by Helen Fields
‘I’m not suggesting you let those poor people suffer any more than they already have. I may be a journalist but I’m not a sadist. But why not release the wrong details? Issue a formal statement, through me, stating that Mr Swan died painlessly, swiftly, and that he wouldn’t have been aware what was happening.’
‘You want to see if the killer will make contact to put his side of it across?’ Ben asked.
Lance nodded.
‘Man, you’ve got some balls. I wouldn’t want one of those guys coming round to correct my copy,’ Ben said.
‘Might it give us another chance to trace them, if we were waiting and watching?’ Lance asked.
‘It’s possible,’ Ben said. ‘But I can’t guarantee anything.’
‘Possible is better than waiting for the next corpse,’ Callanach said. ‘Let me warn Mrs Swan what we’re doing first, Lance, then we’ll agree the wording.’
The door opened, this time with no warning.
‘Ben,’ Polly said. ‘You’d better get back to your office. We got a call. The police are there asking questions and your name has come up.’
Callanach ran a hand through his hair.
‘Did you know about this?’ Ben asked Callanach. ‘You know what, don’t answer that.’
‘Ben, even if I’d told you, there’s nothing you could have done. If you’d started wiping files off your computer they’d have known …’
Ben leaned down to whisper in Callanach’s ear. ‘DI Callanach, I’m not asking you to protect me. If Edgar thinks I’m stupid enough to have anything on my work computers except work, then he’s even more moronic than his school records suggest. But they’ll have put maximum surveillance on today, meaning this may not have been the best time for us to do lunch, for your sake, more than mine. I already have people watching my back. Who’s got yours?’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Callanach drove directly to Craigentinny to visit the widowed Mrs Swan. It was a difficult thing to explain – that he had gone there not to give her answers, but to open more avenues of investigation, involving a substantial lie being told very publicly.
‘What then, Detective Inspector?’ Mrs Swan asked. ‘When your killer decides that they want the truth to be known? Will they post photos of what they did to Michael? Is that what you expect?’
She broke down into tears, as Callanach had known she would. Police work wasn’t always about sparing people pain. Sometimes it was about knowingly causing it, in the belief that the end would justify the means. Callanach let her recover before answering.
‘I don’t believe the killer has a photographic record or they’d have released it before now. They’re more likely to give a written account of what they did. We need them to do that so we can trace their communications. I would hope that the press would be careful in publishing details, especially as they won’t be able to verify the source. It’s a risk, though. And one I need you to be aware of before I take this any further.’
‘And if I say no? If I say that my husband being taken from us is terrible enough, without my family suffering further? Will you accept that and reconsider?’
‘Mrs Swan, you’ve seen the papers. There are other people under threat now. The whole city has been overtaken by a sense of panic,’ Callanach said.
‘As well it might be,’ she replied. ‘Did you know the pathologist thinks my husband might have taken an hour to die. An hour! You should be going door to door, checking every single person and asking what they were doing that night. Writing a new press report and hoping the murderer will give herself away? My God, if that’s the best you’ve got then the people of Edinburgh shouldn’t just be worried. They should be fleeing!’
Callanach could do no more. Nothing he said was going to soften the blow. And Mrs Swan was right – Callanach wasn’t going to change his mind. They were running out of options.
Driving back through the city, a marked police car passed him at speed. Callanach took no notice until another followed, then two more and an emergency response team in a van. He checked his phone but there were no texts or missed calls. On instinct he followed, chasing the blues and twos south through the traffic.
The parade of police cars stopped at the corner of Findhorn Place with Grange Loan, in the Blackford area of the city. These were quiet streets with a mixture of old and new housing, front hedges kept neat, on-street parking, and an orderly plainness to it all. At the corner was a three-storey seventies-looking block of flats, sealed off with crime scene tape. Callanach’s phone rang as he was climbing out of his vehicle. He could see Lively before he heard his voice.
‘I’m already here, sergeant,’ Callanach said, ducking the tape and flashing his badge at the guarding uniforms. ‘What is it?’ he asked, sliding his mobile back into his pocket.
‘One of the lollipop ladies, sir. A woman from a flat on the ground floor was due to meet her this morning. They always get the bus into town together, she says. When her mate didn’t arrive at the bus stop, the friend went to find her and saw her front door was busted.’
‘Where’s the body?’ Callanach asked.
‘That’s the thing. No body this time. You’d better come up.’ Lively was already pulling on shoe covers and an overall. Callanach followed suit, making the forensics team aware of his presence and grabbing a pair of gloves.
‘What’s the missing woman’s name?’ Callanach asked.
‘Julia Stimple, aged sixty-four, divorced, lives alone. One son, one daughter, but no one’s been able to reach them yet. She doesn’t own a mobile. It’s a one-bedroomed flat on the second floor.’
Callanach stood on the front step of the flats, looking around. This was the sort of neighbourhood where people knew each other. Beyond the crime scene tape was a growing wall of faces, united in their silence, some wrapped arm in arm, others standing respectfully with heads down. All expecting the worse. The juxtaposition from the stillness of the onlookers to the business of the forensic team was jarring. The other flats had been cleared, the residents moved elsewhere to have statements taken.
Callanach climbed the stairs. It was not lavish accommodation by any stretch of the imagination. The internal doors had lost their former blue and were now a mottled grey. The walls were stained nicotine yellow. There was an obvious lack of recent redecoration. It was more functional than comfortable, but within the affordability range of a woman living between state allowance and the top-up wages from the few hours spent seeing people safely across busy roads.
The door to Julia Stimple’s flat stood open. Callanach took his time walking through, trying to imagine it without the ant-like procession of white-suited technicians inhabiting the place now. Not one piece of furniture had been left upright. A small dining table was on its side, both chairs tipped over, one of which had a leg snapped off. Mismatched, threadbare armchairs were on their sides, a coffee table smashed to pieces. One curtain had been ripped from its pole, the other hung limply from pulled hooks. Crockery and glasses were smashed on the floor and the remains of a half-eaten dinner lay in a congealed trail across the kitchen linoleum. Callanach went into the bathroom. A swing seat that should have helped its owner in and out of the bath had been broken. The contents of the bathroom cabinet were scattered over the sink, the floor, the windowsill.
In the bedroom, sheets and an old patchwork quilt had been dragged from the bed, twisted, then left hanging where they’d been tucked in at one corner, as if they’d clung to the bed in terror. Drawers were tipped out, the wardrobe door left open to show an array of deserted clothes. It was as if a tornado had ripped through. Nothing had been left untouched.
Callanach walked to the bedside table and picked up a framed photograph that had fallen on its face. In it was a woman he estimated to be in her fifties, wearing the sort of hat you could only get away with at a race track, holding up a glass of champagne and smiling as if she’d won the lottery. Her hair was bouffant, surrounding her head in massive, hairdresser-constructed curls. But it was dwarfed by the size of th
e woman herself who filled the shot in a pink and green ensemble, flowing across her frame like a waterfall. At her size, even the single set of stairs up to her flat would have been a daily struggle. It was a wonder that she was still working at all. Her health must already have been failing if the bath seat was anything to go by.
‘Blood, sir,’ Lively said, poking his head round the door.
Callanach handed him the photo by way of reply.
‘Bag the photo and tell forensics we need to take it with us once it’s been logged. If we can’t get hold of a family member soon, this will be the only identification we’ll have for a press release. Where’s the blood?’
‘Kitchen,’ Lively said, grabbing an evidence bag from a passing crime scene officer.
Callanach retraced his steps, watching the progress forensics were making. The blood was a stream of drips rather than the dramatic pooling found at the previous murder scenes. It ran from the dinner table to the kitchen, as if she’d been trying to stem the flow as she’d walked. Samples and photographs were taken as a blood spatter analyst marked the pathway and plotted it on a plan.
‘Anyone found a weapon?’ Callanach called. There was a ripple of negative responses. It wasn’t a surprise. No weapon had been found at the other crime scenes, save for Emily Balcaskie’s scarf, and that had been left for effect.
In the doorway the chain was hanging off, the screws that had once held it to the frame abandoned on the floor. Julia Stimple had been persuaded to open up and see what her visitor wanted, but not trusted them enough to have opened the door fully. The question was how they’d gained access through the main door. There was a buzzer but no camera feed. Either her visitor had persuaded her to let them in, or waited and followed someone else up the stairs.
‘Anything obviously missing?’ Callanach asked the nearest officer.
‘Her purse isn’t in her handbag and it hasn’t been located anywhere else in the flat. Other than that, it’s hard to know what we’re looking for. It was a hell of a fight though. I’m not sure how they managed to create so much devastation in every room,’ the technician replied.
Lively stepped back through the door as Callanach was getting ready to leave.
‘What a bloody mess,’ Lively said. ‘You’d think someone would’ve heard something, wouldn’t you?’ Callanach stared at him. ‘Nothing. Quiet as a poxy church mouse. Everyone was in, and I mean everyone. Residents above, below and opposite. No one was aware of a stranger in the building, no one saw her being taken out.’
‘Give me a break,’ Callanach said, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders.
‘Too much even for a genius like yourself, is it sir?’ Lively asked, although his usual grin was missing. ‘To be fair, these are people who go to bed early, some are hard of hearing, probably have their TVs turned way up. But this …’ He gestured around the room. The chaos was quite an achievement.
‘We’ve two murderers out there,’ Callanach said. ‘One’s quiet, almost ghostlike. She leaves no trail, no trace, even in broad daylight. Her work is surgical and planned. Helen Lott’s killer is all strength and brutality. Nothing subtle there. But how could this invader have been neither heard nor seen, given that he or she kicked the door off its chain?’
‘And then cleaned off the bootmark,’ a forensic technician replied from behind them. ‘There’s nothing here. Only the usual mixture of fingerprints around the lock, but nothing lower down that indicates a shoe.’
‘Perhaps they took their boots off to climb the stairs quietly, then kicked the door open with bare feet,’ Lively said.
‘And why take the victim away?’ Callanach asked. ‘I don’t see the purpose. It would have been more risky than anything they’ve done so far to have moved her through a multiple occupancy building.’
‘That’s not so difficult. Knife in her back. A promise not to harm her. It’s amazing how many victims will believe whatever they’re told. The friend who reported it says Miss Stimple suffers from advanced type 2 diabetes. She’s on regular medication, has complications with her kidneys and her eyesight is failing. Sounds as if she was going to have to stop work pretty soon anyway. Wasn’t fit enough to stand up for long stretches,’ Lively read from his notebook.
‘So this time they took the most vulnerable person they could find. She worked in the community, is coming to the end of her time there, becoming physically less able. Fits the pattern. I’ll need to speak with her manager. Let me know as soon as we contact a family member. No press release until we’ve dealt with it personally,’ Callanach instructed.
‘Aye, and the usual work is underway. Door-to-door checks in case anyone saw them leaving, or any suspicious vehicles. There’s no CCTV locally, it’s all residential. Best hope we’ve got is an eyewitness. You off back to your cushy office then, sir?’ Lively asked.
‘No, Lively, I thought I’d spend some time at the gym, maybe get a quick sports massage and a sunbed,’ Callanach sighed. ‘Now, control the scene, get me photos of the flat ASAP and make sure none of it goes online. No leaks. And stop being such an idiot, would you? I’ve got enough of that in my life at the moment.’
Lively’s mouth hung open as Callanach walked away. The lack of comment from him was a tiny victory, but the only one Callanach was likely to be celebrating for some time.
By the time Callanach got back to his office, Tripp was waiting with Julia Stimple’s manager on the line. He handed the phone over and Callanach sat down waiting for the barrage of abuse.
‘Have you found her yet, Detective Inspector?’ the manager asked. ‘Only we’re being bombarded with requests from the press and I have no idea what to say.’
‘Julia Stimple is missing from her home but there’s no body, so we’d like you to say you’re unable to comment. At the moment we have no idea where she is or what state she’s in. Can you tell me more about Miss Stimple, only we’re struggling to locate her family? I’m also trying to ascertain how she came to the killer’s attention. Had there been any publicity about her, community awards, that sort of thing?’
There was a long period of quiet, punctuated only by throat clearing.
‘I’m not sure how much I should tell you,’ the manager said. ‘Obviously we have to protect staff confidentiality. I wouldn’t want this to get out …’
Callanach rolled his eyes to the ceiling, pleased he wasn’t in the same room as the woman on the end of the line. As if four murders and an abduction weren’t enough, now he was having to persuade other officials to information share.
‘It’ll all be confidential,’ Callanach reassured through gritted teeth.
‘Well, if you’re sure, I suppose I can pass on what I’ve been told. Miss Stimple had been informed that her employment was to be terminated at the end of the month. A decision had been made to replace her. She wasn’t up to the job,’ the manager said.
‘I’m aware of her health problems,’ Callanach said, ‘but I don’t think that would have attracted any attention. All the other victims—’
‘You don’t understand,’ the manager interrupted. ‘Miss Stimple had been the subject of complaints from parents. She would turn up late, leave early, was often seen leaning against the wall, just waving children over the road. When a parent challenged her about it a couple of weeks ago, Miss Stimple’s reply was, um, not exactly what Edinburgh City Council would hope from one of its employees. There was some language used, you see. It was only your investigation and her remaining at home that saved us from having to take more drastic action. There was a disciplinary hearing. She wasn’t best pleased.’
‘But there had been no publicity about it,’ Callanach said, ‘so no one would have known she was being fired?’
‘Goodness no, none at all. These sorts of things are handled with complete discretion. Miss Stimple agreed with Human Resources that she was finding the work too physically hard and that it would be better for all concerned if she agreed to leave.’
‘I see,’ said Callanach. ‘And h
as there been any other press coverage you know of that might have made her a target?’
‘Only the employee newsletter from a couple of months ago,’ the manager replied. ‘A group photo was taken of all the lollipop team, men and women. I can email it to you if it would help.’
‘It would,’ Callanach said. ‘Please get in touch if you think of anything else. We’ll let you know as soon as there’s an update.’
Callanach busied himself retrieving Rory Hand’s details from the police national computer. It didn’t take long. Hand had only been released from prison three months earlier. He didn’t have a passport and was reporting to probation twice a week. Callanach noted his address, mobile number, national insurance number and date of birth, then sent the agreed text to Ben with no regrets at all. Rory Hand deserved a lot more than to have his identity abused.
Five minutes later, Tripp handed him a printout of the scanned lollipop person’s photo. Sitting in the front row, centre stage and staring straight at the camera, was Julia Stimple. The picture had come attached to an email, revealing that the newsletter had been left in just about every public building in the city, from job centres to courts, adult education facilities to libraries. Not much of a stretch to imagine a passer-by picking it up and choosing the woman who, because of her size, would be easy to identify and locate. The sort of woman, in fact, who looked as if she wouldn’t be capable of putting up much of a fight at all.
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Moderator – always with a capital letter in his own mind – made sure his office door was locked, left his work system uploading some new code and plugged in his laptop instead. He’d told his personal assistant he would be on a conference call and should not be interrupted. It was a reasonable excuse for having his door locked should anyone attempt an unscheduled visit.
He logged onto the darknet site of which he was creator, designer, webmaster and overseer of all things, and made sure secure encoding was enabled. He had set up six different levels of security, including twenty character passwords, randomised personal knowledge questions, a thumbprint scan and a mathematical formula that had to be solved against a countdown clock. Every aspect had been designed and built by him. The encoding software was commonly downloadable, but then he had to make sure that the site users he wanted to attract would be able to find their way in.
