by Helen Fields
She drained her glass of champagne and Callanach refilled it.
‘How’s his wife getting on? I know you were close to both her and the Chief. It must be hard watching her grieve,’ he said.
‘Glynis is one of a kind. Married to the police force as much as to one single policeman. She’s being remarkably stoic at the moment, but I’m worried how she’ll cope longer term. They completed each other, if that’s not too much of a cliché. The Chief was her whole world.’
‘How lucky that they found each other. There are a lot of people at the station asking about the funeral. What are the plans?’ Luc asked.
‘Full uniform honours, but it’s only open to close colleagues and friends,’ Ava said. ‘Glynis had another blow today. She’s been told their life insurance won’t pay out because it was a suicide with no suggestion of mental illness, not even depression or short-term psychological disturbance. She’ll have to move in with her daughter as she can’t afford the mortgage. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.’
‘I hadn’t even thought about the finances,’ Callanach said. ‘To have to deal with that on top of her husband’s death. Isn’t there anything we can do?’
‘Short of finding a decent source of income for her for the next twenty years, not really,’ Ava said. ‘There’s her share of the Chief’s pension, but it’s not enough for both the mortgage payments and to keep Glynis comfortable for the next twenty years. She was always a wife and mother, never had a career of her own, so she has no personal money to fall back on. Food! I’m starving.’ A stack of dim sum baskets were placed in the centre of their table. ‘I don’t know if it’s just me, but grief makes me eat constantly. I’ve consumed more calories in the last … oh, Luc, I’m so sorry. I haven’t even asked. What happened with your mother? I really must be losing my mind.’
‘Yup. So far you’re making a pretty inattentive wife,’ he said, tipping a pool of soy sauce onto his plate. ‘You can stop apologising. As it happens there’s not much to say. She regrets not standing by me. Apparently, Astrid got to her as well. Acted the part of victim very convincingly. My mother couldn’t see through the false evidence, so she ran. That’s all. These prawn things are good. Are you going to drink that entire bottle of champagne on your own?’
‘Don’t do that,’ Ava said.
‘Do what? You asked me out for dinner. I’m eating.’
‘Change the subject,’ Ava said. ‘I know how hard this has been for you. She didn’t explain any more than that? Why hasn’t she responded to you since you were acquitted? All those times you tried to get in touch. She must have given some sort of explanation.’
‘Not really. She kept saying it was hard for her, that she needed more time, which is bizarre in the circumstances,’ Callanach said, refilling his own glass before motioning to the waitress for another bottle.
‘That’s it?’ Ava asked. ‘After all this time, why reappear now?’ She took the new bottle from the waitress’ hands and refilled both glasses, draining hers immediately.
‘She said she wanted to explain, then she didn’t. Not in a way that made sense. Can we change the subject now, please? I liked it better when I was annoying you,’ Callanach said.
‘No, we can’t. You should talk to her again. Get to the bottom of it. If you leave it like this it’ll haunt you,’ Ava said.
‘I’m not sure there’s anything left to say. She’s at the Radisson until tomorrow, then I guess she’s going back to Monaco. It took me a long time to get used to the fact that she’d given up on me. I’m not sure I can turn back the clock.’
‘Not sure you can or not sure you want to?’ Ava asked, piling more tiny parcels of spicy prawns onto her plate. ‘Take it from me, trying to repair years of misunderstandings when you’re about to lose someone you love is a disaster. I should know – I couldn’t have made worse decisions when my mum was dying. I’d like to stop you from making similar mistakes.’
‘I’d like to think I’m able to stay rational, even when emotions are involved,’ Callanach said. ‘And I agree, you did make some terrible misjudgements in the past.’
‘Sod off, then. I’ve tried to help. If you’re just going to be rude, I’m going to eat in silence until I burst. This is good champagne.’ Ava refilled her glass again.
‘You know you’ve drunk a bottle of champagne in less than an hour, right?’
‘Save the detective skills for solving cases. Right, all the food’s gone and the alcohol supply is diminishing. I am going to the ladies’ room while you settle the bill then we’ll move this party along.’ Ava stood up, threw her napkin onto her plate and walked off clutching her mobile.
Ten minutes later a cab pulled up outside the restaurant. Ava sighed.
‘You again?’ she asked, looking through the driver’s window.
‘Did you have a nice meal? Only it didn’t take very long,’ the cabbie said.
Ava ignored him. ‘The booking office told you where we’re headed, I take it?’
‘Aye, gave me all the details. I was surprised to be seeing you both again so soon. I thought you’d be taking your time with the meal and everything. It’s a nice place, that. Did you think about what I said?’ He grinned at Callanach.
‘I’ll tip you again but only if you agree not to talk for the remainder of the journey,’ Ava said.
‘Fair enough,’ the driver agreed. ‘It’ll only be five minutes. Traffic’s light tonight.’
* * *
The taxi pulled up where the High Street met South Bridge, while Ava and Callanach were busy talking police funding.
‘This isn’t where I live,’ Callanach said.
‘I’m aware of that. It’s where your mother’s staying,’ Ava replied.
‘Not happening,’ Callanach replied calmly but firmly. ‘But I can walk home from here, so this’ll do.’ He got out, holding the door for Ava. ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do, but there’s no quick solution. If the problem between my mother and me ever resolves itself, it’s going to take more than a quick chat. You can’t fix everything.’
‘I need to fix something,’ she said. ‘The Chief didn’t come and talk to me about whatever was going on with him. My own mother kept her symptoms from me for months, even though she was terminally ill. I keep thinking that maybe if we’d been closer, if I’d been a better daughter, she’d have confided in me. Maybe they could have treated the cancer before it was too late.’
‘You weren’t at fault, and this isn’t the same thing. Let me call you another cab. It’s too far for you to walk to your place from here.’
‘I’m cold,’ Ava said. ‘And I need a proper drink. At least let me buy you a single malt. The bar in here is warm and comfortable. It won’t kill you to walk through the door. I’m not ready to go home yet.’
Callanach wondered if that had been the plan all along, before she’d even walked into his office and invited him to dinner. Ava was rarely taken unawares, her brain usually ten steps ahead of everyone else’s. That was what made her such an impressive police officer. Even so, she was intruding on a deeply personal situation, but he wasn’t ready for the emptiness of his apartment yet either. His mother had never been one for bars, rarely drinking unless they were dining with friends. He wasn’t even sure she was still at the hotel. Chances were that she’d left town early.
‘One drink,’ he said. ‘Then I’m getting you home.’
‘Deal,’ Ava said, walking ahead of him through reception and turning right into the hotel bar.
They sat on stools. It was busy but not packed, the bulk of casual diners already finishing dessert or drinking coffee, their conversation a friendly hum in the background.
‘Two Laphroaigs please,’ Ava directed the barman. ‘No spoiling it with water or ice.’
‘You sure you wouldn’t prefer it straight from the bottle?’ Callanach asked.
‘You can lecture me about French wine when we’re in France. Never lecture a Scot about whisky. It�
��s apt to end up with a trip to get stitches.’
‘Luc?’ a voice said softly from behind them.
Callanach stared at Ava.
‘It’s no good looking daggers at me,’ Ava said. ‘It’s not as if you weren’t aware I never take no for an answer.’
‘You had no right.’ He leaned across to whisper in her ear.
‘I accept that,’ Ava said. ‘I also know that if you really hadn’t wanted to stand any chance of seeing your mother you wouldn’t have walked into this hotel with me. So say goodbye or hear her out, whichever suits you best. Just make a decision.’ She turned around. ‘Madame Callanach,’ she held out her hand, ‘I’m Ava Turner, we spoke on the phone earlier. I’ll leave you to it. I suspect I’ve already done more than enough.’
‘You certainly have,’ Callanach replied.
Ava smiled, picked up her glass and tossed back the Laphroaig. ‘Take it easy,’ she told Callanach. ‘Nice to have met you,’ she said to Véronique, slipping her coat back on before exiting.
‘I see. Your colleague didn’t tell you she’d phoned me,’ Véronique said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to trick you into seeing me.’
‘Well, I’m here now,’ Callanach said. ‘So if there’s something else you wanted to say, now would be the time.’
‘Shall we go up to my room? It’s quieter there. I’m not really sure this is the place …’
‘I’m leaving in a couple of minutes. You may not want to waste time travelling between floors. Here is fine. There’s a table by the window.’ He picked up his drink and walked away from the bar, silently cursing Ava’s inability to restrict her meddling. They sat down. ‘What was it you wanted to say?’
His mother stared out of the window. ‘I don’t know how to begin,’ she said. ‘I want to repair the damage I’ve done. I want my son back.’
‘Is there something you need to say that I haven’t already heard?’ Callanach asked. ‘Because I’m not here to repeat the conversation we had at my flat. You said you needed more time and I’m afraid it’s run out.’ He pushed his drink away across the table.
‘Luc, please,’ his mother said, reaching out to him. ‘I can’t stand the thought of losing you forever. There’ll be nothing left to live for.’
‘I felt like that too, when you left me. At least we have that in common. This is a waste of both of our time.’ He stood up. ‘Goodbye, Véronique. Safe journey home.’
‘Luc, no. There’s no easy way to tell you this. It was a long time ago, and I never talked about it. When Astrid accused you, her story brought it all back and I couldn’t cope.’ She paused, ran a shaking hand over her mouth, lowered her voice. ‘I was raped, a long time ago, but it never leaves you. I had no idea what Astrid told me would affect me so badly. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there when you needed me, but it was all too much. I know I failed you. Whatever I have to do for you to forgive me, I will.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Turner,’ Ava answered her mobile.
‘DS Lively here, ma’am. We’ve been asked to attend a road traffic accident. Your car’s at the station, so I assumed you were still around.’
‘I’m walking through the city trying to find a cab. Why’s a car accident anything to do with MIT, Sergeant?’
‘It’s a bad crash, blood in and out of the vehicle, on the A702 where the road runs through the edge of the Pentland Hills Regional Park. I’m on my way there now. Only one car remaining at the scene but tyre marks indicate that a second vehicle was involved.’
‘Still not hearing a reason for this telephone call …’
‘There’s no body, ma’am. No one at the scene at all,’ Lively said.
‘So the driver was injured and the other vehicle opted to take him to the hospital. Who’s the Inspector on duty? You don’t need me for this. I’ve been out for the evening so there’s no way I can drive to a scene, no matter what’s happened.’
‘It has to be a DCI. The car involved in the crash is registered to a man called Louis Jones. He’s known to the police but his file is marked for review by an officer of the rank of Chief Inspector or above, as directed by Chief Begbie,’ Lively said. ‘It can probably wait until tomorrow, but I thought that should be your call.’
‘I’ll be waiting at the junction of The Mile and New Street. Have a car pick me up, and make it quick, it’s bloody freezing out here,’ Ava said.
Coffee in hand, Ava was sitting at her desk twenty minutes later, staring at an envelope, the contents of which had yet to be reduced to the digital recesses of the cloud and trying to get her head straight. The food she’d consumed had soaked up a portion of the alcohol, but the room was still swimmy if she didn’t stay focused on a single point. The sealed envelope had Begbie’s confidentiality order on it, and a list of names and signatures of people who had accessed the file within the last few years. The last reader was George Begbie himself a few months earlier. Ava ran her fingers over the seal, imagining the Chief exactly where she was now, preparing to read the same sheets of paper, tapping his pen on the desk as he always did when he was impatient.
Inside was a brown cardboard file with Louis Jones’ details on the front – name, date of birth, known addresses of residence and work – and it was remarkably thin. On opening it, Ava found what she had assumed she would find: a sheet of paper with the heading ‘Registered police informant, initiated November 1997. Contact: George Begbie.’ It was the only reason she could think of for the file being confidential. What she hadn’t expected to find was her own name in the contents. She scanned that document first.
‘Louis Jones – car scrapyard owner operating known car hire scheme without documentation. Utilising vehicles previously deemed scrapped, allowing or causing false number plates to be displayed on hire vehicles. Admits hiring vehicles to Dr Reginald King, denies knowledge of intended purpose. Vehicle hired from Louis Jones used in kidnap of Detective Inspector Ava Turner. Jones assisted in providing details of King’s lock up on Causewayside. Interviewed by DI Callanach, supervised by DCI Begbie. No resulting prosecution.’
Ava closed her eyes. A dangerous psychopath, Reginald King, had pulled her from her car one night, taken her back to a concealed room in his house, and killed a teenaged girl in front of her. The teenager was one of three women who’d died at his hands. At trial he’d mounted a psychiatric defence and been remanded indefinitely for treatment. The hours in captivity had been the worst of Ava’s life, and Louis Jones had profited from lending King a vehicle, yet neither Callanach nor Begbie had so much as mentioned the man’s name to her. She turned the page, forcing herself to keep working rather than be sucked into the black mire that was her memories of what she’d witnessed. Whatever information Jones had provided to the police during his decades-old stint as Begbie’s informant must have been spectacularly valuable.
The type-print was fading on the remaining pages. Ava switched on her desk lamp and settled down. The initial page was a case summary from a prosecution dating back to 1999. The prosecution’s case was that defendants Dylan McGill and Ramon Trescoe, joint heads of a Glasgow based crime gang, had committed an impressive list of offences from theft and conspiracy, to fraud, blackmail and assault. Their targets had been almost entirely banks, using employees to provide confidential information about security systems and performing unlawful money transfers under threat of violence. On the few occasions that the employees had been sufficiently brave to have refused to comply, the outcome was assaults using tools best restricted to farming. The court case had been heavily covered in the press. Ava recalled it in spite of having been only sixteen at the time. A major Edinburgh crime gang had been taken out of action. The trial had been a Scottish spectator sport for the three months it had lasted.
The file contained witness statements, bank documents and the usual previous convictions, followed by a small selection of photos of the defendants and their victims. Dylan McGill was the tallest of the bunch, with a moustache that wouldn’t have looked out of place on
a Victorian villain, a cigarette in hand in every picture. Ramon Trescoe was dark skinned, with middle-eastern features and startling green eyes. Not someone you could mistake once you knew his identity, Ava thought. He had been photographed with several extremely attractive women, almost as if he always knew the photographer was around. There were references on file to deaths – rival gang members, henchmen who had defected, and at least one policeman – all of which were well beyond the scope of natural causes. None that had ever left a direct trail to either McGill or Trescoe though. The Procurator Fiscal had settled for putting the pair in jail for less serious offences but the result was almost as good. The sentences had been lengthy.
At the end of the file was a document signed jointly by the Procurator Fiscal and Louis Jones. Jones, Ava read, known then to his associates as Louis the Wrench, had been the provider of vehicles and other necessary hardware. Begbie, then a mere Detective Sergeant, had acquired enough information on Jones’ activities to put him away for an easy decade. Instead, Begbie had approached Jones to provide information about Ramon Trescoe’s activities, victims and movements. Begbie worked with Louis the Wrench for two years gathering intelligence. They must have been tense times, Ava thought, both for Jones and for Begbie. Trescoe and McGill weren’t the sort of people you messed with, and no one seemed to have been beyond their reach. Begbie’s relationship with Jones had ended with an agreement to keep Jones out of court under pretty much any circumstance, and landed Begbie a promotion to Detective Inspector immediately after the defendants’ final appeals had failed.
Now someone driving Louis Jones’ car was missing, although whether it was Jones himself or a random hirer remained to be seen. Ava noted down Jones’ last known address, closed the file and returned it to the envelope, which she sealed and signed, ready to be returned to confidential documents. She picked up the phone to call Callanach then put it back down. Hopefully he was still with his mother. Interrupting them now might bring any progress to an end. Not only that, but she wasn’t at all sure he would take her call at the moment anyway. She had overstepped the mark in setting him up.
