Perfect Prey

by Helen Fields

  ‘I appreciate how much you’ve already done, but could you come over?’ Lance asked.

  ‘Actually I was kind of making plans. Catch a bit of sunshine, try to think about something a bit more, well, just anything but this.’

  ‘I can’t do this on my own, Ben, you know that. And after the way I messed things up announcing they’d caught the other killer, I think I owe Callanach. Just one hour. If I haven’t come up with anything by then, you’re free to go and do whatever you like.’

  ‘Morning, gorgeous,’ Polly said, walking into the kitchen wearing a pair of Ben’s boxers and not much else.

  ‘Ben, I’m sorry. You have company. What time is it?’ Ben could hear the rustle of Lance’s sleeve. ‘It’s only half past six. I’d lost track. Listen, about this morning, I wouldn’t ask only …’

  ‘I get it. I want to help him, too. I’ll be at yours by seven thirty, okay? You’d better be able to cook eggs,’ Ben said.

  ‘That I can, son. However you like them.’ Lance hung up.

  DCI Edgar had his squad primed and ready to go. That evening would be their final move, and this time they would get all the evidence required to put the leader of The Unsung away for long enough that his Californian drawl would have faded beyond recognition on his release. As would his looks and his arrogance. Prison had a miraculous way of reducing everyone to the basest level. No more hiding behind an oversized IQ or that ridiculous Robin Hood-styled excuse for criminality.

  His briefing over by 8 a.m., it was time to ensure that nothing went wrong. For that he needed one final meeting, although it couldn’t take place at the station. He was well aware that in spite of clearly communicated warnings, DI Callanach had continued to correspond with Ben Paulson. Edgar hadn’t expected much better. A long evening spent reading Callanach’s file complete with documents relating to the rape allegation had given him all the background he’d needed. Callanach was a risk-taker, a bit of a maverick, more comfortable with the lower ranks than with his superiors. The idiot had a death wish going back a number of years – either that or a hero complex, Joe Edgar didn’t really care which. Callanach would be finished at roughly the same time Ben Paulson was getting his first taste of prison food. What had made more interesting reading was Interpol’s psychologist’s report, compiled as part of an obligatory process once Callanach’s trial had collapsed but before he’d transferred to Police Scotland. The former agent might still be sporting his movie star looks, but he hadn’t emerged unscathed. Edgar should never have gained access to such personal documentation, of course, but the report had been released to Police Scotland during the assessment process and Ben Paulson wasn’t the only person who could get his hands on well-protected information. Life was easier with friends in the upper echelons.

  At 10 a.m. Edgar walked into the Augustine United Church in the city’s Old Town, admiring its blackened brick facade and lofty arched windows, but he wasn’t there to pray any more than he was to study architecture. Every August the church transformed to allow two performance areas for the Fringe Festival as well as a conveniently crowded and anonymous coffee shop. Edgar had no time for the Fringe. He recalled his one trip there in his early twenties when he and Ava had been dating and combined it with a visit to her parents. What had passed as comedy had been pitiable and he’d endured a mind-numbing three-hour play on the theme of feminism. The crowds of strangely attired, easily pleased audience members had been much too comfortable with invading his personal space. Leaving had been the best part of his experience. Ava, to his endless mystification, had loved it.

  His contact arrived soon after him.

  ‘You all set for tonight?’ DCI Edgar asked.

  ‘All set,’ was the simple reply.

  ‘The computer has to be running, all the security has to have been bypassed. If Paulson gets an opportunity to close it down …’

  ‘We’ve been through this.’

  ‘We’re going through it again,’ Edgar said. ‘If he shuts the system down, we’ll never get it started again. And if he presses his alarm keys, all the drives will be irreversibly wiped. He has to be away from the computer when we get there. Restrain him if you have to.’

  ‘It’s not the first time I’ve done this. You just get there on time. I understand the technical details.’

  ‘Do you understand that my career stands or falls on tonight’s outcome?’ Edgar asked, finishing his watery coffee and grimacing. ‘We’ve got several other suspected members of The Unsung being watched. Two more in the UK, three in China, and twelve in the USA. The CIA are watching our every move. If this gets screwed up then every major power in the world will be given my name as designated scapegoat.’

  ‘I know all this. You do remember it was me who got the first solid information on The Unsung? Until then all you had was rumour and suspicion. When you get your man, I expect an equal share of the credit. Have the squad there at 7 p.m. sharp. And keep Callanach out of the way.’

  ‘The Detective Inspector has more than enough to keep him busy for a while. That’s why we chose tonight. There’s an attack imminent related to the recent murders. Callanach won’t have a clue what’s happening to Paulson. Silver lining to every situation, I suppose.’

  ‘And I have your word I’ll get recognition for what I’ve done?’

  ‘Of course,’ Edgar said, putting sunglasses on before walking out into Edinburgh’s too-brief summer sun. Not that he’d have to worry about seeing in the autumn in Scotland. When Ava’s mother passed away, which wouldn’t be too long judging by how fast she was fading, Joe was certain he could persuade Ava to move to London. He sure as hell wasn’t prepared to contemplate living anywhere else.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  By 11 a.m. every team had phoned in to report on their potential target, save for two. Five teams had made enquiries and confirmed their target as being away from Edinburgh. Two were in Strasbourg, one was on a prison visit in Spain and a further two were holidaying long-haul. It reduced the field a little, but not enough to provide substantial additional cover, and that was without accounting for the teams they had out visiting each known lollipop lady in person to verify their safety. Every officer in the city was trying to do three jobs at once and there still weren’t enough hands on deck.

  Callanach’s phone rang. ‘Sir, PC Singh here. The lawyer Richard Blaines is taking holiday leave but remaining in the city and residing with his girlfriend at her house in Murrayfield. We’re on our way there now.’

  ‘Stay posted outside the property until you receive notification that this is over,’ Callanach said. ‘And follow Mr Blaines if he leaves the house.’ Callanach ended the call and dialled the only other outstanding team. ‘This is Callanach. What’s going on your end?’

  ‘Nothing much, sir,’ PC Rivers said. ‘Alexina O’Rourke was expected to leave home this morning and travel into work but her car was still there at 10 a.m. The husband left at half eight, so we called her place of work. Apparently she rang in sick and won’t be available today.’

  ‘You haven’t seen anyone else enter since the husband left?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘No movement at all, sir.’

  ‘And have you had eyes on her at all?’

  ‘We saw her walk past an upstairs window earlier but it was less than a second’s view and from a distance. It’s a huge house, long driveway. One of those new executive homes. Must be at least six bedrooms. There’s an alarm system and a CCTV camera on the outside overlooking the driveway, so I’m guessing she’s pretty safe in there,’ Rivers said.

  ‘Keep running observations. If there’s been no further movement by noon, send someone in to ring the doorbell. Ask for directions or something, but don’t scare her. Just make contact.’

  Callanach reported in to Overbeck who, for once, seemed to have run out of expletives, then he called Ava.

  ‘Nothing?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ he confirmed. ‘Waiting is always the worst part. Are you with DC Tripp?’


  ‘I am,’ Ava said. ‘How do you cope with his enthusiasm?’

  ‘I give him endless tasks. He’s never complained yet. Don’t be fooled though. Somewhere inside that perky, irrepressible exterior, there’s a Sergeant Lively just waiting to get out. A couple more decades of police work should grind him down,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Maybe I should introduce him to Natasha? She’s dry enough to sap anyone’s exuberance.’

  Callanach laughed. ‘Have you told Natasha your news yet?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m waiting to see her in person. She’ll be back soon. I think some drinking may be in order. We should fix a date to get together.’

  Callanach bit his tongue. If Joe Edgar had anything to do with it, Callanach would be the last person invited for drinks.

  ‘There’s another call coming in. Keep me updated,’ Callanach said, hitting one icon and swiping another on the screen. ‘This is DI Callanach.’

  ‘Luc, it’s Lance.’

  ‘Lance, I can’t speak now. I need to keep communications open.’

  ‘So I gather. I spent an hour with Ben this morning. He told me what happened. That’s why I’m calling. Ben’s gone to work but I’m going to meet him again this evening. I can’t get hold of him on his usual mobile number. Do you have any other contact details?’

  ‘Not unless you go to his office, which I don’t recommend. He’s still under surveillance. Is it really that urgent?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘The whole lawyer thing feels wrong to me. I mean, more than one person choosing such an unpopular profession? Ben tried to access the data regarding the number of entries and break them down. He couldn’t take his laptop to work so he rerouted the emails to me. I’ve had several alerts come in, none of which make any sense to me at all.’

  ‘Lance, I know you’re still feeling bad about releasing the information about Julia Stimple, but you can stop now. We’re on top of this, I promise. Ben is often uncontactable at work. Wait until the end of the day. He’ll check his messages when he finishes. I’m not sure how figuring out how many people voted for a lawyer as the target will help, but I appreciate the effort,’ Callanach said.

  ‘All right. If you’re sure,’ Lance said. ‘Once this is over, I’ll take you for a ride on the bike. See if we can’t find something in common other than human misery.’

  Chapter Fifty

  Sem Culpa was ready. She had struck gold finding an abandoned tannery that still had the basic infrastructure she needed. The trick was ensuring that she gave herself enough time. Last night she’d bought a new webcam and some basic lighting, together with a generator. Sadly the previous tannery owners had remembered to turn off the power. She was happy to trade that, though, for the fact that there was a water source and good enough mobile reception to stream the kill online. All she needed was a water vat with a hook and pulley system overhead, and the tannery provided both. Boiling a human to death had been a celebrated art centuries ago. It was a shame, she thought, that the world had forsaken so many of its old ways. Such inventive punishments were art forms. Forget sketches and photographs, leaked autopsy reports. The only sure way to secure her place in history was to broadcast her work in progress. Specifically with access to audio as well as visual – for her audience to hear the victim plead, argue, bribe, hate. And scream. When there were no words left to say, all anyone would hear were the screams. Sem Culpa felt the heat of it, making her face flush, her hands sweat.

  Now all she needed was to lure the victim out of her bedroom and into her back garden. Her plan, luckily fluid, was relatively simple. She loaded the gun, picked up a rock, and threw it from her position in the bushes into a pane of the greenhouse.

  The anticipated curtain twitch came seconds later, then the window opened and a face peered out. Sem Culpa couldn’t see the facial expression, but she imagined a frown, followed by a rolling of eyes. One more thing to take care of in the never-ending to-do list of life.

  She waited, gun sight to her eye, body tensed to absorb the kickback, but the back door never opened. It was unacceptable. She couldn’t fail now. Not when so many plans had been made. This hadn’t been easy. Negotiating her exit point had been the most difficult thing, especially given that she hadn’t known until this morning that Alexina O’Rourke wasn’t going to work today. Sem Culpa had had a route planned, intent on following Mrs O’Rourke until she could overtake and brake, causing the lawyer to crash into the back of her vehicle. After that, it would simply have been a question of inviting Alexina into the car, or climbing into hers, to exchange insurance details and producing the gun. It was supposed to have been a clean abduction. Now this. In some ways it added to the story. Her brilliance on her feet, whatever the circumstances. How unflappable she was. How superior. And she’d put too much work into it to be screwed over now.

  Sem Culpa picked up a stray branch and hurled it at the same pane in the greenhouse, enlarging the hole and making a noise that no one could reasonably ignore. No curtain movement this time. But she waited.

  It took only seconds – perhaps Alexina had already come downstairs – but this time the lady of the house came out into the garden. Sem Culpa didn’t hesitate. She waited for Alexina to step clear of the back door, breathed out, in and out again, then fired. The shot was perfect. Straight into the thigh as planned, the dart sinking into the fleshiest part of the muscle to deliver its load of paralytic agent. The drugs would work on her vocal cords as well, preventing screaming almost immediately.

  Alexina let out a gasp as the tranquilliser dart found its mark – more shock than pain in the first instant – and after that everything was glorious slow motion. Her hand moved gracefully downwards, her fingers finding the dart, wasting precious seconds as her brain decided whether or not to pull it out. By then her eyes had been upward looking, searching for the source of the attack, her head starting to nod, her legs slowly caving in. It was a tragic ballet.

  Sem Culpa moved in. The house was huge, the garden designed for the sort of socialising that only up-and-coming, motivated people bothered doing. Had Sem Culpa not intervened, this garden would have been the scene of drinks parties, attempts at recapturing youth by building a firepit, some idiot thinking their guitar skills were worthy of an audience, caterers sheltering discreetly in the kitchen until required. Now the landscaping would forever be the place of a disappearance. Tragedy. Mystery. Devastation.

  Alexina’s eyes stared up from the ground, confused and questioning. Sem Culpa rolled her onto her side while she prepared to exit. It would be beyond ironic if the woman choked on her own tongue whilst paralysed and en route to her execution. There had been a wheelbarrow in the shed, not that either Alexina with her illustrious career nor her equally suited, briefcase-hugging husband would have dreamt of lifting a finger. That shed would be strictly the gardener’s domain. It had been Sem Culpa’s only concern – that a groundsman might suddenly appear – but not today. Today the gods were with her.

  She took hold of Alexina under the arms, careful not to damage her. The neuromuscular-blocking drugs would prevent Alexina from moving, but she would still feel pain, and Sem Culpa was saving that for later. Once Alexina was in the wheelbarrow – after some folding and shoving – Sem Culpa covered her with a tarpaulin, threw the gun on top, and wheeled her to the side of the property, returning only to shut the back door. The more time she bought herself the better, should anyone turn up later in the day.

  The normal side gate was too risky as it shared a passageway with next door, but at the rear of the property was a wire fence which led into a different garden. From there Sem Culpa could exit through that neighbour’s back gate. She had already checked that they’d left for work. The fence was high, designed with security in mind, but wire could be cut, which was how Sem Culpa had got in earlier. She pulled the wire aside, pushed the wheelbarrow through, and carefully pulled some covering branches back in place. She’d even piled up some foliage to layer over the top of the tarpaulin, disguising the body shape. Sem Culpa pu
lled her cap down firmly over her ears. Her rented four-by-four was parked two gardens away. As she went, she heard a distant doorbell ring, twice, three times, but by then she was opening the boot of the car and shifting the contents of the wheelbarrow inside, looking to the world like nothing more than a casual worker disposing of garden cuttings.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Callanach knew something was wrong from the wobble of the man’s voice, that hadn’t been there during the earlier telephone call.

  ‘PC Rivers again, sir. We’ve tried the doorbell at Alexina O’Rourke’s house. She’s not answering. Also, we’ve obtained her home telephone number and she’s not picking that up either.’

  ‘Do you have her mobile number?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘We’re currently contacting her law offices to obtain that.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Callanach said. ‘Straight in. Smash a window if you have to. It’s 12.13 p.m. by my watch. Call me back within ten minutes to update me.’

  ‘Will do, sir,’ PC Rivers said.

  Callanach got in his car and began to drive.

  By the time he arrived at the O’Rourke’s address half a mile north of Murrayfield golf course, there were two marked police cars and a forensics van at the scene. The house was new, one of a handful on a site where an older property had been demolished. It had an austere luxury that indicated a house not troubled by children, hobbies or carelessness. Callanach found PC Rivers in the kitchen at the rear of the house.

  ‘What do we know?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘She’s not here, sir,’ Rivers said.

  ‘I got that,’ Callanach said. ‘What else?’

  Rivers pointed to a cup next to the kettle. In it was a teabag, spoon ready and waiting to stir. Callanach put a hand to the side of the kettle. It was lukewarm, boiled a while ago now. To the side of that, with the clingfilm peeled back and a single bite taken, was a chicken sandwich next to a scrap of paper. Callanach opened it up and read the note which could only have been left by Alexina O’Rourke’s husband. He set it down again, gently, almost wishing he hadn’t read the contents. It would be hard enough to break the news to Mr O’Rourke without having just read what might prove to be their last precious communication.