by Helen Fields
‘Why have you come back?’ Callanach asked.
Véronique rubbed one hand across her eyes. He waited. That wasn’t difficult. He’d waited so long already that a few more minutes was nothing.
‘I never wanted this to happen,’ she said. ‘If I could take it all back, I would.’
‘Is that it?’ Callanach asked, his voice cold and low. ‘You’ve come here to tell me you wish it had played out differently?’
‘It was complicated,’ his mother said, picking at the hem of her skirt. ‘You were so closed off, you wouldn’t talk to me about what was happening, then the medical evidence came out. And you didn’t comment when they first interviewed you …’
‘That didn’t mean I was guilty,’ he said.
‘It wasn’t just about you,’ she said, tears forming as she reached a shaky hand into her bag to find a handkerchief.
‘Who else was it about? You? Were you embarrassed of me? Exactly when was it you tried me and found me guilty? Before you even came to Lyon, or did you wait to hear my version of events before writing me off?’ He was raising his voice, keeping the words slow, making sure they impacted as hard as they could. He had waited the best part of two years to have his say and he wasn’t going to rush it now.
‘Astrid came to see me. I never found a way to tell you,’ his mother said. ‘By then you seemed not to be talking to me anyway, and I couldn’t find the words. So I left. Then there were those photos of her injuries. Someone put them in the post to me.’
‘You spoke to Astrid and never told me? Did you arrange it with her?’
‘No, no Luc, I would never have done that. She must have followed me from your apartment one day. I was going shopping and this woman stopped me in the street. She said she needed to talk to me about the case. At first I thought she was a journalist, or perhaps even someone from the prosecutor’s office. I thought I might be able to speak on your behalf, make them change their minds, so we went for coffee. We were already sitting down when she told me her name. I got up to leave but she said that if I went she would make it even worse for you. I was so concerned that I sat back down and told her I’d listen.’
‘I don’t think I want to hear this,’ Callanach said. ‘How could you have been so stupid?’
‘She seemed so calm. I couldn’t reconcile the woman you’d described with the person talking to me. She was quiet, conservatively dressed, hair tied back, no makeup. I remember thinking this can’t be her. She told me that all she wanted was to explain what had happened from her perspective, to get it out of her system. I kept thinking that maybe if I let her, she would drop the prosecution. It seemed worth ten minutes of my time.’
‘After everything I’d told you about how manipulative she was? About her obsession with me?’ Callanach asked, walking to the window, staring into black nothingness, trying not to watch his mother in the reflection.
‘All the evidence was against you. You’d told your best friend the scratches to your neck had happened at the gym. You’d told no one about Astrid attacking you. The neighbour had heard you swearing at her before walking out of her apartment. Bit by bit, the case was building against you and nothing you said was improving the situation. I just wanted to help,’ Véronique said, wrapping her arms around herself and rocking gently backwards and forwards.
‘So what happened?’ Callanach asked. ‘Because whatever you’d intended, it certainly didn’t get any better for me. Astrid didn’t drop the case until the day of the trial and even then she didn’t tell the truth and admit she’d invented it. I suffered through another four months of being regarded as a sexual predator.’
‘I know,’ Véronique stuttered. ‘I know. And I’m so sorry. If I could go back …’
‘You know what, I can’t do this,’ Luc said. ‘I thought I could, but it’s just too hard. I’m not sure what you thought would be achieved by telling me this but it certainly isn’t helping me. If you came all this way to ease your own conscience, you misjudged.’
‘It’s not that,’ Véronique said, throwing her handbag onto the couch and standing up. ‘Easing my conscience, yes. I know you have no reason to forgive me. I don’t think I could ever expect you to. But when I spoke to her it … it hurt me, Luc. She was so believable. She was like an animal that had been hit by a car, crumpled, broken. I couldn’t bear to be in the middle of it. You were so aloof and angry.’
‘What the hell would you expect from someone falsely accused?’ he asked.
‘Luc, I’m trying to explain that I’m not the best judge in those circumstances. I knew I couldn’t tell you that I’d talked with her. Then the medical report came, all about the internal injuries she had, the bruises to her body. Your skin under her nails. I didn’t know what to think. So I ran away. I knew I wasn’t the person you needed me to be and I left. There’s no good enough reason. There’s nothing I can say to make it better. But I am sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? Supposing I accept that. Say I recognise how good an actress Astrid is, how dangerous. But after that, after you’d dropped me to face the possibility of years in prison alone, you stopped emailing. You didn’t phone. When I was finally told I was free to go, I wrote to you. Even my letters were returned unopened. Was half an hour of listening to Astrid really all it took for you to abandon your child?’
‘I was a mess by then. Please believe me, I wanted to speak to you. I wanted to race back, to hold you in my arms and be the mother I should always have been, but I was ashamed. I hadn’t been strong enough. I’d let my own needs, my own feelings overwhelm me. I’d put myself before you and … how do you face your child once you’ve done that? I couldn’t. I knew I didn’t deserve you anymore.’
‘You’re right,’ Callanach said. ‘You don’t. I won’t let myself be dragged into this black hole again. I closed the door. To Astrid, to the nightmare of being arrested, to the disloyalty of my friends. To you. I won’t relive this just so you can purge your guilt. I picked myself up, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. I moved country, retrained, forced myself to look in the mirror, and I’m just starting a new life. Whatever you need, whatever it is you thought I could give you, I can’t. We should go. I’ll drop you to your hotel. I have a late conference regarding an autopsy.’
‘Luc, I just need a little more time,’ his mother said, picking up her bag but keeping her feet planted between the coffee table and sofa. ‘This isn’t easy.’
‘I’m sorry but you’ve had all the time in the world,’ Callanach said. ‘I really do have to go.’ He held the door open for her, checking his mobile phone messages as he waited for her to put on her coat.
Véronique looked around the apartment. ‘There are no photos here,’ she said.
‘I had to rebuild my life without memories. There’s no point staring at images of falsehoods,’ he said, stepping outside into the corridor, holding the door open at a distance.
‘Not even of your father?’ Véronique asked. ‘He would have hated this.’
‘Do you mean he would have hated you?’ Callanach asked.
Véronique turned away, sliding fists into her pockets and hunching her shoulders. She walked briskly past Callanach and took the stairs. He caught up with her on the pavement, opening the car door for her to get in.
‘No need,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk. That’ll be easier on us both.’
‘Yes,’ Callanach replied. ‘It certainly will.’ He steeled himself and left his mother for the last time.
Chapter Eight
Ava met Callanach in the city mortuary carpark. She waited, leaning on her car, as he parked his.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Ava asked as he got out.
‘No,’ he said. ‘How did the briefing go?’
‘Everyone’s still in shock. Most of the squad worked directly with the Chief at some point. I think there’s a softly spoken consensus that retiring after his heart attack was what killed him. All those years in the thick of things and he ends up with golf club membership and
on a diet he hated. Hardly a replacement for the adrenalin and single malt he was used to. Let’s go in. Ailsa has stayed late for us.’
They walked into the mortuary, the clinical, chemical smell extending just beyond its external glass doors as if issuing an olfactory ‘abandon hope’ warning. Dr Ailsa Lambert was in her office, her assistant looking tired as he drew on his coat and bade them goodnight. Ava knocked.
‘Ailsa,’ Ava said. ‘Are you ready for us?’
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’d offer you both a drink only I won’t allow alcohol on the premises. If ever I needed it though …’ she stopped herself, picking up a file labelled DCI George Begbie. ‘Let’s start with this. I’m entirely convinced that George’s cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning. There are no injuries or findings inconsistent with that, internal or external. The toxicology samples will be picked up from here tomorrow and sent away for analysis but I’ve done an alcohol test on his blood. He was sober. I don’t just mean below the driving limit. I mean there was no alcohol in his blood at all. When he made the decision to take his life, he did it entirely consciously.’
‘Something must have triggered it,’ Ava said. ‘You found no other signs of illness? Nothing that would cause him to lose hope sufficiently to believe suicide was the only way out?’
‘There are no tumours, his organs – even given his heart condition – are all in reasonable order. I phoned his GP. He’d had a comprehensive check-up recently, blood tests and all. Came back clear. The notes indicate that George was in good spirits, no problems with his mood, sleeping, eating, even his cholesterol was dropping. Apparently, he was planning a surprise holiday for his wife Glynis on their anniversary. The GP has been seeing them both for years. She’s as shocked as we are,’ Ailsa said.
‘So he drove to the coast, hooked a length of hose-pipe up to the back of his car and sat there dying, knowing Glynis was cooking dinner for him. He was stone cold sober, in spite of the empty whisky bottle in his car, with no known problems. For Christ’s sake, Ailsa, it makes no sense,’ Ava said.
‘I’m aware of that,’ Ailsa said. ‘There is the matter of the markings on the inside of his left wrist.’ She clicked the screen and produced a blown-up photo of the area. ‘It’s clearer in this photograph than to the naked eye because we’ve been able to filter out some of the colour. You can see here that the capital N was formed of scratches, making three separate lines. They are quite deep violations of the epidermis, consisting of multiple scratches along each line. The small c is formed of a single curve, repeated several times in the same place.’ She clicked again and the c came up magnified. ‘You can see here that at the top part of the curve, the scratch was so deep that it had begun to draw blood. It would have taken some effort to do that without a tool or implement.’
‘Without a tool?’ Callanach asked. ‘You mean he …’
‘He used his right index finger. The scratched off particles of skin were found under the nail, sufficient to see without a microscope. Obviously, we’ve sent that for DNA testing but there’s really no doubt that he did this to himself.’
‘I have no idea what the c stands for,’ Ava said. ‘I’ve seen carbon monoxide poisoning victims before, but I don’t know much about the process before death. What sort of state would he have been in, once the car started to fill with gas?’
‘He’d have become increasingly groggy, disoriented. Concentration would have been difficult and he’d have been feeling extremely nauseous,’ Ailsa said.
‘So perhaps the letter sizing was just a symptom of his confusion,’ Ava said. ‘Perhaps they were both supposed to be capitals.’
‘You think they’re initials?’ Callanach asked. Ava nodded. ‘Anyone spring to mind?’
‘Not immediately,’ Ava said. ‘I’ll put Tripp on it in the morning.’
‘Ava,’ Ailsa said quietly. ‘There’s no evidence of a crime here. What we have is a tragedy. A desperate event for his family to endure, but my report will say that there are no suspicious circumstances.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Ava said. ‘It’s totally out of character and this thing on his arm …’
‘Could have been scratched at any time in the few hours preceding his death and might be totally unrelated. Or it could be an indicator that he wasn’t in his right mind at the time. It’s not evidence of foul play.’
‘It certainly warrants investigation,’ Ava said. ‘I’m not prepared to accept that this is a non-suspicious death.’
‘I’ve been asked to copy in Detective Superintendent Overbeck,’ Ailsa said. ‘I have no choice. Subject to the tox screen results, my preliminary findings indicate that that body should be released for burial or cremation. George’s family will suffer enough. There’s no reason to keep them waiting.’
‘Ailsa, you can keep this open a while. I know you can. I’m a Detective Chief Inspector. If I can’t decide what to investigate and what not, then …’
‘Ava,’ Callanach said. ‘You can’t ask Dr Lambert to write anything other than her honest opinion. She’s right about the Chief’s wife. Glynis needs to be allowed to grieve. Turning this into something it’s not will only make it harder for her.’
‘You’re right,’ Ava said. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Ailsa, I didn’t come here intending to pressure you. I just need to get this straight in my head. Luc, what was it that you needed to run through?’ she asked, looking away.
‘Lily Eustis. The young woman found dead near Arthur’s Seat. Do you have an update on her?’ Callanach asked, concealing his concern for Ava.
Ailsa Lambert was less concerned with how her behaviour was perceived, as ever, staring openly at Ava as Callanach spoke. ‘Right, Lily, poor girl. I’ve spoken to her parents this evening. They’re going to need more answers than I can supply, but essentially cause of death was major organ failure as a result of hypothermia. No surprise really. Out at night in December, on a hilltop in these temperatures the outcome was almost inevitable. I visited the scene, though. Someone had built a small fire. That should have kept her warm for a while.’
‘She was found naked,’ Callanach said. ‘It would have taken some fire to have kept her warm in those circumstances.’
‘The nakedness might have been a result of the hypothermia,’ Ailsa said. ‘It’s called paradoxical undressing. A person becomes disoriented with the increasing cold and begins discarding their clothing, thereby increasing the rapidity of heat loss.’
‘So she wasn’t dragged up there against her will?’ Callanach asked.
‘I can tell you that she was not assaulted, sexually or violently. There are no defensive injuries, no wounds. In fact she was a healthy young lady, good muscle tone, virtually no fat on her …’ Ailsa trailed off.
‘You sound hesitant,’ Callanach said. ‘What is it?’
‘Probably nothing,’ Ailsa replied, typing as she spoke. ‘But for argument’s sake, say I was experiencing moderate to severe stage hypothermia, enough to make me strip off my clothing and throw it down the hillside. What sort of state am I in?’
‘Agitated. Probably distressed. Frantic even,’ Callanach guessed.
‘Exactly,’ Ailsa replied, pointing to another photo on the screen. Lily Eustis lay on the ground as Callanach had first seen her, on her back, fully naked, shades of blue already darkening to black, arms out at her sides, as if she had just fallen asleep.
‘What’s your point, Ailsa?’ Ava asked.
‘She doesn’t look distressed or frantic here, does she?’ Ailsa asked. ‘She looks as if she’d decided she was a wee bit tired and wanted to take a nap. Her body isn’t folded up, twisted, scrabbling. Certainly there are no signs of terminal burrowing syndrome that can occur near death, during which she would have been curling up, seeking shelter, making herself as small as possible. There’s nothing unexpected beneath her fingernails. No dirt, no skin. There is only a single mark on her skin, about two centimetres long over her abdomen, which is the imprint of a z
ip.’
Callanach looked down at his own notes. ‘The log shows she was wearing zip-fastening jeans. We have them in the evidence vault.’
‘Exactly. It’s as if she was struggling with the zipper for a long time, perhaps in her confusion becoming clumsy and pressing the metal into her skin as she tried to get the jeans off. Other than that she’s exceptionally clean, as if she never experienced any trauma through the whole process of losing heat and passing away.’
‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing,’ Ava snapped. ‘Are we supposed to have wanted her to be traumatised?’
‘Of course we are,’ Ailsa said, ignoring Ava’s irritated tone. ‘The human instinct is to fight death, to run from danger. They also call terminal burrowing from hypothermia hide-or-die syndrome. Her body position, the very state of her, makes no sense to me.’ Ava sighed heavily. ‘Lily’s toxicology screen will go off tomorrow at the same time as George Begbie’s specimens. Before then I wouldn’t like to speculate.’
‘If you’re convinced Lily died of hypothermia, why run a tox screen?’ Callanach asked.
‘There was a slight odour to her stomach contents. Nothing I can be certain about, and it’s hard to tell with the variety of food and drink available, but I thought I smelled something odd on her skin too. It was fleeting. Gone as soon as she was out of the body bag. As I said, I won’t speculate now.’
‘All right,’ Callanach said. ‘Tox screen involving what?’
‘Hair, liver, bile, vitreous humour and the gastric contents, obviously. Blood and urine as standard. Some skeletal samples for good measure,’ Ailsa said. ‘That’s as far as I can take Lily’s case at the moment. Questions?’
They both shook their heads, Ava putting her coat on before Ailsa had even switched off her screen. Callanach said goodbye as Ava made her way into the corridor.
