by Helen Fields
‘Her mobile?’ Callanach asked.
‘By her bed. Her laptop was on the duvet and switched on. Looks as if she came down to make a drink then just disappeared,’ Rivers said.
‘No signs of a disturbance?’ Callanach asked.
‘Forensics are going round now but we can’t find anything.’
‘Doors, windows?’
‘None broken or damaged. All the doors were shut, although the back wasn’t double-bolted. The husband’s been contacted to return home. Should be here any minute,’ Rivers said.
Callanach went upstairs. The master bedroom was vast. Its carpets looked scarcely walked upon, the tiled en suite had underfloor heating that Callanach could feel rising up his legs. A television screen large enough to have hosted a dinner party on had it been horizontal dominated one wall. Prominent on the dressing table was a picture of a grinning newly wedded husband and wife. Alexina O’Rourke was staring adoringly at her husband, who was raising his glass at some unseen friend or relative, the scene so idealistic it could have been a stock photograph.
Callanach walked to the window that looked out over the back garden. The grounds had received less attention than the interior of the house, the greenery still in the process of flourishing. Some trees and bushes had been planted, a few beds still more earth than stem, and a greenhouse. He opened the window to get a clearer view, staring at the roof.
‘Rivers!’ he shouted. ‘In the garden.’
PC Rivers was out there before Callanach could get downstairs, giving orders to avoid the slivers of glass on the patio.
‘No blood, sir,’ Rivers said. ‘I can see both a rock and a branch on the greenhouse floor. Looks as if they went straight through.’
‘From where?’ Callanach asked, looking up. The nearest tree waved from halfway down the garden. ‘That was no accident, and it might have been enough to disturb Mrs O’Rourke from her tea-making.’ He walked further into the garden. The ground was hard from the summer sun and a remarkably un-Scottish lack of rain. ‘We won’t get footprints,’ Callanach said. ‘Have your team check the perimeter. What about the CCTV?’
‘Playback is password-restricted. We’re hoping the husband will assist when he gets home.’
The front door slammed and fast footsteps echoed through the house.
‘Where is she?’ a voice called. ‘What’s happened to my wife?’
A police constable reached the husband before Callanach could, talking calmly, asking him to stay out of the areas being checked by the forensics team.
‘Mr O’Rourke, I’m Detective Inspector Callanach. Do you have any idea where your wife might have gone unexpectedly? A neighbour’s perhaps, somewhere that she wouldn’t have taken her car.’
‘No, we haven’t lived here long. Why are you here? I don’t understand. Who called you? Alexina was feeling unwell today. She was working from home.’
Callanach led him into the lounge, asking PC Rivers to make tea.
‘At this stage we have no clear idea what’s happened. It would help if you could show us the CCTV. Is it working?’
‘Then you’ll answer my questions?’ Mr O’Rourke asked. He was shaking, gulping. Callanach felt the pressure of needing to demand speed and compliance without being unsympathetic.
‘I will. And please call me Luc. I know this is hard, but the sooner we figure out where your wife is, the better.’
‘I’m Wesley,’ he replied, standing up. ‘The CCTV is controlled from my study.’ He walked through the hallway to the door opposite the lounge. On the study wall was a keypad, above which was a black monitor. ‘It’s off,’ he said. ‘Has one of your people touched this?’ His tone was accusatory, frantic.
‘No. We wouldn’t have turned it off. We were waiting for you to get home to help with it.’
‘For God’s sake, Lexy,’ he yelled, slamming a fist into a mahogany desk. ‘She must have turned it off. She hated it, always argued that we shouldn’t live watched by cameras. I’ll bet she did it the second I left the house.’
‘Can you tell me what time the last images were recorded?’ Callanach asked.
Wesley O’Rourke reset the system, went to playback and the screen lit up showing four different cameras, three outside the house at different points, and one revealing the downstairs hallway through which they’d just walked.
‘There, 8.30 a.m.,’ O’Rourke said, pointing at the lower right-hand side of the screen. ‘Then it all goes blank.’
‘Did anyone else know your wife didn’t like the CCTV? Would she have discussed turning it off with say a cleaner, gardener? Even a relative?’
O’Rourke shook his head, lowering himself into a leather chair at the desk and putting his head in his hands.
‘We didn’t socialise much, to tell the truth. We’ve just bought this place. Alexina is career-driven. Works a sixty-hour week. I’m not much better. Neither of our families are local and we don’t have staff. We’re not at home often enough to make much mess. What is it you think has happened, Detective Inspector? I’d rather know.’
Callanach gave the briefest explanation he could. O’Rourke sat quietly, unable to meet Callanach’s eyes, hands gripping the arms of the chair, nodding occasionally.
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ O’Rourke asked. ‘I mean, you were right there, outside the door. You could have just warned her. I’d have stayed at home. Kept her safe. She sure as hell wouldn’t have turned the CCTV off if she’d known.’
‘We had officers posted outside your house, as we have done with all the potential victims. We didn’t want to scare people. There were so many possible targets,’ Callanach said.
‘We’re supposed to be going away this weekend,’ Wesley muttered. ‘I’ve booked us into the Buccleuch Arms in St Boswells. If anything happens to her …’
‘Sir, back fence has been cut,’ PC Rivers shouted from the hallway. Callanach cursed the timing and the bluntness, stepping out and asking another constable to look after Wesley O’Rourke while he went to check the discovery himself.
A section of the fencing, four foot high and three foot across, had been cut so that the wire could be lifted and entrance or exit facilitated. The other side of the fence was a neighbouring property’s garden. Callanach stepped through onto the pristine lawn, greener and springier than the O’Rourkes’, obviously tended with an efficient but utter disregard for the need to preserve water through the height of summer.
‘It has sprinklers,’ Callanach said, walking further into the grounds. ‘Stay back,’ he told those following him, stepping carefully to the side, away from the natural route to the back gate. From the side view, it was easier to see where the blades of grass had recently been pushed down, sporting a single line of indentation from the fence to the back gate. ‘Someone came through this way recently enough for the grass not to have sprung back up yet.’
‘That’s a wheelbarrow track, sir. The garden shed’s been broken into. Makes sense now,’ Rivers said.
‘Organise door-to-door enquiries, constable. Whoever has Mrs O’Rourke, and we must now assume it’s our murderer, isn’t taking her through the streets in a wheelbarrow. Someone must have seen a vehicle. Reduce the other teams to only one per potential target, get the spare officers here following this up. I want every person in the area interviewed. Sem Culpa drove through these roads, parked nearby, and came out pushing a goddamn barrow with a body in it. Somebody saw something.’
Callanach phoned Ava. It was a brief call, neither of them having the time or inclination to expend excess words. Every potential target would continue to be watched in case Sem Culpa had additional plans, or on the off-chance that it hadn’t been her work at all. In the wake of the Julia Stimple mistake, neither Turner nor Callanach was willing to risk having their heads turned while a different target was left vulnerable. Between Grom and Sem Culpa, the city resources were stretched to their limits, and still they were being outsmarted.
Salter rang as Callanach was giving instructions to officers a
t the O’Rourke home to ensure that Wesley O’Rourke was not left alone, and that someone stayed near the home telephone line in case either his wife or her abductor made contact.
‘Sir, been checking out your abductee. Got a few hits on the search engine. Some reports on her newest cases, it seems she had recently started writing a human rights blog, and it looks as if she was shortlisted for some legal award. Sem Culpa would have been able to find the articles relatively easily, although it’s right to say there were a number of other possible targets more prominent than her. Looks like she was really unlucky.’
‘You found nothing to indicate that Mrs O’Rourke might have had any other reason to suddenly disappear, I suppose?’ Callanach asked.
‘No. She and Mr O’Rourke have been married four years. Moved from another area of Edinburgh recently. Financials are stable. Big mortgage, but then they’re young, both professionals, good income. She’s from quite an affluent family. Public school, mother alive, father deceased but he was a judge. Seems to be carrying on the family line,’ Salter said.
‘The husband is very shaken. I’ve posted a constable to look after him but I’m worried he might do something unpredictable.’
‘Do you want me to head over to the house and wait with him, sir? I’m happy to.’
‘Going stir-crazy already, Detective Constable? I think you’re better off where you are. I need someone I trust managing the incident room.’ There was a disappointed sigh from the end of the line. Callanach lowered his voice. ‘Salter, is DCI Edgar there or have his men moved?’
‘Still in the building. Do you want me to let you know if there’s any change?’
‘Would you? Only keep it quiet. And don’t pass that on to anyone else,’ Callanach said.
‘I won’t, sir. It’ll be nice to perform at least one useful task today,’ Salter said.
‘Looking after that baby is performing a useful task. We’ll all need something to look forward to when this is over. You’re carrying the first baby born under my chain of command. The very least I expect is to have it named after me.’
‘I’m not sure how that’ll work if it isn’t a boy, sir.’
‘Put a “y” on the end. Call me if there’s anything else.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
Ava took the call straight after Callanach had finished briefing her about Alexina O’Rourke’s disappearance. She was in her car in seconds, flying towards the Royal Infirmary, ignoring the speed restrictions, fingernails cutting into the steering wheel, concentrating only on getting breath in and out of her body.
Leaving her car diagonally across two parking spaces, she ran. Accident and Emergency was surprisingly quiet. Ava was given immediate access, her only delay was waiting for the doctor to update her before she could see her mother. Dr Nkiru Adisa was tall, elegant and extremely dark-skinned. She reminded Ava of a warrior waiting for a storm. When Dr Adisa told Ava to sit as she explained what was happening, Ava felt tiny and childlike, clumsy in her seat, wanting to fidget, unable to concentrate. Dr Adisa repeated herself three times without frustration or rush, as if that was the way it always was.
‘Did you want to wait for any other family members to go in with you?’ Dr Adisa asked.
‘My father’s on his way but he went down to Newcastle last night for a board meeting. Some charity thing he does. I’m not sure how long it’ll take him to get here. We thought we had so much more time,’ Ava said.
‘I understand. These things are unpredictable, I’m afraid. There’s no way your mother’s consultant could have anticipated this,’ Dr Adisa said. ‘I’ll make sure a nurse is close by in case you need anything.’
Ava waited for her to leave before entering her mother’s cubicle, forcing back tears before talking. The machines on either side of the bed delivered pointless news. ‘I’m here, Mum,’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’
Ava’s mother’s eyes flickered restlessly for a few seconds, her hand juddering beneath Ava’s as if she were swimming to the surface. Then she awoke.
‘Ava, my darling. Has your riding lesson finished already?’
‘No, Mum. You’re in the hospital. The doctor called me. Do you remember the paramedics bringing you in the ambulance? You were taken ill whilst shopping in the city,’ Ava said.
‘Oh, silly, I just felt a little dizzy. Stupid fuss. Did I dirty my coat when I fell?’
‘Not at all,’Ava said, brushing hair away from her mother’s eyes. ‘Your coat’s fine. How do you feel?’
‘I have rather a headache, I’m afraid. My own fault. I ate cheese last night. It always ends in a migraine. Should you not be at work, sweetheart?’
‘My day off,’ Ava lied, feeling the weight of her mobile in her pocket, praying silently that it wouldn’t ring and drag her away. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Oh Ava, look. What a beautiful ring!’ her mother said, running her fingertips over the alien engagement ring. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
Ava wanted to remind her of the evening they’d spent celebrating, of the promises Joe had made that the wedding would be in Scotland. And of the conversation she’d had with her mother about where they would shop for a wedding dress. But a blood clot in her mother’s brain, a rare but known side-effect of the chemotherapy apparently, had caused her to collapse, stealing those memories and bringing with it a tide of pain.
‘Yes, I got engaged,’ Ava said. ‘You’ll have to choose a new outfit for the wedding.’ Ava smiled, swiping at the side of her face with the back of her hand.
‘Oh yes, we’ll have so much shopping to do. I have cancer, don’t I?’ her mother asked.
‘You do,’ Ava said, the words a gulp in her throat. ‘But you’re coping with it well. You, um, you’ve been really strong.’
‘Don’t cry, darling,’ her mother said, gripping Ava’s fingers for a second before the effort sapped her strength. ‘It’s not so bad, you know.’
‘Oh God, Mum. I’m sorry. I’ve been so stubborn. I pushed you away when I still needed you, and now …’
‘Do you remember when you were seven and you sang a solo in front of the whole school? That little scoundrel Jock Young ran up behind you and lifted your skirt. Any other child would have run off sobbing. You looked at him as if he’d crawled out from under a rock, neatened your skirt and instructed the music teacher to begin the introduction again. The headmistress called me later to say that Jock had a received a black eye but was too scared to reveal its source.’
‘How do you remember that?’ Ava gasped, letting the tears run free as she stared into her mother’s smiling face.
‘It was the day everyone else realised what I already knew. You’re a force to be reckoned with, Ava Turner. You took my breath away that day, as you have done ever since. I always wanted a gentler life for you, but I was wrong, you were made of sterner stuff. I’m proud of you. Don’t cry for me, my love. Life goes on.’
Her fingers fluttered, and her mouth slackened momentarily before regaining its proper shape. The machine gave a warning beep then settled again.
‘I’ll get the doctor, Mum,’ Ava said.
‘Are you engaged to that nice man?’ her mother asked, taking hold of Ava’s hand once more.
‘Yes, Mum,’ Ava said. ‘He is nice.’
Her mother was breathing more rapidly, her shoulders tensing, the tendons in her neck like guy-wires between head and body.
‘Let me go, Mum,’ Ava whispered, pulling her hand from her mother’s grip. ‘I have to get Dr Adisa.’
‘Nothing she can do,’ her mother replied. ‘Take my coat to the dry-cleaner, would you, dear?’
‘I will,’ Ava promised, as her mother shook beneath her hands.
‘So glad you aren’t marrying that Joe boy. Pompous twit. Never liked him. You were right to choose that other one. The way he looked at you.’
‘Dr Adisa,’ Ava called. Her mother’s eyes were rolling, her chest heaving as she struggled for breath. ‘I need help in here!’
Dr Adisa
burst through the gap in the curtains, followed by two more nurses, moving Ava aside with practised speed, ushering her out as a stream of medical terminology flew between them. She stood mid-corridor, listening to the movement of machinery, the short bursts of activity, the bullets of instructions flying. The final blow, when it came, was the silence. Then a voice delivered the time and the first of the medics reappeared from inside the curtained cubicle. Ava fell.
DCI Joseph Edgar was in a telephone conference with the Crown Prosecution Service in London, in anticipation of the arrest due to take place that evening. When he’d finished that, he had another telecon diarised with an advisor at 10 Downing Street. The PM was keen for some news to placate a selection of elite party donors who had been targeted in The Unsung’s monetary diversion. Everyone was waiting for him to deliver. Then there was the need for some publicity, and to that end one of his men had ensured that a photographer, as coincidentally as they could convincingly be, happened to be in the right place at the right time. Joe Edgar intended to be the one leading Ben Paulson out in handcuffs.
Ava was calling. He considered answering it. There were still a few free minutes before he needed to make his next call, but she would want to chat. It was bothersome. He hated having his focus dulled when he was at work. He switched her call to voicemail. He could call her back in the evening and invite her out to celebrate. He took the next call, reassuring a surly Prime Minister’s advisor that all would be well, then listened to his messages whilst walking to brief his technical team. That was part of the problem with heading up an active arm of the Cyber Security Department. It wasn’t just basic follow the clues and find the bad guy stuff. When you found the bad guy you had to retrieve the data, be able to understand it, present it in a comprehensible evidential form and secure a conviction. The technical element of his squad were the ones who made or broke cases. It didn’t matter how good the investigative policing had been if there was nothing to show for it at the end of the day. There were two messages from members of his team confirming acts completed and positions secured. The last message was from Ava.
