by Helen Fields
‘I’ve been told I’m free to leave, although I’m not sure I should get on my bike yet. Can’t hang around in this corridor any longer though. Any chance I could grab a lift home?’ Lance asked.
‘Suits me, if the boss doesn’t get all huffy about health and safety. You know what these managerial types are like, mate. I’ve been asked to get you back to the station for a briefing, sir, so we can drop Lance off on the way,’ Lively said.
‘Is there anyone in Edinburgh you don’t know, Sergeant?’ Callanach asked.
Lively shrugged his shoulders in response. ‘Lance and I played rugby together back in the days when they splashed a bit of cold water over a broken bone and sent you back on the pitch. None of this running on with a physiotherapist to give you a wee cuddle better.’
‘I had to stop when my son was born,’ Lance said. ‘Too many Sundays ruined with post-match hangovers. Don’t worry about the lift if it’s a bother,’ he directed towards Callanach.
‘Of course we can drop you on the way,’ Callanach replied politely. ‘What’s the briefing about, Lively?’
‘There’s been a sighting of a van matching the description of the vehicle outside Julia Stimple’s house at the time she disappeared. A marked car tried to pull it over but it sped off. Unit couldn’t pursue at speed as it was in a busy pedestrian area. We’ve lost the van for now, but we’ve got a team on the cameras out of the city and we’re hoping to pick it up again.’
‘Let’s get going, then,’ Callanach said.
Lance settled himself into the rear passenger seat and closed his eyes. ‘So you’ve got a break?’ he asked.
‘It may yet prove to be nothing,’ Lively said. ‘I just hope to God we haven’t lost our only chance to catch this scabby bastard.’
‘Can I quote you on that?’ Lance asked.
‘I forgot you’re a journo. One step up from bloody lawyers, you lot. Quote me and you’ll never be able to park in the city again without getting towed, understand?’
The radio burst into life a second before Callanach’s mobile began beeping. The radio won.
‘All available units to Moffat Road, Ormiston. Silent approach. Officers already on the scene and awaiting backup. Confirm positions.’
Lively swung the car round, put on the lights and sped up as Callanach called Tripp.
‘I was just trying to phone you, sir,’ Tripp said.
‘Ormiston, right? Lively and I are in a marked car and on our way. What’s happened?’ Callanach asked.
‘We’ve picked up the progress of the van believed to have been parked outside Julia Stimple’s. It was seen leaving an off-licence earlier. We lost it for a while but CCTV caught it again. We got an unmarked vehicle to pick up the route, and they followed it back to a property which is looking more than a little suspicious,’ Tripp said.
‘Where’s Ormiston?’ Callanach asked Lively.
‘A few miles east of the city. It’s a mainly residential area,’ Lively said.
‘Describe the scene,’ Callanach directed back towards Tripp.
‘A single white male parked the van and entered a property. Officers noted that all the curtains were drawn, upstairs and down. He was carrying a bag of booze and a few items of food, hood up, gloves on in spite of the heat. And the licence plate doesn’t match the vehicle.’
‘What do we know about the house?’ Callanach asked, texting Ava the details.
‘It belongs to a Mrs Ellen Lavery only she’s been in a retirement home for the past four months so it’s unoccupied, has a for sale board outside. Shouldn’t be anyone in there,’ Tripp said.
‘And the van?’ Callanach asked.
‘Not registered, no tax, no insurance. Looks like the plate has been tampered with.’
‘We’ve got him,’ Callanach said. ‘Where’s the armed response unit?’
‘Two roads out and waiting for you or DI Turner, whoever gets there first. Paramedics are on standby. All units are on a no lights, no sirens warning,’ Tripp said. ‘They’re ready to move on your command.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Grom changed the bandages on the lollipop lady’s hand. He’d taken the finger as cleanly as he could – her bleeding to death was not part of his plan – but it was leaving a sticky trail of half-congealed blood everywhere and frankly it was starting to stink. He’d had enough of that with her toilet habits. He still wasn’t sure if she really couldn’t make it to the bathroom to piss or if she was just torturing him by letting her bladder go whenever and wherever she felt like it. Either way, the air in the house was taking on the thickness and dampness of his father’s stables. If air could hold a colour, then this was ochre.
He boiled the kettle as she slurped the glass of water he’d got her, letting most of it dribble down into her lap, and tipped a fistful of cooking salt into a jug. He’d learned this in the stables too. It seemed now that most of his education had taken place there. Sex, birth, death. How to end life as painlessly as possible. And how to drag it out so that the end, when it came, was as great a relief as it was a defeat. The first time he’d cleaned and packed a wound had been on his father’s horse. The mare had refused to jump a river during a hunt, enraging Grom’s father enough for him to rip a bough from a tree and flay her hindquarters with it. She was lame within two days. It had been Grom’s task to clean the wounds and heal them. Grom intended to do the same with the old woman as he had with the horse, only he’d felt markedly more sympathy for the horse.
He waited until the hot saltwater was at a temperature where it wouldn’t cause burns, then held the stump of her finger in the saline. The lollipop lady moaned and twisted but his grip was inescapable. Then he packed the wound hard with a clean bandage he’d found in a bathroom cupboard and wrapped it back up. The horse had survived another year, which was a better fate than the old woman had coming. The same mare had kicked his father in the chest one December morning when he’d been dragging her out of the stables. There had been a second when Grom had felt close to elated, watching the big man fly through the air helpless, seeing him crash to the ground clutching his sternum, unmoving. Just a few utopian moments in which he’d believed his father was dead, then the bastard had groaned and lifted one arm, and Grom’s world was as bleak as it had always been. His father had lived to tell the tale, albeit with a horseshoe-shaped bruise on his chest. It was the horse who had suffered.
His father had taken the mare out into the woods, tied her to three trees – one noose around her head, a rope around each back leg – to make movement impossible. Then he’d lit a fire under her. It had begun gently enough, some smoke, the crackling of twigs, the wind battering the flames down so that Grom had felt sure it would simply go out and his father would return to his senses. But the old man had thrown on more kindling, then a log, and suddenly the horse was bucking and jumping, unable to shift to either side to avoid the heat, bashing its head on the branches above, slamming its hooves into the tree trunks around. The fire took its time rising, fighting the icy winter air, and the smoke took off down the mountainside, affording the animal no chance of unconsciousness before the flames began licking its flesh. It was the smell that Grom remembered most clearly. The acrid offence of burning hair, replaced only seconds later with charring meat, sooty, coppery with a sauce of running blood. And his father had roared with laughter.
Grom stared at the old woman. He knew now what he was going to do and it was genius. It would make Sem Culpa’s past efforts look like childish crayon drawings of a halloween party. He would cremate the ancient bitch alive, limbs stretched out above the pyre. He just needed to find the perfect location. Somewhere he could film it without the authorities being alerted until he’d completed the task. It would take a couple of days to research and buy what he needed, that was all.
A flicker of movement out on the road caught his attention. He shifted to the curtains to see what was happening. The old woman called out to him. She needed to piss again. He threw his head back, tempted to use his fists and end it all th
ere and then. But he had to wait. Now that he had his masterpiece in mind, he was within a stone’s throw of victory.
Chapter Forty
Lively pulled the car into a street parallel to Moffat Road. Callanach jumped out as Lively parked, a huddle of men and women drawing around him. One of them passed him a stabproof vest and a helmet, another handed over an earpiece. An enforcer had been leant against a wall, big enough that few doors would withstand its force, and a perimeter had been established to stop vehicles entering or leaving the road.
‘You’re to stay in the car,’ Lively told Lance. ‘Stay down, stay still. No getting involved and no taking photos. I’ll come and find you once the scene’s secured, then we’ll make sure you get home.’
‘Got it,’ Lance said, looking around as Lively disappeared into a huddle of bodies.
The area was defined by its greyness, not only the roads and pavements, but the pebble-dashed houses in semi-detached rows. It dripped decline. The ideal place to hide in relatively plain sight. Easy access to the city for the killer’s recent deliveries. Part of Lance was hoping the police would mess the bastard up good and proper. The more rational half, who occasionally attended human rights rallies and wrote about public justice, knew that a trial and a lifetime of incarceration was the only option that separated men from beasts.
Lance scribbled notes as he sat in the back of the car, taking out his mobile and drafting a news release. He hadn’t been told not to write anything, and all he’d promised Lively was not to quote him or take photos. He might have been helping Callanach but he was still a reporter, and it was definitely in the public interest to know about this. So much the better if he got there first.
Lively had left the car windows down for him. Lance stuck his head out as far as he dared without being too obvious, and listened in on the briefing.
‘We’re going in the front and back doors simultaneously. We’ll have officers in position covering neighbouring properties to prevent him entering those and taking alternative or additional hostages. Police marksmen will cover all window and door accesses to the property, so open curtains as you move through each room.’ Lance decided the officer talking was from the Armed Response Unit. Callanach was taking a back seat for now. Lance had rather taken to the detective inspector. In spite of his ridiculous good looks, the woman-charming French accent, and his vaguely distant air – all reasons Lance felt he probably should have disliked him – he was all right. Even for the police.
‘I’ll knock and announce,’ Lance heard Callanach say. ‘The priority is to secure the victim safely. The suspect will have weapons, so disable him as quickly as you can. Julia Stimple is likely to be in shock. We know she has injuries to her hand and one ear, possibly more. No heroics. This man is extraordinarily strong, so high levels of control may be necessary.’
Lance continued to type, giving a brief description of the scene. There were multiple vehicles, at least twenty armed officers, concerned residents being ordered gently but firmly back into their houses. You’d think the inside of the buildings had come alive, so twitchy were the curtains. He saved his draft until he had the final details, and settled back to watch the drama as it unfolded.
‘Right, get in position,’ Callanach ordered. ‘We move on my go.’ He secured his body armour then jogged with the Armed Response Unit to the house in question. The property was deteriorating, paintwork peeling, windows unwashed. There were no lights on that he could see. The officers carrying the enforcer went in front, holding the ram either side. Everyone was in place. There was a momentary silence.
‘Police, open the door immediately,’ Callanach shouted.
Inside a woman shrieked, followed by the sound of furniture turning over, a door slamming.
‘Go, all units go,’ came a voice from within his headset. The enforcer was pulled back, thrust hard forward. Wood splintered but didn’t quite give. It took only a second battering to have the door flying open as the lock went. He heard the back door smash at the same time as the front. From both directions, police stormed the property. There were yells from upstairs, a woman screaming hysterically, sobbing. Police were shouting orders. Callanach took the stairs in a few bounds, pushing through the crowd to see Julia Stimple lying on a bed, covering her face with a pillow.
There was an overwhelming moment of relief that at least this life had been spared, that they’d been able to get to her in time. Whatever she’d suffered, she’d escaped the worst of it.
He made his way through to the next room, seeing drawn weapons and at least three police officers on top of a large male struggling on the floor.
‘Is he armed?’ Callanach asked.
‘Haven’t found anything yet, sir,’ the response came.
‘Right, victim out first to the paramedics, then bring the van to the front and get him straight out. Blanket over his head. I don’t want any photographs appearing on the internet. This needs to stay quiet until we’ve prepared a statement, and Julia Stimple’s children must be the first to know.’
‘I’ll phone the daughter now,’ Lively shouted from the hallway.
Callanach followed the procession of officers helping a hysterical Julia Stimple safely down the stairs.
‘It’s all right now, Julia,’ an officer said. ‘The paramedics are waiting. Your kidnapper is being restrained by officers and he won’t be on the streets again while there’s still life in his body.’
With that Julia let out a tremendous wail, screeching and babbling. Callanach looked around as she was escorted out. The place was warm enough and there was little sign of disturbance. On a table in the kitchen were newspapers with stories about the missing lollipop lady cut out. A small television set was still playing a daytime soap. It looked almost domesticated. The remains of several pizzas were lying on the countertop and there was crockery in the sink waiting to be washed.
Callanach decided to wait outside. He could do nothing else until the murderer had been arrested and processed.
‘One down, one to go, eh sir?’ Lively commented. ‘I got the daughter on the phone, told her the news and she hung up. I’m waiting for her to phone back so I can let her know where her mother’s been taken.’
From the car, Lance watched the unmistakable figure of Julia Stimple being wheeled from house to ambulance, still screaming and crying. He finalised his headline, adding more sensational language than he usually would, and pressed send. Edinburgh could rest more peacefully with one less psychopath on the prowl tonight.
* * *
This was it. The Moderator had waited so long for this moment. It was finally time to open the poll for the next victim. All he’d needed was confirmation that Grom’s part in it was over, and the news channels had been more than forthcoming with that. True, it hadn’t gone the way he’d anticipated, but that didn’t matter now. The stupid Slovenian had fallen into the hands of the police and his lollipop lady victim had apparently survived. The media reports had made it sound as if the police had been utterly heroic. The reality was that Grom must have been incompetent beyond belief to have been followed all the way to Ormiston and caught with the lollipop lady still alive. All the more reason for Sem Culpa to complete her trio of kills and prove herself the ultimate killer. She wouldn’t run scared, he was certain of that. Insane bitch would no doubt have something even more devastating than usual planned, just to taunt Grom as he settled into his prison cell. Their egos were what had made his chosen pair so easy to manipulate. Wanting to kill was a private matter for most, but there were a select few who needed to kill and craved admiration for it. The Moderator had discovered that there were many more candidates for his competition than he’d expected.
The first thing he did was lock down Grom’s access to the website, cancelling his password entry. After that he scrolled through the member details, wiping every mention of Grom from the site – his application, his email address, every communication that had passed between them. Not that he was particularly concerned that Grom would give a
nything away to the police – it certainly wouldn’t reduce his sentence in the circumstances – but better safe than sorry. As for the new poll, he would make it the shortest voting period he could get away with. There was no point waiting any longer. He’d been patient for so long. Months of planning, the hours of work he’d put into bringing everyone together at the right time. All that was left to do was email site users to announce that the final poll was running.
This time there would be no need for graffiti, which was just as well with Grom out of the picture. It had been a useful tactic – getting Sem Culpa and Grom to leave messages around the city, notifying each other what the next kill target was – heating up the competition with the added benefit of publicity. And it had proved vital in assisting the morons at Police Scotland to figure out what was happening, but there was no way he could run the risk of the next victim suddenly leaving town. That wouldn’t work for him at all. This target was to be notified to one person only.
He checked his watch. If he rushed the shopping, he could get back to his beautiful house and spend a couple of hours enjoying it alone before his wife ruined yet another evening. The Moderator uploaded the new poll and set off to find smoked salmon.
Chapter Forty-One
Ava hadn’t made it to Ormiston in time for the raid but she was waiting at the hospital door to meet the ambulance carrying Julia Stimple. It arrived flanked by police cars. She could hear the bellowing of a female voice before the ambulance doors had even opened.
‘I want to see my son! Let me call my boy!’
Ava prepared herself for a long evening trying to calm Julia Stimple down enough to take a statement. At least this meant that the murders of Helen Lott and Emily Balcaskie had been resolved without any further need to collaborate with the criminal at the centre of Joe’s investigation. Ben Paulson had made her deeply uneasy. The whole furtive set-up, that cafe with the girl who looked like a caricature of a twenty-something ‘don’t give a fuck’ female, closing as soon as Paulson and Callanach had exited. It was all way too professional for Ava’s liking. Callanach was in over his head, not that he’d be told.
