by Helen Fields
‘Really? Only I took your call to me as a sign of desperation.’ Callanach had no response to that, other than to remind himself why he usually avoided private conversations with journalists. The experience most often resembled wrestling a snake. Had Proudfoot not been made a part of it by virtue of the emailed photos, Callanach would never have made the call. ‘I was on my way to photograph the High School Wynd graffiti when your boss called that last press conference. I went there afterwards, and what I found is deeply confusing. Concerning even. And I think it might just turn out to be important. Meet me there? I want to see what you make of it,’ Lance said.
‘Just tell me what—’ but the dead line tone was already an indication of how useless finishing the sentence would be. Callanach looked at his watch. He could be there in a few minutes and wouldn’t lose more than half an hour, and although he didn’t want to admit it, he was curious. Against his better judgement, he went to find Lance Proudfoot.
Callanach hadn’t thought about the address before he’d left, but it made sense now. High School Wynd was the short stretch of road from which you entered the mortuary car park. Cowgate ran through a stretch of the old city, from Grassmarket to Holyrood, and housed those historically uncomfortable bedfellows – extraordinary wealth and extreme poverty. The wall there had become one of the many sites of an ever-expanding canvas of graffitied social commentary since the killings began.
As he approached, an ancient, battered motorcycle pulled up beside him and the driver dismounted. He tugged off a helmet that looked held together more by stickers than substance, and greeted Callanach with an unexpectedly friendly slap on the shoulder.
‘You came,’ Lance said. ‘I’ve got to say, I wasn’t entirely expecting that. Quite refreshing to meet an open-minded copper.’
‘Truth is, I can combine this with a visit back to The Meadows. Also, it’s a first and final act of tolerance. I generally dislike people who try to win mystery points by putting the phone down while I’m speaking,’ Callanach said, staring with something that felt rather like envy at the old BSA Bantam. He hadn’t been on a bike in years. Suddenly, it looked and sounded like the definition of freedom.
‘Then let me show you why I’ve got you here, and you can leave me feeling like a prize idiot when I turn out to be wrong. What do you see?’ Lance asked, pointing at the middle of the rainbow of outraged comments.
‘Really?’ Callanach asked.
‘Ach, come on man, will you not engage in conversation? All right then. You see that blue spray paint to the left of the main section?’
Callanach could see it all right. The latest in a string of horrified bystanders expressing their disbelief at the victims falling prey to such brutality. ‘A PRIMARY SCHOOL TEACHER!’ the capital letters screamed. It was much like all the other graffiti adorning the brickwork in the city – simple, brief, outraged. And directly across the road from where the victims ended up. Appropriate.
‘What about it?’ Callanach asked.
‘I left the press briefing before the rest of the media crowd. There might have been one or two people ahead of me, but that was all. Then I came straight here to get a couple of photos for today’s blog. I had the piece nearly finished. When I got back to the office to publish it, I noticed that comment.’
Callanach’s brain was struggling with the day’s overload, but even he was starting to feel the disjointedness.
‘The graffiti was already here,’ Lance emphasised. ‘And to the best of my knowledge, no one in that room knew the dead girl was a teacher, let alone what grade. A scout leader yes, you could just about make out the uniform in those god-awful stills we were sent, but that was it. So I looked again, double-checking, and noticed this.’ Lance took a couple of further steps forward, pointing up at the wall. ‘Here, here and here. No fewer than three different places where other people have sprayed or painted over the top of the words teacher, primary and the exclamation mark.’
‘It was there before the press conference,’ Callanach said, drawing out his mobile and readying his camera.
‘I might be mistaken,’ Lance continued, ‘but looking at the stuff written over the top, I’d say it appeared quite some time before that lassie put on her uniform to go to her scout meeting yesterday.’ Callanach looked at the evidence for that. The journalist was right. The paint over the top was from different contributors, left at different times, and some of the graffiti appeared weather-worn. ‘So have you got a comment for me now, Detective Inspector?’ Lance asked.
‘I have a question,’ Callanach said. ‘What’s it going to take for you to keep this quiet?’
Lance stared at him. ‘Something’s not right, is it?’ he asked.
Callanach shook his head. It made no sense. If the killer was announcing their next target for attention, or to create a sense of fear in the community, then why not do so more publicly? Had the journalist not worked out what had happened, it would almost certainly have gone unnoticed. And why risk getting caught for the sake of making your mark?
‘I need to close this place off for a while,’ Callanach said. ‘And I need absolutely no one to figure out why. Can you give me that at least?’
‘We’re not all bad, Callanach,’ Lance said. ‘I want this bastard caught just as much as you do. You never know who could be next. Of course I’ll keep it quiet, but could I ask a return favour? Not much, but just something to print. Need to do the whole wolf/door avoidance thing. The only way my blog feed makes money is through advertising and that means readership numbers.’
‘I’ll get you something,’ Callanach promised. ‘I owe you that. Can I ask you to send me your photos of the wall taken earlier, just in case anything’s changed since then? In the meantime, we need to get away from here before anyone realises we’re staring.’ He walked the journalist back to the motorbike and offered his hand. ‘I’m grateful, Mr Proudfoot.’
‘You can call me Lance, Detective Inspector,’ he said, shaking Callanach’s hand warmly. ‘Let’s keep in touch.’
Chapter Fifteen
An hour later the area was coned off while a team of passably believable would-be engineers inspected the pavement and drains along High School Wynd. Officers arrived in unmarked cars and questioned every member of staff at the mortuary about anyone they’d seen taking an interest in the wall. There was CCTV footage around the outside of the mortuary for security purposes but none focusing on that particular area, although any graffiti artists would have had to pass through a section of road covered by cameras. That amounted to hundreds, perhaps thousands, of passers-by, with no means of filtering out persons of interest.
Photographs were taken. The street area below the graffiti was swept for DNA, fibres, and random items, making Callanach feel that they were literally clutching at straws. Notes were made about paint layering to ascertain more about the order in which the markings were made. Then the pseudo-engineers left. Without fuss, without sirens. Hopefully without anyone noticing much at all.
Callanach sent teams to the two other largest known areas of graffiti to photograph and detail the impressions on those walls too. His return to the police station was met with an impatient crowd in the incident room. There were now four distinct areas set up – Thorburn, Lott, Swan and Balcaskie. The teams were overlapping out of necessity. Even Callanach was beginning to forget where one case ended and the next started. More uniformed officers were being shipped in from Glasgow and Aberdeen to keep boots visible on the streets, protect crime scenes and follow up avenues of investigation. As soon as Callanach walked into the briefing room, Ava stood up.
‘Let’s get started,’ she said. Callanach hadn’t really noticed her public school English accent before, but after such close proximity to DCI Edgar, it was more striking. Ava always bemoaned the fact that although she was as Scottish as the lochs themselves, her family had done their best to ruin any chance she had of fitting in by sending her south of the border to school. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and pressed some ke
ys on her laptop. ‘An update,’ Ava announced. ‘Emily Balcaskie was immediately recognised by family and friends when the press released a description this morning of the deceased wearing a scout uniform with a brightly coloured, striped knitted scarf. Her primary school class knitted it for her earlier this year as a well done present for being nominated in a teachers’ association awards tribute. She’s been a teacher for just two years, still lives with her parents in Bonaly to the south-west of the city centre. They were not aware of anyone harassing her or following her. The school reports that she was happy, uncomplaining and, in their words, “had everything to look forward to”. Overall, Miss Balcaskie was confident, outdoorsy and popular. The forensic pathologist has confirmed death by strangulation, using the scarf described. One of Emily’s shoes has been found in The Meadows, not far from the path that leads there from the eastern exit of Valleyfield Street. By the time she left the scout meeting it was dark. All the scout leaders stayed late for a leadership meeting followed by a social event. No one noticed her go. I think it’s safe to assume her attacker followed her into the park and pulled her into the bushes where she was killed. He waited until the area was clear to carry the body, concealed in the sack in which she was found, back to the dumpster.’
Detective Sergeant Lively raised a hand. Callanach hadn’t seen him around much. He’d been posted into Ava’s squad on the Helen Lott murder.
‘You said “he”, ma’am. Do we have any reason to assume that?’
‘Three things,’ Ava said. ‘The strength it would have taken to have strangled Emily with her scarf, given the stretch in the fabric. Her windpipe was completely crushed but there were no fingermarks. The pattern of the knitting was ingrained into her skin. Second, the physical effort of carrying her body back to the dumpster. Emily was five foot six. It would have taken an extreme amount of effort to have moved her dead body. And finally, thank God, we have a witness.’
There was an audible release of breath from the assembled group. Ava waited for silence before continuing.
‘A bulky figure was seen carrying a sack on his shoulder out of the park at around 2 a.m. The figure was dressed in dark, scruffy clothes, wearing a hat, face pointing downwards presumably from the effort of hauling the sack on his back. Best guess on height is six foot three. Large build. The witness assumed it was a homeless person carrying their sleeping bag and possessions, coming out of the park and looking for shelter for the night. He crossed Leven Terrace from The Meadows, entered Valleyfield Street and that’s where the witness lost sight of him. She was just entering her flat further up Leven Terrace after a night out.’
‘So the man wasn’t all that careful not to be seen?’ DS Lively continued. ‘How can we be sure it was him?’
‘Simplest explanation, Detective Sergeant. Unless there were two men hauling sacks that size along the same route at that time of night. Time of death is estimated to have been about 11 p.m., meaning her killer remained concealed in the bushes for a number of hours before braving the street. I think that counts as being careful not to be seen,’ Ava finished.
Lively was playing devil’s advocate with his usual charm and sensitivity. Ava turned away from him, flicked onto a map of the roads surrounding Valleyfield Street and began allocating door-to-door checks.
Callanach slipped out. He felt as if the reality of the situation was slipping away from them. Ailsa’s warning that two of the deaths might have been caused by blades forged in the same batch was pinballing around his brain. Photos and autopsy reports were being leaked to the press and the resulting investigations had drawn nothing but blanks. No two deaths were the same. Police Scotland resources were being pushed to the absolute limits.
Not just closing, but locking his door, Callanach barricaded himself inside his office and switched on his laptop.
‘Too many deaths,’ he said to the blank screen as it fired up. ‘That’s not a coincidence. It’s a campaign.’
He chose a search engine and typed in Emily Balcaskie’s name. Inevitably, the first couple of pages were flooded with the reporting of her death, but Callanach found what he’d been looking for on page three. Here there were personal details. Her graduation results listed in a standard university page. An article relating to her father, a wealthy banker, in which Emily was mentioned, accompanied by a photograph in the society pages of some magazine. Finally he found a link to a video posted by the school where Emily had worked. Callanach clicked play and waited.
The video was a rough recording of a television interview. The shot was framed to show Emily in the midst of her classroom surrounded by cherubic faces, some tugging at her sleeves or peeking out from behind her, grins alight with the overwhelming excitement of having a camera present.
‘I’m amazed,’ Emily said, her eyes shining under the portable lights, ‘and so honoured that my pupils wrote the letter nominating me for the Teacher Awards.’
‘And we’re told they have one more surprise for you,’ the off-screen interviewer said. ‘Something they’ve made themselves.’
A boy and a girl, aged six or seven, appeared in shot holding up the scarf. From the look on Emily’s face, they might just as well have been handing her a winning lottery ticket. Her eyes filled with tears, exactly as the interviewer had presumably been hoping they would, Callanach thought. She gave each child a hug before wrapping the scarf repeatedly around her neck and proclaiming that she would wear it every single day.
Callanach pressed pause. Emily Balcaskie had been cruelly robbed of her life. Above and beyond that, the children who so obviously adored her would never be able to fathom how the world could be such a barbaric place. The killer couldn’t have chosen a more archetypally perfect human being.
Returning to the search engine, Callanach cleared the box and typed in ‘Michael Swan’. This time, he found what he’d been looking for much sooner, in the form of a newspaper article from Edinburgh’s local press.
‘Mr Michael Swan of Craigentinny Ave, Edinburgh, has been nominated in recognition of his many years of support for the city’s child literacy programme. He is a volunteer librarian at the McDonald Road library and a keen golfer. Mr Swan is described in his nomination as one of our community’s finest assets who works tirelessly to improve the prospects of those in our poorest areas.’ A photograph of Michael Swan was included, standing with one arm around his wife, holding up a silver cup at the golf club directly behind his house.
Callanach went back to the search engine, omitted Emily Balcaskie’s name, and simply wrote, ‘Edinburgh primary school teacher’. This time the first article listed was the link to the footage he’d already watched of Emily’s nomination for the Teacher Awards. He was in the process of typing, ‘Edinburgh librarian’ when there was a knock at his office door.
‘Not now,’ Callanach shouted.
‘It’s DC Tripp,’ a voice came back. ‘The superintendent said I should see you, sir.’
‘Fine, come in,’ Callanach shouted, misspelling his search terms and starting again. Tripp tried the door and ended up simply rattling the handle. Callanach marched over to unlock the door.
‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t know it was such a bad time,’ Tripp said.
‘Wait there,’ Callanach barked, racing back to his screen. ‘I’ve fucking got it,’ he said, reading the first entry. It was the article he’d just been reading about Michael Swan and the child literacy programme. ‘Tripp, what was Helen Lott’s job title again? Her nursing specialisation.’
‘Palliative care. Linked to one of the city hospices, I think. I didn’t have much to do with that one. It was about when I got transferred to DCI Edgar’s team. Actually that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about, sir …’
‘Helen Lott was given a long service medal. If you type in her job description and add the word “Edinburgh”, you get a few job adverts and some general information, but the first press piece you get is about her, even without typing in her name.’
Tripp followed where Callanach was po
inting and skim-read down the screen.
‘And the relevance?’ Tripp asked.
‘Same goes for all of them,’ Callanach said, ‘except Sim Thorburn, I haven’t checked him out yet. But there’s prominent, recent media coverage of Lott, Swan and Balcaskie. Easy to find. Enough information for them to be located and stalked. A kid could have done it.’
‘Okay, that’s the how, but it doesn’t explain why they were chosen as targets in the first place,’ Tripp said. ‘Were all the press pieces written by the same writer, same paper?’ Callanach shook his head. ‘Same awards ceremony?’
‘No, but the connection is the victims’ roles in the community. They all do jobs that benefit other people, work that requires a caring attitude. They’re all good people and because of that they’ve each come to the attention of the media. The murders aren’t impulsive. They require a knowledge of each victim’s movements, interests, where they work, where they live. Not one of them has been randomly grabbed off the street, not even Emily Balcaskie. The scarf she was strangled with meant a lot to her. The fact that it was used to kill her was symbolic. It was part of the defilement.’
‘Do you want me to get working on it, sir? Maybe there are more articles that will give us better information …’
‘You’re on loan to DCI Edgar, Tripp. I have no say in it. Even with us short-staffed, the superintendent still wants Scotland Yard to be given whatever assistance they ask for.’
‘The superintendent released me. The cyber crime unit has made enough progress that it was felt you needed me more. They’ve obtained information on an internet security company it’s thought may employ a key suspect. DCI Edgar said that was all the local help they needed, so I’m free to go.’
‘Patronising bastard,’ Callanach muttered, typing furiously on the laptop.
‘I’m not sure I’m allowed to comment on that, sir. He doesn’t seem to have made a lot of friends here though. Except DI Turner. They’ve been disappearing off together almost every evening after work.’
