by Helen Fields
‘Where is he now?’ Ben asked.
‘Still in custody,’ Callanach said. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours left to charge or release.’
‘I have things to do.’ Ben stood up. ‘When this is over, maybe we could get a beer or something? All of us. Say thank you to DI Turner from me, would you Luc? If she hadn’t phoned to warn me about Polly and the raid I’d be facing a couple of decades in prison. And it’s not just me. There are members of The Unsung worldwide and all any of us are trying to do is a little bit of good. If Polly had got into my system, there’d be a lot of other people in trouble. Just shows what a sucker I was to let my guard down.’
‘Was it Jane Austen who wrote, “We are all fools in love”? I think it was. Sorry how it worked out with Polly. You deserve better,’ Lance said. ‘I’ll walk down with you.
Callanach took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, both of you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate everything you did to help.’
Lance walked over to him, reaching an arm around Callanach’s shoulders to pull him into a hug. ‘We all did our best. You, me and Ben. At the end of the day, a life was saved. You have to try to see the positives.’ He let go and retreated to Ben, who took Lance’s arm to help him hobble out. Quietly, they left.
Callanach sat down wishing he had been more forgiving, wondering what he’d have done in Lance’s place. There was a knock and DS Lively put his head round the door.
‘Christie Salter is out of surgery. Thought you’d want to know,’ Lively said.
‘Is she stable?’ Callanach asked.
‘There’s a good chance she’ll survive,’ Lively said. ‘Her husband’s with her. He’s a good man. I’d put money on her pulling through. Salter’s a tough one.’ Callanach put his head in his hands. Lively walked in, kicking the door shut, standing hands on hips. ‘Cases go to shit sometimes. That’s how this works. You can’t save everyone, can’t always get there in time. And no one gets extra luck just because their face should be on one of those crappy aftershave adverts.’
‘Thanks for that, Sergeant,’ Callanach said, wondering how things had gone so badly wrong that his bitter, sarcastic detective sergeant was offering words of consolation.
‘Just sayin’. Get over yourself, sir. One murderer is dead, another’s in custody. If Salter hadn’t gone to Gladys Talthwaite’s house, Grom wouldn’t have stolen the police car and heard your location over the radio. Without him turning up, God knows what would have happened. You saved Mrs O’Rourke’s life. Your team has worked every hour they could squeeze out of the standard twenty-four in a day. You owe us all a drink, is what I’m thinking.’
‘Point taken, DS Lively. And I don’t suppose you know where DI Turner is, do you?’
‘Gone on leave, so I hear. Turns out her mother passed today.’
‘Of course,’ Callanach said. ‘Get the team together, would you? You’re right about that drink.’
Chapter Seventy
It was a Sunday when Ava rang to ask if she could visit him. Her voice was flatter than usual, and he’d had to restrain himself from asking if she was all right. How could she be? Her mother’s funeral had come and gone, family and close friends only. Callanach had stayed away, giving Ava the distance she’d made it clear she needed. Even he had taken a few days off, surfacing only to pay his respects to the families of the victims as they were debriefed. No mention was made of Wesley O’Rourke’s part in it, washed away into the realms of unconfirmed suspicion and speculation. Then there had been a visit to see Alexina O’Rourke, interrupting a session with the psychologist tasked with helping her come to terms with her new life. She would not walk again, the damage to her skin, flesh and tendons so severe that even with grafts the pain and stretching would make movement impossible. A lifetime of pain. It didn’t bear thinking about. The disfigurement was a burden beyond what most people would find tolerable. She had asked only one question after Callanach had finished updating her about Sem Culpa and Grom. He’d expected her to want to know about her husband, or the trial process. But she’d asked something he hadn’t seen coming.
‘Assisted suicide’s not likely to be made legal in Scotland any time soon, I’m guessing. Will my mother be safe from prosecution if she comes with me to Switzerland?’
Callanach had answered as best he could, trying to keep his responses impartial, emotionless but he’d emerged from that meeting to a world that looked grey in spite of the sunshine, cold in spite of the heat.
Voices from the hallway gave away Ava’s presence and he opened the door to find her in animated conversation with Bunny.
‘I’ll let you go then,’ Bunny said to Ava. ‘And if you ever want your make-up done, just text me. We could have a girly evening together.’
‘That would be nice, thank you,’ Ava said. Callanach stood back to let her into his flat, waiting a moment to speak to Bunny.
‘Before you go,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t behave well. It’s just—’
‘No need,’ Bunny said. ‘Wouldn’t have worked out anyway – I hate French food.’ She managed a bright smile and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘I can still knock though, if I have another power cut?’
‘You can knock for anything at all,’ Callanach said.
Ava was making a cafetiere of coffee by the time he walked back into his flat. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen and watched as she messed up every surface in a period of less than thirty seconds.
‘You haven’t checked your messages today, have you?’ she asked, handing him two mugs which he assumed he had been designated to carry.
Callanach had been to the gym, on a strict regime of exercising only his arms until his coccyx was fully healed. His mobile had been on silent all morning.
‘No one called my landline,’ he said, setting the mugs on the table as Ava followed with milk and the coffee. ‘It can’t be that urgent.’
‘Actually it’s about Wesley O’Rourke,’ Ava said. ‘He’s been arrested for possession and distribution of indecent images. They found it on his work email. Fairly serious stuff, by all accounts. He could get up to five years, and given the type of offences he’ll be inside for, it won’t be easy time either. He’s completely denying it, Lively says. O’Rourke reckons it’s a set-up, not that anyone’s listening. Wouldn’t have thought he was the type, personally.’
Callanach couldn’t trust himself to speak. Ben was more than capable of remotely accessing another computer. More than that, it settled a debt, allowing Lance to come to terms with the decision he’d made. Callanach knew he could ask, but they’d never tell him the truth. Friends protected one another that way. He realised it was time to pick up the phone and apologise to Lance.
‘Have you heard from Joe?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Ava said, ‘and I don’t expect to. It was as much my fault as his. I used him to make peace with my mother when I found out she was dying. I restarted a relationship I knew was wrong for me, to be what I thought she wanted. I’m not sure how much more wrong I could have been.’
‘I shouldn’t feel too bad on Joe’s account,’ Callanach said. ‘He can take care of himself. What you did was understandable. Everyone is irrational in the face of grief.’
‘Actually I always knew Joe was capable of betraying me. That’s why it didn’t really hurt. But you, on the other hand, I thought you were my friend.’
Callanach had been pouring the coffee. He put the cafetiere back down on the table and straightened up to look at Ava.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘I mean the beating Joe’s men gave you. The one you failed to tell me about. Did it not occur to you that I was entitled to know what sort of man I was planning on spending the rest of my life with?’
‘You think you’d have listened? I seem to recall you not being terribly rational, certainly not when it came to your relationship.’
‘My mother was dying,’ Ava said. ‘Of course I wasn’t bloody well rational. I had a matter of months to make up for the years I’d
spent pushing her away.’
‘I get it,’ Callanach said. ‘What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me about your mother right from the start? I would have supported you.’
Ava stood up. ‘How could I ask you to help me repair a stupid rift with my mother when yours deserted you when you needed her most? Every time I thought about having that conversation with you, I felt like a spoilt brat. I’ve spent years not valuing the one thing you want more than anything else.’
Callanach reached a hand out to her. She took a step back in response. ‘You were protecting me by dealing with it alone? No one is tough enough for that. Not even you.’
Ava bit her lip, trying to stop the tears from falling, and failing.
‘I came round to talk about it,’ she said. ‘Then I met Bunny, and I felt like maybe you’d finally been able to move on from—’
‘Nothing happened between us,’ Callanach said. He stepped over the coffee table, putting an arm round Ava’s shoulders and pulling her into his chest. ‘Nothing that meant anything. It was a mistake. I’d just met Joe, and I thought if you were making the effort to build a life outside the police then maybe I should too.’
‘What Joe said about reading your psychological assessments – I’m sorry. He was convinced there was something between us. It was jealousy.’
Callanach closed his eyes and held Ava while she wiped her face free of tears, feeling a peace he hadn’t experienced for more than eighteen months. A sense of home, of finally being in the right place.
‘Ava,’ he said. ‘The reason I stopped things with Bunny, and why I’ve avoided you since you got together with Joe …’
Her mobile rang. She took it from her pocket, frowning at the screen.
‘It’s Superintendent Overbeck,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Luc, I’ve got to take it. Give me one minute.’
She stepped into the kitchen. Callanach walked to the window and looked down to the street below. Normal life. People going out for a meal, or home to a loved one. People with a reason to leave the office and rush home. Perhaps it was time to let himself be happy. Time for some truth, and to take some risks. Ava walked back into the lounge, eyes wide.
‘Everything okay?’ Callanach asked.
‘Um, yes,’ she said. ‘They’ve been considering DCI Begbie’s replacement. Overbeck was phoning to let me know what they’ve decided.’
‘Just as long as it’s not DCI Edgar,’ Callanach laughed. ‘Anyone else is going to be a godsend.’
‘I’m glad you feel like that,’ Ava said, ‘because it’s me. I have no idea why, but that’s their decision. They’ve asked me to go in now to go through the paperwork.’ Callanach stayed where he was, hands in pockets, trying to find the words. ‘Sorry – you were in the middle of saying something when she called – what was it?’ Ava asked.
‘Nothing important,’ Callanach said. ‘That’s great news, Detective Chief Inspector. You deserve it. I’d give you a hug to say well done, but I’m not sure that’s appropriate behaviour with my superior officer.’
‘No,’ Ava laughed. ‘I’ll be up on a sexual harassment complaint before I’ve got my new uniform.’ She checked her watch. ‘I have to go, Luc, they’re waiting. Rain check on the coffee, though?’
‘Absolutely, ma’am,’ Callanach said, opening the door for her. ‘Rain check on everything.’
A few words on the darknet
Given the underlying premise of this book, I thought it was worth adding a note about the darknet. For most of us in the developed world the internet has become as everyday as using the kettle or the toaster. The darknet is one of those things we hear about occasionally in TV programmes and films, very rarely in the media, and yet it is accessible with relatively little know-how. TOR software (‘The Onion Router’) used to get inside the darknet works by creating layer upon layer of diversions so that nothing can be traced back to the user.
So what goes on in there? I think the best answer to that is, if you can imagine it, the darknet is where it’s happening. The obvious truth about the darknet is that the people who use it want to do things unseen. Rumour has it that you can book a hitman with the exchange of bitcoin – the internet’s currency. You can certainly download every conceivable type of pornography, including snuff videos. It has become well known for drug and arms sales websites. And as far as this book goes, it is a well-established forum for people with a taste for the criminally deviant to communicate. Paedophile chatrooms have been around on the darknet a long time, but this also extends to people who want to talk about murder, rape, kidnapping, trafficking and terror networks.
So if it is used predominantly for illegal purposes, can it be shut down? The answer is no. It is all part of the internet as we know it, just hidden. Many of the darknet sites are scams waiting to access your computer should you get curious enough to go there. Various governmental organisations are working hard to crack TOR and gain full access to the darknet, but they are still a way off. Is it possible that a killing competition could be organised through the darknet? Yes, sadly, it is. Would we find out about it if it happened? Generally, the police are still reliant on real world clues. A murky, secretive underworld lies beneath the friendly, colourful search engines we visit every day and its true depths are only just starting to be plumbed.
Acknowledgements
Let me start by thanking the good people of Edinburgh. Forgive me for making it the murder capital of Europe for one hot summer in this book. The truth is that I’ve rarely felt safer in any other city. Likewise to the men and women of Police Scotland who do such a great job, and who put up with my queries with endless patience. Edinburgh City Council likewise, and I doubt it’s possible to find a friendlier bunch of people answering phone calls anywhere in the world. Thank you Paul Murrell for your help with researching Edinburgh’s School Crossing Guards and getting my facts right. Also, BBC Scotland - I have to tell you about the gentleman who answered my call regarding the news team, who feature in this book in a brief but unforgettable moment - you made me laugh, you listened, and were so supportive I forgot that you and I had never met.
And to those people without whom these pages would still be a figment of my (fairly overactive) imagination, I am grateful to you every day. To Caroline Hardman - my agent - and Joanna Swainson for providing backup, if you hadn’t believed in me I’d still be writing, but it wouldn’t be anything like this much fun (and no one would have read any of it)! And a mention for Emily Hayward-Whitlock at The Artists Partnership, so much fun and a wonderful outcome.
Helen Huthwaite - soother of egos, calmer of nerves, beautifier of words and all round top banana - you have made this an absolute joy. And as for the Avon team, what can I say? Helena Sheffield, Phoebe Morgan, Rosie Foubister, Hannah Welsh, Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, Oli Malcolm, Victoria Gilder (on loan) and Louis Patel (until recently), there really is never a dull moment. Also, to the mothership - HarperCollins - the marketing, design, sales and support teams, it’s you who get books on shelves and in hands, and I appreciate your support more than you know.
A book is a non-stop process. Once this manuscript leaves my hands it goes to my first readers. Perfect Prey took its tottering preliminary steps in the imaginations of the lovely Andrea Gibson, Allison Spyer, Jessica Corbett and Amanda Patchett. They saved me from endless typos, plot failings and character weaknesses. More than that, they told me the thing I needed to hear - that it was all going to be okay - these are the sorts of friends who understand how to temper criticism with kindness, and that is no mean feat.
My gratitude to the staff at the McDonald Road Library in Edinburgh, who answered my ridiculous questions and showed me around their stunning building. What a vital and wonderful job you all do.
To the Banshees - Emma Bailey, Gareth Hollingsworth, Joe Marston, Nick Pritchard, Federico Rea, Andrej Srebrnjak and Katy Ward - for the film, the website, the good-natured mickey-taking and the general fabulousness of you all, I will buy doughnuts.
Then to
this. My family have kept me sane in spite of everything. My mother, Christine Fields, who I still cannot allow to read my books (just not appropriate) thank you for the constant emotional and practical support. To Gabriel, Solomon and Evangeline - never stop throwing your dirty clothes, plates and apple cores around the house at random points - that’s what family really is, even if I moan at you. I know these years will go too fast. When a future you reads these words, know that every second I spend writing is a gift you gave me. I was not with you at the park. I was not reading with you. I was not baking cupcakes or talking about your day. Words are not enough.
And to David Baumber, champion of my books and dismisser of self doubt, I’m not sure you could have given me a single second more of your time, your support, one ounce more of your enthusiasm. (Also many, many cups of tea). Kiss me.
About the Author
Helen Fields studied law at the University of East Anglia, then went on to the Inns of Court School of Law in London. After completing her pupillage, she joined chambers in Middle Temple where she practised criminal and family law for thirteen years. After her second child was born, Helen left the Bar. Together with her husband David, she runs a film production company, acting as script writer and producer. The D.I. Callanach series is set in Scotland, where Helen feels most at one with the world. Helen and her husband now live in Hampshire with their three children and two dogs.
Helen loves Twitter but finds it completely addictive. She can be found at @Helen_Fields.
Can’t get enough of the D.I. Callanach series?
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Out January 2018.
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On a remote Highland mountain, the body of Elaine Buxton is burning.
