for another few minutes. There are reports of an incident across the city. My team will hold the scene for me briefly, but it’s now or never. I’ve a full day ahead.’
They walked down into the basement, hastily donning white crime scene overalls, shoe covers and gloves. The scene was entirely different to the snapshot Callanach had of it from when he’d fallen. The area was now lit from all angles. Michael Swan’s body had, of course, been taken down but he was still suspended there in Callanach’s mind.
‘Two questions,’Callanach said. ‘How did the killer get Mr Swan to come down here, and how did they get him into position hanging from the overhead metal beams?’
‘If he let the killer into the building voluntarily,’ Salter said, ‘it must either have been someone he recognised or someone who seemed non-threatening.’
‘Okay, assuming either case, once in the building they persuaded him to open the basement and come inside.’
‘Easy enough if they were armed,’ Ailsa noted, pulling a thick wad of A4 photos from a folder. ‘Showing a knife or a gun would have the desired effect. Getting the man seven feet into the air makes less sense. The killer would have had to put down their weapon. No way of tying these knots without two hands.’ Ailsa paused to point out close-ups of the knots. Both were tied in the same way, one binding the hands, one binding the ankles, then another rope had been passed through the ankle knot, through the hand knot and looped around his neck.
‘What damage did the rope around his neck do?’ Callanach asked.
‘Very little in real terms, and it certainly wasn’t strangulation that killed him. The rope would have been useful to keep him still whilst his face was skinned. Of course, he’d have been on his back whilst that was being done. Other than that, once he was hoisted up to the ceiling, it simply held his head in place until he was found. There’s virtually no internal damage to the neck or throat area, only external bruising and chafing of the skin.’
Callanach moved to stand in the area where he’d fallen, directly below the space that Michael Swan’s face had filled.
‘So he stood still whilst his hands and feet were tied. The killer at that point holding no weapon. Mr Swan is then restrained by the additional rope fed from ankles to neck, and is laid on his back and skinned whilst still conscious.’
‘No drugs in his system, no blow to the head. I’m as sure as I can be that he was conscious when it started. I would guess he blacked out from shock and pain at some point, but he might well have come round again prior to blood loss stopping his heart and starving his brain of oxygen.’
‘So he must have been hoisted up,’ Callanach said.
Ailsa handed him a different photograph. This one showed Michael Swan in his final position, tied to the metal structural supports that ran across the ceiling, and facing down towards the floor. Somehow the photographer had managed to get high enough to capture the scene from parallel with the body. The image was ghoulish and dizzying.
‘So the end of the rope that ran the length of his body was then slung over the metal beams that ran perpendicular to the corpse, formed a final loop by passing back through the ankle knot to get his legs off the floor, and tied off at ground level at the base of the bookshelf.’ Callanach pointed to an old metal bookstand that must have weighed tons given the amount of paper on it. ‘Easily enough ballast to have stopped his body from crashing down. How much did Michael Swan weigh, Ailsa?’ Callanach asked.
‘A fraction under eleven stone. He was fairly slim so that would’ve helped. Still a lot of weight to lift that high though,’ she said.
‘Not necessarily,’ Callanach mused. ‘If the killer attached a weight to the free end of the rope it would have worked like a pulley system, the hanging weight hoisting the body up using gravity and thereby reducing the amount of pulling force required to lift him. Any reasonably fit adult would have been able to haul him up. It’s clever.’
Ailsa pulled her mobile out and tutted.
‘I’ve got to go. All I would add is that Mr Swan was pulled up there immediately upon the cut to the facial skin being completed. His legs were slightly higher than his head, helping the continued bleed from the facial wound. That’s why there was so much blood on the floor directly below the face. Keep that copy of the photos for reference.’ She handed them over as her phone beeped repeatedly. Ailsa swiped at the screen. ‘God knows what’s going on, I’ve got a hundred messages a minute coming into my phone.’
‘Thanks Ailsa,’ Callanach muttered, staring hard at the photos of Michael Swan’s face. The pathologist was nearly at the door when Callanach called back to her. ‘Ailsa! Is it possible that the killer cut round the edge of his facial skin, then hoisted him up to the ceiling, climbed on a chair or desk then pulled the skin flap down when he was already suspended?’
Ailsa stood still a moment. ‘Entirely possible,’ she said eventually. ‘It would explain the relative lack of blood on his clothes and the rest of his body. Unfortunately it also probably means that he was conscious after the cut and before being hauled up there. He might well not have passed out by that stage.’
‘Meaning Mr Swan might have watched his own blood pouring onto the floor, suspended there, waiting for death?’ Salter asked.
‘Whoever committed this crime is evil, and that’s not a word I use lightly. I think you should assume the very worst. If nothing else, it will give you more incentive than ever to catch the perpetrator,’ Ailsa said.
‘I think that image is rather more incentive than I need to do my job properly,’ Salter said as Ailsa left quietly.
Chapter Thirteen
Callanach’s phone buzzed, displaying a number he didn’t recognise. Sending the call to voicemail, he walked slowly around the basement, getting a feel for how the killer and Michael Swan would have moved around and how complex it would have been to set up such an elaborate tableau. That was how it felt. As if the killer had been creating something akin to an art installation. Of the sickest mind and most foul imagination, but an installation it was. And about as far from an impulsive killing as it was possible to get.
Even with the bright crime scene investigation lighting it was hard to see clearly beneath the book shelves, between the stacked boxes and unused piled-up furniture at the sides of the room. Callanach set his mobile to torch and flashed it down at floor level as he crawled stiffly along, wincing at the pain in his lower back. It was always possible that the scalpel had been dropped and not yet spotted or that some tiny object had spilled out of the killer’s pocket whilst taking out gloves or a knife. The basement was a galaxy of DNA, passed across from chairs once sat in, books borrowed, shoes that had traipsed in and out over more than a century. The chances of the forensic team being able to isolate any evidence relating to the killer’s identity were lottery-worthy, which might well have been part of the attraction of the kill-site.
Salter looked washed out. The edge of her hairline was visibly damp and she was half covering her mouth with one hand. None of them were immune to the shock of such barbarity, no matter how long they’d been on the job.
Callanach stood up, suddenly feeling ridiculous for thinking he could magic evidence out of thin air. He took another look at Salter who didn’t seem to be recovering and pointed towards an old chair pushed against the wall.
‘Take a seat for a minute,’ he said. ‘Begbie’s out for the foreseeable future and I’m injured. I’m not prepared to take any more risks with my squad members.’ Salter plodded towards the chair, breathing hard. Callanach knew the sound of someone trying not to throw up when he heard it. His phone began buzzing in
his pocket again.
‘Sir,’ Salter said.
‘Unrecognised caller again. Who the hell got hold of my mobile number? Those idiots on switchboard need—’
‘Sir!’ Salter repeated, pointing towards the wall.
Callanach looked up. His DC was pointing at an old corkboard that had been leaned against it. It contained ageing posters about library fun days, an advert for a meet the author event, some personal notices – people selling, buying, offering services – and, near the top, a photo. Nothing dramatic, just a woman walking towards the car in her driveway. Callanach disconnected the phone call and stepped closer to the photograph to pick out the detail. He sighed as he realised he recognised the tan-coloured bungalow with the wrought-iron front gate, and the woman in her sixties, face slightly obscured as her grey hair flew sideways in the breeze.
‘Michael Swan’s widow,’ Salter whispered.
‘Taken when she had no idea she was being watched. The killer knew the address, knew who his wife was, who knows what else,’ Callanach said. ‘Pinned there as a reminder to the victim throughout his ordeal. I guess it’s not hard to imagine why he didn’t fight.’
‘He had children and grandchildren,’ Salter said. ‘The killer would have known that too, if they’d done any research. How could anyone do that? Not just kill, but literally deface a man.’
‘Mrs Swan had no idea she was being watched,’ Callanach repeated, peering closer at the photograph. ‘That’s what makes it so scary. The killer could have been there hours, or watching for days. Get it logged as evidence, then have a copy taken. I need you to go directly to Mrs Swan’s house. If she can tell us when it was taken, maybe we can understand how long this was going on.’ Salter’s phone rang. She answered the call and walked a few steps away to talk, as Callanach proceeded to the exit to strip off his suit.
As soon as his feet hit the pavement, Callanach’s mobile began to ring too.
‘Yes,’ Callanach snapped.
