by Helen Fields
‘Every evening?’ Callanach asked, turning around to look at Tripp.
‘Well, every evening I was still around to notice …’ The computer binged loudly. ‘There you go,’ Tripp said, looking over Callanach’s shoulder. ‘Confirms what you thought.’
Callanach turned his attention back to the screen where a large rainbow graphic was loading with text running down the centre. More blog entry titles were listed on a menu to the left, with links to a Twitter account, Facebook page and Instagram. The writer was tirelessly committed to blogging and campaigning for human rights, charities and social injustice. Callanach scrolled down. At the very bottom of the page was a photograph of the writer. Grinning broadly in what looked like an African village, bare-chested in life as he had been at the point of death, was the author, Sim Thorburn.
‘What did you type in?’ Tripp asked.
‘Charity worker, Edinburgh,’ Callanach said, reaching out for the graffiti photos sitting on his desk. ‘I used exactly the words that were painted on the wall. And the last blog on his page was about the music festival he was due to attend.’
Chapter Sixteen
Ava was at her desk at midnight when Callanach finally got through the queue of people needing her attention. Tripp had already given her the relevant internet searches and graffiti photos. There were bags under her eyes and her clothes were crumpled. Callanach handed her a large bag of salted popcorn from a nearby newsagent, and sat down with a coffee.
‘Why the popcorn?’ she asked, even that failing to bring a smile to her face.
‘I’m guessing all cinema trips for the foreseeable future are cancelled. You must be having withdrawal symptoms by now.’ Ava set it aside unopened. Callanach looked at the baggy sleeves of her shirt and at the way her jawbone and cheekbones were showing in the harsh electric light. ‘You’re losing weight,’ he said.
‘Who’s got time to eat?’ she asked, lining up the graffiti photos along her desk.
‘Are you ill?’ Callanach asked.
‘What I am is busy. Tell me about the photos,’ she said.
Callanach recapped.
‘I’ve already contacted a handwriting expert regarding the graffiti but there’s nothing they can do without an imprint made on paper, plus it’s in capitals and spray painted, so the usual handwriting rules don’t apply. All the paint types are common enough to be found in any DIY store. I think it’s the way the victims are being sourced that’s the link between them,’Callanach said.
‘But it’s not one killer,’ Ava replied. ‘Sim Thorburn was killed by someone short and slight, we know that from the video footage at the festival. The only reliable witness we have in Emily Balcaskie’s case made it clear that we’re dealing with someone taller than average who is heavily built and strong with it. I take it you’re no further forward with the Michael Swan investigation?’
‘Ailsa Lambert suspects that the blade used to kill Thorburn might have been taken from the same batch of blades used to skin Michael Swan’s face. There are similarities in the scoring pattern along one edge of the incisions.’
‘Great,’ Ava pushed the photos away and threw her head back, closing her eyes. ‘So we have either two or three killers. We’re not sure which. But definitely not just one.’
‘Would one be better?’ Callanach asked, taking a sip of coffee.
‘Don’t be flippant,’ Ava said. ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
Callanach took a breath. He wasn’t there to get into conflict with Ava. Everyone was fighting for the same team and yet it seemed as if none of them could pull together to make progress at the moment.
‘Have we got anywhere on the leaking of photos to the press? They must have been taken by the killer. Tracing his phone or computer may be the only direct link we’ll get,’ Callanach said.
‘You know what the police digital technology department is like. We’re always a step behind because we can’t afford to pay the rates available in the private sector. The kids who can crack this stuff don’t want to work for the Government on basic pay structure,’ Ava sighed again. ‘It was an encrypted file routed through multiple machines, outside of the UK. That’s as much as we’re going to get.’
‘That’s not all we’ve got,’ Callanach said. ‘There’s the leaked autopsy report from Helen Lott’s death. That sort of data leak leaves a trail; we just need someone with the right skills to follow it. More importantly, it looks as if one of the graffiti comments referencing a primary school teacher was written prior to Emily Balcaskie’s body being discovered.’
Ava looked confused. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘There were photos taken immediately after her identity was made known at the press conference. There wasn’t time for that graffiti to have been left and then for other people to have painted over the top.’
‘Are you suggesting that having murdered Emily, her killer went straight to some wall and wrote her profession on it? Like some new take on a trophy?’
‘All the evidence is circumstantial,’ Callanach said, ‘but actually I think the victim’s job description was posted before she was killed. Quite a while before, looking at the state of the graffiti painted over it.’
Ava shifted her shoulders up and down, exercising out the hours spent at her desk. ‘Spell your theory out for me, Callanach, because it’s late and I’m just not following.’
‘I think Emily’s killer left a clue about his next victim, possibly days in advance. Figure out how, when and why, and maybe we can stop this. Until then, all we can do is watch the walls and stay a step ahead.’
Ava’s door opened and Edgar walked in. He said nothing as he passed Callanach, going directly to Ava’s desk and setting down several cartons of food, pulling a bottle of wine from another bag.
‘I’d invite you to join us, Detective Inspector,’ Edgar said, ‘only I’m sure you’ve somewhere you’d rather be than here. Did your constable report back to you? I released him. Seems the Major Investigation Team is struggling somewhat.’
‘Lay off, Joe,’ Ava said, ripping off a lid and tucking into a steaming pile of rice.
‘Darling, do you mind? We have to maintain the system of rank while we’re at work.’
‘Luc, I’m sorry. That was really helpful. Can we pick up here first thing in the morning?’ Ava asked.
‘Sure,’ Callanach said, getting to his feet. ‘In the meantime, we have concealed CCTV cameras set on all the known areas of graffiti, with twenty-four hour surveillance. How’s your hacker investigation going, sir? Have those bankers and share-holders got their money back from the charities yet?’
DCI Edgar finished pouring a glass of wine and handed it to Ava.
‘There should be arrests in about two weeks. We’ve established some contacts, made covert enquiries. My team is gathering intelligence without making our presence obvious. Careful, planned, professional work, DI Callanach. The people we’re dealing with are some of the finest minds in the world. You can’t rush in and blunder around. That’s why I was sent up here. Local forces just aren’t equipped for this level of work,’ Edgar said, standing up to face Callanach directly.
‘That would be my local force, and honestly I think it’s equipped to deal with just about anything that’s thrown at it. I seem to have lost my appetite,’ Ava said, pushing the largely untouched cartons away and draining her glass. ‘So I’m off. I think that’s about all the bullshit I’m prepared to tolerate for one day.’ She put on her coat and picked up her car keys. ‘I’ll see you two tomorrow.’
‘Are you not staying at mine?’ Edgar said. ‘I had housekeeping come in especially.’
Ava paused briefly at her door, with a backwards half glance at Callanach.
‘I think I need to be alone,’ she said.
Callanach arrived home at 2 a.m., starving and exhausted, to a note pinned on his door. Unlocking the door as soundlessly as he could, he stepped inside before opening the note.
‘Hey Luc, got some pals coming over
for a few bottles and some pizza. I’d love it if you joined us – they’re dying to meet you. Bunny xxx.’ Callanach screwed it up and threw it away. He wasn’t in the mood for his enthusiastic neighbour, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to meet any of her friends. It was entirely possible that they were still across the corridor, so he decided to forgo cooking, showering or any other giveaways signalling his presence, and fall directly into bed.
Between the sheets he shifted from side to side, throwing the covers off then pulling them back over, realising his brain wasn’t as tired as his body. Trying to read was futile. His eyes wandered over the same words a few times before he admitted defeat. Finally, he picked up his phone and began trawling the internet again, looking for articles he’d missed that might link the victims.
After a few failed searches, he ended up reading a piece about The Unsung’s recent hack. Most of it was standard factual reporting, but some keen journalist had gone to Edinburgh’s leading internet security company, CyberBallista, for a comment about how such a breach would have been organised and the complexity of unscrambling the hack in order to find the cyber attackers. CEO of CyberBallista, Ralph Hogg, had given a predictably tech-heavy, complex response designed to keep their clients believing they were getting good value for the vast amounts they were paying to remain unhacked. As uninteresting as DCI Edgar’s efforts to recoup very rich people’s spending money were, the article gave Callanach an idea. He dialled Tripp’s number.
‘This is Max,’ a muffled voice said.
‘Callanach here,’ he replied
‘Oh shit, I mean, sorry sir. God, what time is it?’ Tripp asked.
‘Go into the other room, Max. I’ve got to get up for work in three hours,’ another deeper voice rumbled in the background. Callanach hadn’t stopped to consider either the hour or his detective constable’s private life.
‘Listen, Tripp, I apologise, it’s 3 a.m. I’ll call back in daylight.’
‘That’s all right,’ Tripp whispered. In the background, Callanach could hear footsteps and a door open and close. Tripp’s voice gained some normality. ‘What do you need?’
‘You’ve been working with DCI Edgar’s unit. I need access to someone inside CyberBallista who can get to the source of the Emily Balcaskie photo email and the autopsy leaks. Do you have a name? Only I’d like to get on it first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about that investigation, sir. DCI Edgar was very clear that it was beyond normal security remit. No emails, no texts, nothing that could be traced online if the hackers were following our investigation. Specifically, no discussing it with anyone else at the station.’
‘That’s ridiculous. We’re all working to the same ends. I’m a senior officer and all I need is a heads-up about the best person to talk to. You must have some idea.’
‘I’ll lose my job, that’s what DCI Edgar said. Told me to forget any previous loyalties and understand the value of what we were doing.’
‘Four people are dead. Westminster’s interest in protecting its international finance industry has to take second place. The investigation’s at a standstill.’
Tripp was silent on the other end of the phone. Callanach had never known him be anything other than at his most helpful. It was the way he was built – endless enthusiasm, absolute devotion to the job. It was unthinkable that he wouldn’t be motivated to help.
‘Sir, it’s difficult enough in my situation. I do my best to work hard and keep everyone off my case. I don’t want any more attention than is necessary.’
It took Callanach a few seconds to figure out what Tripp was talking about, before remembering the voice in the background when he’d phoned. Being a gay man in the Scottish police force, in any police force for that matter, wasn’t easy. In spite of much greater tolerance than the previous generation had experienced, there was still an amount of macho inanity to wade through each day. Tripp managed it by being something else – the good lad, slightly geeky, always first to volunteer – now it made sense. Better that, than people focusing on other aspects of his personality.
‘That’s all right, Max,’ Callanach said. ‘If you’ve been told to prioritise confidentiality then that’s what you should do. Get some sleep. I’ll see you at the station.’
‘Sir,’ Tripp whispered, ‘CyberBallista are the best in Scotland, possibly in the whole of the UK, but you can’t talk to them. DCI Edgar wants absolute distance between police and industry professionals.’
‘I get it,’ Callanach said, moving his mobile away from his ear.
‘No, sir, I don’t think you …’ Tripp was saying as Callanach ended the call. DCI Edgar was a control freak. The only way Callanach could approach CyberBallista on the record would be with Edgar’s permission and Callanach was damned if he was going to crawl to him.
He brought up the CyberBallista website, trawling through the ‘Our People’ section until he found Ben Paulson, head of Deep Web Navigation Systems. Paulson had an impressive CV. Callanach recognised the names of most of the companies he’d worked for, even if he didn’t seem to stay in one place very long. More important than that were the press reports the search engine brought up. A trade magazine from the tech sector two years ago called Paulson, ‘a programmer with a once-in-a-generation intellect that makes the rest of the team useful for nothing but filling up seats at the table’. His industry peers had voted him, ‘Most Likely to Change the Future of Tech’ when he was just nineteen years old. There was another article which detailed exactly how Paulson had prevented the hacking of a global pharmaceutical company’s database, leading investigators directly back to a Russian gang. Callanach had glazed over before reading to the end of the paragraph defining how that had been possible, but Paulson sounded like exactly the person he needed. Someone who could find their way around parts of the internet hidden to the vast majority. If he couldn’t approach Ben Paulson directly, then he’d find a way to ask for his help privately. Edgar would never need to know, and that meant keeping it from Ava as well. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her to keep secrets from her bedfellow.
Chapter Seventeen
At 9 a.m. Callanach headed over to Leith Street. He knew the building he was searching for by its proximity to Ava’s favourite cinema. The modern glass and steel construction housed multiple companies. The one claiming the prestigious top floor, overlooking Leith Street to the front and Greenside Row at its rear, belonged to CyberBallista. Approaching through the front door was asking for trouble so Callanach drove into the multistorey car park below, buzzed security who were conscientious enough to go down and check his badge, then made his way up to reception level.
From there, rather than going on record with the receptionist, Callanach headed for the toilets and dialled CyberBallista’s number, asking for Ben Paulson. There was a pause as the receptionist tried to connect him, then came back on the line.
‘Mr Paulson’s busy at the moment. I can take your number and ask him to call you back.’
‘I need to speak with him immediately,’ Callanach said. ‘It’s regarding his vehicle. If I can’t talk to Mr Paulson I’ll have to telephone the police to follow it up.’
‘One moment,’ she said.
‘I haven’t been involved in any incidents, so I strongly encourage you not to try to scam me. You’ve chosen the wrong guy,’ was the opener. Ben Paulson was American, something Callanach hadn’t anticipated. West coast drawl, slightly gravelly. It was a complete contradiction of all the stereotypes he’d drawn up in his head, expecting something more precise, academic. It may not have been fair, but that was the image he’d always had of computer experts.
‘Mr Paulson?’ Callanach checked.
‘Obviously,’ came the response.
‘I’m in the ground floor reception area of your building and I need to talk to you. There’s no problem with your vehicle but I am a police officer. This is off the record, so I’d rather not sign in and come up, if you don’t mind.’
> ‘If this is a company matter you’ll need to speak to the CEO. All enquiries go through him.’
‘It’s a private matter,’ Callanach said, ready for the stonewalling. No one wanted to speak to the police who didn’t have to. ‘I need your help with an ongoing case.’
‘That doesn’t explain the cloak-and-dagger approach. What is it that’s keeping you from getting in the lift and coming up to the top floor?’ Ben asked.
‘Internet security has been getting a bit of bad press lately. Your CEO was on the news talking about it.’
‘Two minutes,’ Ben said, putting down the phone.
Callanach had expected more of a fight or at least a request to be more convincing. In exactly the time specified, his mobile rang again. The call was from a withheld number.
‘Car park, two floors down. Silver Audi in the far corner opposite the lifts,’ Ben said. Callanach found the car complete with occupied driving seat. Approaching the driver’s side, he found the window wound down a couple of inches. ‘Show me your identification,’ Ben said. Callanach took out his badge and held it to the window where Ben photographed it before checking Callanach out online. ‘Get in,’ Ben said, unlocking the front passenger door.
Callanach slid in, ill at ease with the level of suspicion his visit to Ben Paulson had elicited. If he’d made Ben too uncomfortable, there might be a complaint to the superintendent.
‘I’m recording this conversation, Detective Inspector Callanach, so we’re going to confirm at the outset that you’re not showing me any warrant, that I’m not under arrest and that I’ve not been read my rights,’ Ben said. The photo on the company website hadn’t done him justice. He was blond, tanned in spite of the Scottish weather, and in good physical shape. Overall, he presented as more likely to be at home on a beach carrying a surfboard, than at a desk worrying about protecting company databases.
‘I agree,’ Callanach said. ‘All of the aforementioned is correct. But I’m here unofficially and I was hoping you’d agree to keep this quiet, too.’
