by Helen Fields
‘So you’re not here about any hacking allegations, then? Let’s just be clear about that.’
Callanach cursed. The conversation was being recorded and he was way off limits. Everything DCI Edgar’s team was doing was supposed to be under wraps. Saying nothing about it at all seemed to be the only way forward.
‘I’m here about the recent murders in the city. You must have heard about them.’
‘Even my distant relatives in San Diego have heard about them. Never thought America would be the safer option compared with Scotland.’ Ben was joking but his face was hard, unreadable. ‘So you’ll confirm that nothing you’re going to ask me in any way involves the recent internet security breaches? Only it seems odd that you need help on a murder case but you can’t approach CyberBallista directly.’
Callanach was stuck. This man wasn’t stupid enough to be fobbed off.
‘There are obviously investigations underway into the hacking – not that I’m anything to do with that – but there’s evidence I need expert help to understand, and I won’t get permission to engage CyberBallista directly at the moment. I can’t say anything more.’
‘Why me?’ Ben asked.
‘You’re CyberBallista’s head of Deep Web, and by all accounts there’s no one better than you at your job. I need to trace a pathway that an email took and identify the sender. It’s too well encrypted for our internal department to unravel. You looked like my best chance. If I have to go elsewhere it’s just additional time, more costs we don’t have the budget for, and red tape sending away confidential hard drives.’ Ben said nothing. ‘I know I’m asking a lot. I can pay you something, not as much as your firm would charge, and it’ll be from private funds, but I need you to look into two discrete incidents. It shouldn’t take long.’
‘You have no idea how long it could take,’ Ben said, switching his phone off and sitting back in his seat. He glanced at his watch. ‘Sum it up for me.’
Callanach took a breath. He was about to disclose sensitive information to a man he had no basis for trusting. True, he must have been vetted by CyberBallista as he obviously had access to some highly confidential data, but that didn’t mean he was beyond corruption. The real question was what other options did he have? There wasn’t enough money to engage CyberBallista’s services as a company, someone was leaking information, which meant he wasn’t sure who could be trusted any more, and every other pathway on the investigation seemed to be blocked. It was proper procedure versus practicality. Practicality won.
‘This is confidential information,’ Callanach said. ‘I need you to promise me I can trust you with it.’
‘I’m still sitting here listening,’ Ben said. ‘Don’t push your luck.’
Callanach sighed. ‘Photos of Emily Balcaskie’s dead body were leaked. They must have been taken by the killer. He wanted the press to get them before we could get a lid on it. All too well encoded for us to trace. Then there was a leaked autopsy report, only I can’t believe anyone from either the mortuary or the police would have done that, and our internal investigation has reached a dead end. I think someone from outside went into the computer system and gained access to the report illegally.’
‘Why should I help you?’ Ben asked, but it wasn’t bluster. His shoulders were down and his tone was enquiring rather than angry.
‘Because you can,’ Callanach said. ‘And because I can’t understand anyone not wanting to help if it was within their power. So will you?’
‘I can’t do it from work. Everything we do here is trackable. And my place is private. Get me access to one of the email accounts the photos were sent to. We’ll start from there. Don’t expect miracles. I’m a long way ahead of Police Scotland’s abilities, but there are ways of cloaking these things that are foolproof.’
‘Give me your mobile number,’ Callanach said. ‘I’ll text you an address later. I just need to check it out first. There’s someone who should be able to help.’
Ben took a second mobile from his pocket and transferred Callanach’s number into its memory. A second later, Callanach’s mobile buzzed.
‘There you go,’ Ben said. ‘You can use that number for messages. I don’t take calls or emails on it though, so don’t try. And it’s not traceable, triangulation has been disabled.’
Ben’s guard was up again. He hadn’t wanted to give out his mobile number and Callanach couldn’t blame him. It hadn’t exactly been a normal morning, and getting involved in tracing a now globally notorious murderer was enough to make anyone feel defensive.
An hour later, Callanach arrived back at the station. He walked into the middle of a conversation, as only DS Lively could conduct it.
‘Oh, he’s back in the fuckin’ building, is he? Hard to believe he’s bothered turning up at all …’ Lively was mouthing off in the incident room.
‘Right behind you, Sergeant,’ Callanach said, well aware how little good it would do to discipline the veteran officer who had something of a fan club amongst the older generation of Police Scotland’s finest. ‘Opinions on your own time.’
‘We’ve been waiting,’ Lively said, not the least bit concerned at having been overheard.
‘Good for you. Presumably there was a reason for that. Would you like to share it?’
‘CCTV of the route the killer took between the McDonald Road library and dropping off the books and Michael Swan’s belongings at Regent Gardens. Watch.’ Lively hit play and the screen showed a blurred image of a person crossing a road, then walking off into the distance. They were clutching a large bundle to their chest, and wearing a floppy-brimmed hat covering all but nose and mouth, hair tucked up inside.
‘How do we know that’s our suspect?’ Callanach asked.
‘Early hours, first light, walking alone. Apart from that, there’s this,’ Lively said. ‘It’s not great quality but you can definitely make it out.’ He pressed play again and a different camera showed the same person further up the same road from a different angle. Almost no part of the walker’s face showed, but they dropped an article and bent down quickly to pick it up. ‘We can’t change the resolution of the shot,’ Lively said, ‘but the tech boys have been able to enlarge the image. What they got was this.’ Lively switched to a closer, blurry still image of the article that had been dropped. On the cover, Callanach could just make out a large green squiggle with a red oval on the end, and the letters ‘terpillar’.
‘Tell me,’ Callanach said.
‘It’s from The Very Hungry Caterpillar, sir,’ Lively said. ‘Probably not a required text for you geniuses at Interpol, but every kid in Scotland has read it. That’s one of the books found at the park with Swan’s personals.’
‘Best shot of the killer?’ Callanach asked, reaching past Lively and getting the CCTV footage back up.
‘Don’t touch my computer,’ Lively grumbled, brushing Callanach’s hand away and taking control of the keyboard. ‘We’ve got no definition around the face. No hair showing, no eyes, nothing. But we’ve got a pretty bloody good view of the profile.’ A screen grab appeared of a single frame containing a shadowy profile. What was very clear was that the carrier of the books had a defined bust. ‘It’s a woman,’ Lively said unnecessarily. ‘The legs are thin too. Jacket is covering the waistline so we can’t see much else, but there’s no real doubt.’
‘And she picked up that dropped book with her left hand,’ Callanach said. ‘That’s our homicidal maniac. Can we get any more detail from the remaining footage?’
‘We should be able to work out her height in comparison to some of the building features in the shot,’ Lively said.
‘One hour for that, Sergeant, then compare it with the footage of Sim Thorburn. I want the best stills you’ve got and an analysis to see if there’s a match. I’ll be in my office.’
Callanach swung past the coffee machine and grimaced as he took a swig of caffeine with a hint of melted plastic. He sat at his desk and dialled Lance Proudfoot’s number, getting voicemail.
/> ‘Lance, Luc Callanach. I need your help tonight. I have to access your work emails and I need somewhere to do that. Could I bring someone to your office? And I know I need to repay the favour. I have an idea about that too. Call me.’
He was replacing the receiver as Superintendent Overbeck walked in.
‘Callanach, update me,’ she said, sitting down and stretching out long, nylon-clad legs. Ideal for tripping him up, he thought.
‘Michael Swan’s murderer was female. We’re doing a comparison with the Sim Thorburn case. The body types are similar, and the forensic pathologist already had a theory about the same batch of blades being used,’ Callanach said.
‘Good, because I need to get the squads better organised. You’ll cover the Swan and Thorburn investigations. DI Turner will run the Lott and Balcaskie cases. Limit the overtime, Callanach. I don’t want bureaucrats on my back about the overspend.’
‘This is an unusual case, ma’am. We need as many officers and as many hours as—’
‘It’s the same case you were trained to do, and that you’re supposed to be doing competently. Don’t start acting like it’s all impossible just because someone’s actually been killed. And it just got markedly easier now that you’ve two lots of evidence pointing towards one killer. Can you hear the clock ticking, Detective Inspector? Because it sounds pretty frigging loud to me. And if the alarm goes off before you’re out of bed and ready with some spectacularly good news, pack your fucking bags. No more officers. Minimal overtime. Do the job you’re already being paid to do.’
She walked out. Callanach pondered what was required to be promoted to such a rank. It took him the time to lift his coffee cup from desk to mouth to realise he’d never cut it. His phone buzzed with a text from Lance Proudfoot.
‘Come to my home. 7a St. Thomas Road. 8 p.m. – bring beer. Expecting return favour to be substantial. LP.’
Callanach quickly confirmed, then went looking for Ava who was in her office, on her mobile. He waited while she hung up.
‘How’s Natasha doing?’ Callanach asked. She was the only friend of Ava’s he’d come to know since moving to Edinburgh.
‘Enjoying New Orleans, perhaps too much to bother rushing back,’ Ava said. ‘It’s her birthday today, did you know?’ Callanach shook his head. ‘We usually have a sleepover on her birthday. It’s a throwback to when we were kids. We’d stay up all night watching bad horror flicks and eating junk. This is the first year for a decade that we won’t be together.’
‘She must be missing you too,’ Callanach said.
‘I’m glad she’s not here. One less person I have to worry about.’
Callanach felt differently. In the months he’d known Natasha since Ava had introduced them, he’d seen how much she and Ava relied on one other. They filled in the gaps that family and work left behind. The two of them communicated as only childhood friends could – a kind word, an embrace, honest advice, a joke, even a reprimand when it was called for. He’d been thrown together with Natasha when she’d become entangled in a previous case. Her steadfastness and stoicism had impressed him then. Now he longed for her to return and have the conversation with Ava he felt uncomfortable even starting.
‘Look, tell me it’s none of my business if you like, but you and DCI Edgar. He seems an odd choice. When I first came here you were the one person I could count on not to be influenced by rank or class. He’s everything I thought you despised.’
‘You of all people should know that life isn’t as simple as we want to believe. I thought I could rely on you not to be judgemental,’ Ava said.
‘I’m not judging. I just don’t get what you think he can offer you, besides the obvious,’ Callanach replied.
‘Besides the obvious? You think I’m in this for the social and professional gains? Jesus, Luc, I never had you pegged as quite that insulting. Is that what you think of me?’
‘Ava, don’t. I’m trying to understand what’s going on, that’s all,’ Callanach said.
‘Okay, he’s from a good family, he’s got a good job, and he can order from a menu in French almost as well as you. He may not be a former model, and perhaps he doesn’t skydive, but I’m not going to write him off for that,’ Ava responded.
‘I don’t understand why you’re making this personal,’ Callanach said. Before joining Interpol seven years earlier, he’d spent every weekend with friends enjoying whichever costly leisure activity took their fancy and met their adrenalin-pumping needs. It was a period of his life he considered wasted, surrounded by people whose primary interests were themselves. Since then he’d used sport only for fitness and escapism. His last skydiving trip just a few months ago, however, had earned him a ban from a Scottish drop-zone when he’d elected not to open his parachute manually, relying on the automatic system to save him. He’d been living through some dark days at the time and Ava knew better than to remind him of it. ‘You know what? Forget it. I misjudged, that’s all.’
‘Everywhere I go people load different expectations on me. I’m just trying to find a bit of bloody peace. Is that too much to ask?’
‘Not at all.’ Callanach stood up. ‘Our investigations have been separated. I’ve got Thorburn and Swan. You’ve got Lott and Balcaskie. I want Tripp and Salter on my squad. You can choose your guys. No reason for us to overlap. I apologise for whatever I’ve done to offend you.’
‘You can apologise to DCI Edgar as well. You’ve been out of line,’ Ava snapped.
‘You want to climb the ladder with your boyfriend, Ava, be my guest. But don’t expect me to follow suit. There must be better positions to see the top than from on your back.’
Ava was on her feet in a second. The slap was hard and she didn’t flinch when she delivered it. Callanach didn’t oblige her with putting his hand to his reddening cheek.
‘Get the fuck out of my office right now,’ Ava whispered.
‘My pleasure,’ he said, tearing the door open. Lively was in the corridor, making no secret of the fact that he’d been there some time, leaning against the opposite wall. ‘What, Sergeant?’ Callanach shouted.
‘Same woman, both murders. Matching frame and height. No facial details, she’s good at hiding what she doesn’t want anyone to see. You all right, sir, only your cheek’s a wee bit red?’ Lively smirked.
‘Prepare a statement. Get as many details together as you can, excluding the book titles so we can eliminate time-wasters. Call the media liaison office and tell them I want a press conference at the end of the day.’
‘Should I get you an ice pack first? Only that may look a bit strange on camera. Truth be told, looks like someone just gave you a proper hiding. Will you be making a complaint, sir?’
Callanach leaned in and spoke into his sergeant’s ear.
‘If you don’t get moving right now, I’m going to give you grounds to have me fired, Detective Sergeant Lively. And you’ll be making that complaint from a hospital bed.’
Lively started to smile, pulled back to get a better look at Callanach’s face, then opted for making no further comment.
* * *
Two hours and two ice packs later, Callanach was in front of a roaring crowd of reporters, cameras and microphones. The difference this time was that a second layer of media personnel was in the room. There were translators everywhere, testament to the spread of the story of Edinburgh’s rising mortality rate. Callanach wasted no time getting the facts out.
‘We don’t have a facial photofit, but the woman we’d like to speak with is estimated to be in her late twenties or early thirties, five foot six, slim build. In the footage we have, she’s been wearing hats. We have two profile shots we’d like you to circulate please.’ As he spoke, the images appeared on a projector. ‘Copies will be provided to each of you later. Please include the crime-line number. This is a substantial step forward in the investigation.’
‘Detective Inspector, was this woman known to either of the victims or their families?’ a journalist shouted, the formality
of waiting for questions abandoned.
‘Not to our knowledge,’ Callanach replied.
‘So she just picked them out at random?’ another reporter joined in. ‘What advice do you have to the people of Edinburgh about staying safe?’
Callanach sighed. He hadn’t wanted to get into this, but it was a question he couldn’t fail to answer. The graffiti lead was still a live part of the investigation and he didn’t want to give it away.
‘Our advice would be to only go out around the city whilst accompanied. Avoid The Meadows area. Avoid being out late at night. Take care with personal safety both in public and at home. Check the locks are engaged on your doors and windows. Use alarms where you have them.’
‘That’s it?’ a voice called out. ‘Your advice to people is to lock their windows? Detective Inspector, four people are dead. One at home, one at work, one at night and another in the middle of the day in a crowd. Is there anywhere that anyone is safe in Edinburgh at the moment?’
The press liaison officer stood up before Callanach could be dragged to the bottom of that particular public relations mire. ‘Please see me on your way out for written copies of the press release, crime-line number and stills for distribution. All other questions via email in the usual way,’ she said.
Callanach took his cue and exited through the rear door of the conference room. His mobile was buzzing before he’d even made it back to his desk.
‘Monumental fuck-up. No more press cons without me present. Last warning.’ Superintendent Overbeck was a delight. Callanach grabbed a folder from his desk and retreated to his car. It was time to make some proper progress.
He stopped on his way to Lance Proudfoot’s to pick up a Chinese takeaway and beer. It was worth keeping people’s stomachs full when you were asking favours.
He was surprised to find Ben Paulson already inside and working away on Lance’s laptop when he arrived. Lance disappeared off to fetch plates and forks while Callanach got comfortable.
