Perfect Death

by Helen Fields

  Amelia Lock was sixteen. Her mother had accompanied her to the police station, and Callanach noted the tension between them as Tripp brought tea and biscuits.

  ‘I was out with friends,’ Amelia said. ‘The pub was the only warm place to go. We were going to go to my mate’s place, only their dad was on a bender and we didn’t want to piss him off.’

  ‘Had you drunk much alcohol?’ Callanach asked.

  Amelia glanced sideways at her mother before answering. ‘A bit,’ she said.

  ‘More than a bit, I’ll bet,’ her mother chipped in. ‘Was it that Louise who bought the drinks? Dressed up to the nines, makeup so thick you could make a sandwich with it. I told you I didn’t want you hanging around with her no more.’

  ‘It’s important to assess how reliable your memory is, Amelia. You’re not in trouble with the police, but I need to understand the state you were in,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Two pints of cider.’ Amelia paused. ‘And a couple of shots of vodka. I’m sorry, Mum. I won’t do it again.’

  Her mother tutted. Callanach carried on before she could start a further lecture. ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘It was only when I saw you on that police thing on TV with the girl’s parents. I saw the photo and I recognised her. We’d been sitting at a table in the pub together, sharing it. It was really crowded. There were a few groups out for work Christmas drinks, the music was loud, you know? Anyway, I was sitting next to the girl at the table and I remember thinking how pretty she was and how I hadn’t seen her in there before. You see the same people around Dalkeith all the time. She looked so happy. I know that sounds stupid, but you don’t see it very often. I suppose she just stood out.’

  ‘Can you describe what she was wearing?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Yeah, her top was like this red cotton shirt, nice cut. It was lovely. Probably jeans as well but I’m not so sure on that one,’ Amelia said.

  ‘Was she with anyone that you saw?’

  ‘A man. Just the two of them as far as I was aware,’ Amelia replied. ‘He was quite tall, not really tall but not short and not fat. He was wearing a baseball cap, I’m not sure what colour his eyes were. The pub had loads of Christmas lights up and the main lighting was dimmed. He was white, probably in his twenties. Sorry, I didn’t really look at him,’ she said.

  ‘How long were you next to them at the table?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Not long. One drink then they left and we shoved along and had their seats. How did she die?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘I can’t discuss it at the moment, I’m afraid, but you’ve been really helpful. We’re going to ask you to work with an artist to do the best you can to remember the man she was with. Is that all right?’ Amelia nodded. ‘One last thing. The people you were drinking with. Do any of them remember Lily or the man with her?’

  ‘No,’ Amelia said. ‘I asked, but they were all a bit drunker than me. I only really paid attention because I was the one sat right next to her. I already gave the police lady my friends’ names if you need them.’

  ‘Thank you, Amelia. You’ve done really well,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Will this artist thing take long?’ her mother asked.

  ‘A young woman is dead,’ Callanach replied quietly. ‘We’re very grateful for your patience.’ He left, wandering in the direction of the kitchenette, heaping several teaspoons of coffee into a mug and adding boiling water. ‘Lively,’ he called as the detective sergeant walked past. ‘Everyone in that pub with Amelia gives a statement. Any CCTV?’

  ‘Not in the pub itself. We’re checking local roads to see what we can get. Was she helpful?’ Lively asked.

  ‘She correctly identified the top Lily was wearing so we’ve got a positive sighting. Her description of the man wasn’t clear but it establishes a timeline and Dalkeith is within reach of Arthur’s Seat. I’m going to update the DCI,’ Callanach said.

  ‘I’ll get off to run the interviews with the pub staff at Dalkeith. Could you give this to the boss if you’re going that way? Just some local knowledge she asked me to come by.’ Lively handed Callanach a crumpled piece of paper and headed away.

  Sipping his coffee, Callanach leaned against the cupboards flexing his neck and shoulders. He hadn’t slept in what felt like an age. Smoothing the crumples out of the paper he cast his eyes over Lively’s scrawl, noting the speed with which it seemed to have been put together. It was hardly the sort of report he’d expect anyone to hand over to a Detective Chief Inspector.

  ‘The Mazophilia – Maz – singles bar/fetish bar, Cathcart Road, Glasgow. History drug busts, suspected prostitution. Owner Joe Trescoe, brother Ramon convicted organised crime & gang ties. Convictions dishonesty/violence, not recent. Partner reported domestic violence, charges withdrawn.’

  The information obviously related to an investigation, but not one that Callanach was aware MIT was undertaking at present. He folded the paper up again, washed his mug and went to find Ava.

  ‘Sir, there’s a call for you,’ a detective constable called as Callanach passed the incident room. ‘Caller won’t leave their name.’

  ‘Any idea what it’s about?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m guessing it’s following on from the press conference about Lily. He asked for you by name,’ the DC said.

  ‘Fine, put it through to my office,’ Callanach said, diverting off the corridor. He sat at his desk and waited for the red light on his phone to flash. ‘This is Detective Inspector Luc Callanach. Who is this?’

  ‘I need help, man,’ a male voice rasped.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Callanach asked ‘Do you have information about Lily Eustis’ killer?’

  ‘What the fuck? No. You gotta get me out of here. I only ever spoke to Begbie and now he’s gone. I know they’re looking for me,’ he said.

  ‘Wherever you are, if you’re in danger I’ll send a response team to find you. Give me your name and location,’ Callanach said.

  ‘No way, just you. You’re the only other one I ever met face to face. George said you could be trusted. No other polis. You don’t know the stuff I know.’

  ‘Listen, I have no idea who you are,’ Callanach said, ‘so you’re going to have to give me something if you need my help.’

  ‘Louis Jones, yeah? You don’t tell no one you spoke to me. I was Begbie’s informant. I know I still got a file. I’m out at Milton Bridge. There are some empty sheds on the west side of the golf course. Hurry up, and bring food and water. I’ve been hiding for days and I’m sick.’

  ‘Mr Jones, it sounds as if I should call you an ambulance. I can have officers accompany the paramedics to the hospital to protect you,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Do that and I disappear again,’ Jones said. ‘It’s not safe. Just get here fast.’ The connection was lost. Callanach dialled Ava’s internal phone and got no reply. He called a detective constable in, handed him the paper Lively had wanted forwarded to Ava, and explained that he was going out. Jones was partly responsible for Ava’s abduction, which meant she shouldn’t go anywhere near him, but however little sympathy he felt for Begbie’s former informant, Callanach was still duty bound to help. He grabbed his car keys and ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Callanach parked at the roadside and used his mobile’s GPS to navigate towards the western edge of the golf course. Dense trees shielded the perimeter, and he trod carefully across ice-laced leaves and twigs. Standing behind the last line of foliage, he studied the outbuildings before crossing the short stretch of grass. A trail had already been made across the field, blades crushed by earlier boots. Jones must have come this way before him.

  He trod silently, keeping low as a matter of instinct rather than necessity, moving around the side of the building to an old door that was standing ajar.

  ‘Jones?’ Callanach shouted, taking a torch from his coat pocket and flashing it into the darkness of the shed. The windows had long since been blackened by dirt and cobwebs, any remaining light blocked by the old furn
iture that was balanced precariously in every space. ‘This is DI Callanach. Louis Jones, can you hear me?’ He crept forward, raising a hand to cover his mouth. The shed was musty and stale, but worse than that was the odour of decay. Something had died in here. Probably more than one something, and they had lain down and rotted. The wind picked up, rattling the side of the shed and sending the outer door crashing inwards. Callanach stumbled into a pile of chairs that collapsed to the floor in a splintered heap. ‘Louis, come out with your hands raised.’

  He got up, brushing spiders from his head, pointing the torch back towards the rear of the hut. Pushing between a couple of old ale barrels, he tried not to breathe in the foul air, wishing he’d ignored Jones’ request and brought backup. As he avoided an old badger trap, his foot landed on something that managed to be both soft and crunchy at once. He shone the light downwards as he stepped back. The fingers on which he’d trodden curled inwards. Callanach knelt down, shining the light up and down the torso, knowing that it was too late. The bodies of the living didn’t generally smell like this. Jones has lost control of his bowels, bladder too from the looks of the floor. Laying down the torch and taking a knife from his pocket, he cut through the gaffer tape that had been sealed around Jones’ neck and removed a bag from the head.

  ‘Louis?’ Callanach said, tapping his cheek lightly. Something felt wrong. Jones’ face, whilst warm, wasn’t moving the way he expected it to. The lower half was stiff and inflexible. Holding the torch in his mouth, Callanach got a better look. As he slid one hand beneath Jones’ head, his fingers plunged into a warm wet mess, stringy to touch with boney splinters in the mix. ‘Fuck!’ He pulled his hand back out, watching the grey red mixture slide off his fingertips. Louis Jones was dead, and no amount of resuscitation was going to make any difference. His brains were currently decorating a wide section of the floor, the entrance wound a neat black hole on his forehead. Flashing the light slightly downwards, Callanach took a closer look at Jones’ mouth. His bottom lip had been pulled upwards over the top lip and a nail gun had been used to send an industrial pin into his upper palate.

  Callanach lowered the head gently back to the floor. Whoever had killed Jones was gone. There simply wasn’t enough space in the shed for them to be hiding. He phoned for backup and a forensics team, then reversed out of the shed disturbing as little as he could, waiting at the door until the Scenes of Crime team arrived. They established a cordon several metres around the edge of the shed and processed Callanach standing on an evidence sheet to catch any traces he might have displaced on the bottom of his shoes. Ailsa Lambert arrived soon afterwards, suiting up and entering with a photographer, exiting soon after looking sickened.

  ‘What are your thoughts?’ Callanach asked the pathologist as he was handed temporary clothes so that his own could be tested.

  ‘I can tell you this. That nail was put through his mouth before he was shot dead. Given the amount of nerves in the area between the mouth and nose, through the roots of the upper teeth, it would have been beyond excruciating. It’s a form of torture I cannot even contemplate. The only good news is that he would have passed out so quickly that I suspect he was unconscious when he was shot, relieving the terror at the very end. It’s strange though, I haven’t seen anything like that since …’ Ailsa stopped mid-sentence, lost in a recollection. Ava wandered up behind them both.

  ‘Since when, Ailsa?’ she asked. ‘Nail-gunning is a new one on me, so it must be a while back.’

  Ailsa stripped off her gloves and deposited them directly into a clinical debris bin. ‘There were a couple of these oh, I’d say, two decades ago. It’s the act of silencing. Not because he was about to be shot. For that, the killer just needed a cloth to put in his mouth and some duct tape.’

  ‘It’s symbolic,’ Ava said.

  ‘A warning to others, I’d say. There were a few organised crime killings in the eighties and nineties with similar wounds,’ Ailsa replied. ‘Your Mr Jones has not been dead very long at all. I think if you’d arrived ten minutes earlier, Luc, you might’ve bumped into the murderer exiting the hut. I’ll perform the autopsy tonight and get you a preliminary report tomorrow, but cause of death was cessation of brain function from the gunshot. He also has severe bruising to his chest but that’s older, and a leg wound that must have bled a great deal when it first happened. He’d made a reasonable effort to bind it himself.’

  ‘Would those injuries be consistent with a car accident, specifically if he’d been driving?’ Ava asked.

  ‘I’d need to check the damage to the car to give you a precise answer, but in principle, yes. I have to go back in with the photographer now. Speak tomorrow.’ Ailsa left.

  Callanach accepted the offer of a coat from a passing constable, cold in the thin SOCO suit without his own jacket.

  ‘Do you want to explain what you were doing here?’ Ava asked when they were alone.

  ‘Do you want to tell me why you were asking about Louis Jones a few days ago, and here he is less than alive? What is this?’ Callanach countered.

  ‘You’re going to have to forgive me pulling rank but I’m not here to answer questions,’ Ava said, keeping her voice low, moving closer to Callanach. ‘You were here without backup and without my authority. No one even knew where you were. It’s a miracle you’re not lying on that floor with Jones right now. Get home for some clean clothes then get back to the station. We need to talk. Don’t say a word to anyone else in the meantime.’

  An hour later Callanach carried two cups of coffee in to Ava’s office.

  ‘Peace offering,’ he said, setting a mug down on her desk.

  ‘Too little too late,’ Ava said. ‘You could have been killed. Explain in very simple language how it came to pass that you were in a shed on a golf course with a dead missing person who was a former police informant.’

  ‘Jones phoned me,’ Callanach said. ‘I agreed to meet him. He sounded scared, panicky, said he was sick. He asked me not to talk to anyone else …’

  ‘You realise that procedure takes precedence over the requests of people who were instrumental in getting me abducted in the past.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,’ Callanach said. ‘That and the fact that you weren’t around and I had to move fast. I offered him an ambulance or uniformed officers. He refused both.’

  ‘And that wasn’t a warning sign to you that something was going on that you should have informed me about? Jesus, Luc, you’re not a bloody cowboy. Chain of command, remember? Also, don’t pull that paternalistic bullshit on me, keeping me out of it for my own good.’ Callanach sat back and sipped his coffee. ‘I want a statement on my desk in an hour and I want every single word Jones said to you, as close to verbatim as you can recall it.’

  Ava’s phone rang. She glared at it then picked it up.

  ‘Yes, Chief Inspector Dimitri,’ she said. Callanach stood up to leave. She waved him back into his chair. ‘That’s right, Jones is confirmed dead. Uh huh, Dr Lambert confirmed that some of his injuries were consistent with a road traffic accident. No, those injuries were not the cause of death and MIT will be handling the case from here.’ There was a pause. ‘Of course, I agree you should have been notified when we had a location for him,’ Ava said. She raised her eyebrows at Callanach. ‘Not at all. I was fully aware of the fact that my DI was en route to meet him. I made the decision to send a detective first and bring Jones in. The plan was for you to interview him later on.’ She took a swig of coffee as Dimitri answered. ‘Sure. I’ll see to it that you have access to my DI’s statement as soon as it’s available, probably in a few days given how busy we are with the Lily Eustis murder.’ There was more muffled talk from within the receiver. ‘I very much appreciate your offer of assistance. Goodbye Chief Inspector.’ She hung up.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Callanach said. ‘You want to talk about being paternalistic? I don’t need you lying to cover my back. I didn’t follow procedure, I had a good reason for my decision and
I’m prepared to defend myself.’

  ‘I wasn’t defending you. I was defending … forget it. It’s done. Your statement should make it clear I authorised you to go to Louis Jones. I’ll write one up that says I considered the risks and that we had no way of knowing he might be in danger. Organise some officers to make the usual enquiries in the golf club area. And have someone approach CI Dimitri’s team for access to the car Jones was driving on the night of the accident. Ailsa will need her forensics team to examine it now that it might be relevant to the murder enquiry.’

  ‘Am I handling this investigation?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Of course you are. You were the person Jones reached out to. You found his body. Doesn’t make sense to hand it over to anyone else,’ Ava said.

  ‘Then what are you not telling me?’ Callanach asked.

  Ava glanced at him, then tapped a couple of computer keys as she stared at her laptop screen. ‘Nothing. He was an informant, though, and that means we have to keep the investigation into his death quiet until we know what we can and can’t release. That means you report only to me. No statements go out of MIT’s hands.’

  ‘He hasn’t been a police informant for a very long time. Nothing we find now is going to jeopardise an ongoing investigation. Ava, you were asking me about Jones before. Did you know something was going to happen?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, focusing on her screen. ‘I need that statement as soon as possible. You should put Lively on the Jones investigation. He has the right sort of contacts.’

  Ava waited until Callanach had left then looked up Glynis Begbie’s phone number. She had tried to persuade herself that her instincts were wrong or that she was over-reacting, but each time the facts boiled down to this. George Begbie – the least likely suicide candidate imaginable – had killed himself leaving no note and for no apparent reason. Louis Jones had fled his car injured after his premises had been searched. He, too, had ended up dead. Together they had worked on one of the most prominent Scottish organised crime cases imaginable. One of the men they had helped put away was now out of prison and George Begbie’s loft was stuffed full of unaccounted- for cash.