by Helen Fields
‘If it’s the same killer and there’s a further victim, given the similarities, Police Scotland will be sued. In those circumstances I would feel obliged to explain that I had put forward the case for these being serial murders,’ Ava said, cringing as she issued the half-threat, knowing her relationship with Overbeck was at an all time low, and was sinking to depths she’d believe already plumbed.
‘Why you facetious little …’ Overbeck had ranted for a while. Ava had shifted the receiver away from her ear until it was over. ‘Damage limitation, Turner. Keep it out of the bastard press until you have actual evidence. If you’re struggling to understand what that is, buying a frigging dictionary. And when this particular shit-storm starts blowing in the air, my boot, Detective Chief Inspector, will be firmly winging its way towards your arse. Got it?’
‘Got it, ma’am. Many thanks for your help.’ Ava had ended the call before the Detective Superintendent could respond to that one.
Now Ava was sitting outside the Eustis’ house, waiting to reveal yet more awful news to Lily’s parents. The day had begun badly, was about to get worse, and was due to end with a lecture from Ailsa Lambert cleverly disguised as dinner.
Ava pulled a file from her bag and walked up the path. Mr Eustis opened it before she could knock. He raised a hand to usher her through to the lounge where Mrs Eustis was already waiting. They sat.
‘Thank you for seeing me and apologies for disturbing you on a Sunday. I’m here because I need to ask if you recognise this man.’ Ava raised the artist’s impression of Jeremy from the file. Mr Eustis took it first, then handed it to his wife. Her hands shook so badly that he reached out to steady it for her.
‘Who is he?’ Lily’s father asked.
‘A volunteer who worked for a charity called Crystal, based in Edinburgh. The charity’s founder, Cordelia Muir, also passed away recently,’ Ava said.
‘I don’t understand the relevance, I’m afraid,’ Mr Eustis said. ‘I’ve never seen this young man before and he looks a few years older than Lily. You darling?’
Mrs Eustis shook her head and looked away.
‘We’ve checked Lily’s social media pages and her phone, but there’s no photographic or video evidence that she knew this man. Did Lily have anything to do with Crystal, or perhaps get involved in any charity volunteering?’ Ava asked.
‘She was too busy studying for that,’ her father said. ‘You could try asking her friends. It might be that one of them introduced her to this man. Did he … do you think he had something to do with her death?’
‘At the moment we’re after a positive identification to eliminate him from another investigation. He’s proving rather hard to trace. You should be aware, as you may hear more about it in the next few days, that Cordelia Muir’s death is also being treated as non-accidental.’
‘Was there cannabis oil involved in Ms Muir’s death, too? Only I’m struggling to connect her with our daughter,’ Mr Muir said.
‘That was a different type of drug,’ Ava said, ‘I know I don’t need to ask you not to speak to the press, but there is another family involved so I’m sure I can count on your discretion until we’re in a position to move forward publicly. It may be that this young man had nothing to do with Lily. We’re just covering all bases.’
A door slammed above them, feet pattered along a hallway, and the unmistakable sound of retching could be heard even with the bathroom door closed. Ava looked to Mr and Mrs Eustis. Neither made to go upstairs and see what was happening. It was an ongoing situation, then.
‘Is that Lily’s sister upstairs?’ Ava asked. Mr Eustis nodded. ‘Do you mind if I go and conduct one more search of Lily’s room? I’d like to check there’s nothing that connects her with this man. A photo, a name on a piece of paper, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ was Mr Eustis’ response, which Ava took as consent. She made her way up the stairs and kept Lily’s door fully open, watching the bathroom from the end of the bed where she sat flicking through one of Lily’s books. Ava was staring into the pages when the bathroom door finally opened and a girl tiptoed past. ‘Are you okay?’ Ava called softly. There was a moment of stillness, silence. The girl was deciding on her options. She could pretend she hadn’t heard and keep walking or come back. In the end, either good manners or curiosity won.
‘I’m all right, thank you,’ she said. Her voice was hoarse and she was thinner than any twenty-something should be, with lank hair matted across her brow and sallow skin.
‘I’m DCI Turner. We met briefly when this all started although I don’t expect you to remember.’ Ava stayed on the bed, keeping Lily’s book on her lap. She held out her hand to shake the girl’s. Next to her on the bed was the sketch of Jeremy. The girl walked forward.
‘Mina,’ she said, holding out her hand out to take Ava’s. There was a pause so brief it was more of a micro-hiccup in the flow of the girl’s steps, then she was shaking hands. Her grip was weak and hesitant. Ava didn’t blame her. Who wanted to make physical contact with the woman investigating their sister’s death? That was too much reality for anyone. ‘Who’s that?’ Mina asked, motioning down to the sketch with her free hand.
Ava let Mina’s hand go and picked up the picture. ‘Someone we’re looking for in relation to another investigation. Do you recognise him?’
Mina gave a quick shake of her head. ‘Why him?’ she asked.
‘He disappeared quite suddenly, and may have given false details. He fits the vague description given of the man in the pub with Lily. He also has a stutter. Did Lily ever talk about someone who fitted this description? Or ever show you a photo of a man who could have been him?’
‘No,’ Mina said. ‘I feel ill again. Sorry, I have to go.’ She took a step away and Ava stood up.
‘Mina, can I call a doctor for you, or a counsellor? Your parents are trapped in their own grief, quite understandably, but you need some help to get through this. I can see you’re not well.’
‘I’ve been drinking,’ Mina said, grinning too broadly.
‘No one would blame you for that. Think about it, would you? There are people I can contact who will help. Whenever you’re ready.’ Ava reached into her pocket, pulled out a card, and left it on Lily’s bed. ‘I’ll leave this for you as well, just in case any of Lily’s friends come over. It would help if you’d show them the picture and ask if they recognise him.’
Ava returned to the lounge doing up her coat. Mr Eustis was handing his wife a glass of water and opening a bottle of painkillers.
‘I’ll be off now. Thank you for your time. I’ll call if we have anything else to report,’ Ava said.
‘You didn’t tell us his name,’ Mrs Eustis called out as she went towards the front door. It was the first time she’d spoken, Ava realised, her voice a scratch on a record, making Ava wonder how many days it had been since Mrs Eustis had said anything at all.
‘Jeremy Dolour,’ Ava said, turning around and heading back into the lounge.
Mrs Eustis began to laugh. The water she held started to spill as her stomach spasmed. Her husband stumbled backwards, his face a picture of horror.
‘Stop! Stop it,’ he said. ‘Stop laughing. There’s nothing funny about any of this. I’m so sorry,’ he directed towards Ava. ‘She’s not herself. The doctor said she needs time to work through it.’ He bent down and took the glass from his wife’s hand.
‘Dolour,’ Mrs Eustis said. ‘You don’t get it, do you? What do they teach you people at college these days?’
‘Mrs Eustis,’ Ava said, bending down and taking Lily’s mother’s shaking hands in her own. ‘What don’t I get?’
‘It means grief. He’s having a laugh at your expense, I’m afraid. Perhaps at ours, too, by the look on your face.’ She stopped laughing abruptly and stared at her husband, her eyes widening, as if waking from a nightmare. ‘I think I’d like to lie down now,’ she said.
Chapter Forty-Four
Lance Proudfoot, Callanach’s g
o-to journalist friend, headed for Bridgeton, to the east of Glasgow city, guiding his bike through the traffic into James Street. The area wasn’t bad but it was the retailers that told the story. Funeral directors, charity shops, solicitors, gambling outfits. Businesses whose doors stayed open when others failed. The Jupiter was a decent enough bar if you were of an age that appreciated the music playing a little lower, and that life without Wi-Fi could still be meaningful. Serving James Street customers for thirty years, the bar was more of an institution than a local. The sign outside hadn’t changed and Lance suspected the menu might well offer the same fare it had back in the day, but the man leaning against the inside of the cherrywood bar looked as if he’d suffered more than one lifetime of hardships.
‘What’ll you have?’ he asked as Lance walked in.
‘Will you still serve me if I ask for coffee?’ Lance asked. The man turned to clatter a cup and saucer, muttering to himself. ‘Now is that any way to greet an auld friend, Grogs?’
The barman turned round, taking a bent pair of glasses from his pocket and thrusting them against his face.
‘Well, I’ll be feathered and tarred! Sir Lancelot, is that you? We all assumed you’d been killed by that posh lot over in Edinburgh for not pronouncing your vowels properly.’ He held out a hand and took Lance’s in his, shaking it hard. ‘How long’s it been? I hope I don’t look as old as you, no offence pal.’
‘You’re all right, Grogsy, you’ve got some road to tread until you’ve my wrinkles. So, do I get a coffee or is that not allowed in here?’
‘Aye, you great blouse, I’ll fetch you a coffee. Don’t expect me to join you though. Some of us have traditions to uphold,’ he said, pouring himself a double whisky and slamming it onto the bar. Lance watched his mate’s hands tremble and knew it wasn’t tradition that had him drinking at eleven in the morning.
They raised their drinks to one another, caught up on old friends, running through the time-honoured checklist that had slipped into Lance’s life since his fiftieth birthday – deaths first, divorces second, illnesses third, good news last as there always seemed so little of it.
‘Come on then, you can’t kid a kidder. You didn’t just happen to walk into my bar. What is it you need?’ Grogs asked.
‘The ancient currency of a man who owns a bar. I need information. A pal of mine owes some money. I won’t go into details, but there’s a rumour his debt might have been bought by some people best avoided. I said I’d take a trip, see if I can’t sort it out,’ Lance said.
‘Forewarned is forearmed, is that it?’ Grogs asked. Lance nodded. ‘Who does he owe?’
‘I don’t know who’s grinding the organ, but the monkeys are called Knuckles and Perry. Govanhill lot, I gather.’
Grogsy stopped fiddling with bottles and leaned over the bar. ‘This mate, that wouldn’t be you, would it? Because those are not men with reputations for gentleness.’
‘No, no, not me. The most trouble I get in these days is when I misspell names. It’s a friend of a friend, nothing personal, but it gave me an excuse for a day out on the bike.’ Lance smiled.
‘All right then, but it’s bad news. I’ve never met Knuckles, he’s an enforcer. Rumour has it he’s done several stretches, most notably for death by dangerous driving. Started off as a murder charge, mind, but by the trial there was a distinct lack of witnesses as to the words exchanged between Knuckles and the man he killed. Story goes it was a blackmail racket where the funds had dried up. Knuckles’ first name is Ed. Don’t know the surname. Brian Perry I’ve met a handful of times, lives out west in Pollok. Used to see him at the dog track over in Rutherglen. Wasn’t a bad sort until he got mixed up with a particular crowd. These boys, Lance, they’re not lightweight. Whatever trouble your mate’s in, the debt’ll have to be paid. I’ve lived in this city fifty-six years, there’s not much going on I don’t hear about sooner or later. What’s your friend’s name? Maybe I can find out just how deep in the creek water he is.’
‘Don’t go bothering yourself, I don’t want to put you out. So, whereabouts do these lads hang out? I could do with knowing where my mate should avoid,’ Lance said.
‘There’s a club, The Maz. Girls don’t have to pay to get in, men do, that sort of place. But you can’t talk to these ones, Lance. Not even you have sufficient charm to worm your friend out of this. Steer clear is my advice.’
‘Fair enough. You’ve been a pal. I’d best be heading home, then. Look after yourself, Grogsy. I like what you’ve done with the place,’ Lance said, tucking his helmet under one arm and getting a twenty out of his pocket.
‘Ach, away with you. You’re seriously trying to pay me for a damned coffee, are you?’
Lance left it on the bar. ‘I’m paying you so as next time I visit, you’ll have bought some better coffee than that.’
‘Cheeky git,’ Grogsy said, sliding the note off the bar and into his pocket, raising an arm in farewell.
It took Lance ten minutes to reach The Maz, then another ten to find somewhere secure to park the bike. It wasn’t exactly worth a fortune but it was precious to him, not least because without it he’d be struggling to get home. Satisfied he’d left it safe, he wandered through Govanhill’s back streets to get the lay of the land. Keeping his camera in his backpack, he hung a sensible distance from the rear entrance to The Maz. The club was everything Lance disliked. He’d found enough information on the internet in sixty seconds to know that it involved young women parading their bodies in front of men who could afford to pay for a look, and those men weren’t going to be well-mannered, romantic types. He could understand that times were changing, but what self-respecting bloke wanted to be gawking at a woman’s breasts the same time as a couple of hundred other men? His marriage might have ended in divorce, but it wasn’t because he’d ever behaved disrespectfully. The ex-wife had been heading for her fortieth birthday and begun declaring that she felt trapped, hadn’t seen enough of the world. Sure enough, she’d ended up moving all the way to the other side of Edinburgh and taking annual trips to the Costa Del Sol with a bunch of girlfriends who had a remarkable ability to remain tanned all year round. On their final day residing in the same house, Lance had asked her why she felt the need to leave him. To see more of the world? He could understand that, but why not do it together? Her reply had involved the words boring and dull. After that Lance had switched off. There were some conversations it was better not to be able to recall accurately. Whilst he didn’t want to admit that one motivation for assisting Callanach was throwing off the spectre of his wife’s parting words, he was aware that since she’d left he’d begun taking risks previously not in his nature. Grogsy’s warning hadn’t exactly been water off a duck’s back, but it was the middle of the day. Knuckles and Perry were hardly likely to be roaming around outside with shotguns.
He located the car he was looking for at the rear of The Maz quite easily. The owner hadn’t made any attempt to conceal it, parked as it was in the row of spaces at the rear of the club. The patch-up job on the front passenger side had been done well, but the pristine nature of the patch spoke volumes. The headlight was a new unit, compared with the rust-speckled driver’s side, and it had been fitted very recently indeed. The paint work was a perfect match, although lacking the usual fine lines that an older car would have accumulated. It was, however, a tiny remnant of tape from where the paint had been sprayed that gave the work away. The devil was always in the details. Lance checked that no one was watching from any nearby windows or loitering on street corners from where he could be seen, then he took out his camera and clicked off a series of photos, ensuring he got the number plate and both headlights for comparison. Short of knocking the club door and asking to speak with the owner, that was all he could do. He slid his camera into his pack, checked again that no one was watching and made his way back to the bike. From the upper corner of the building, a black lens on a black background, hidden in the shade of the guttering, moved sideways in time with Lance’s progress
out of the car parking area. Less then a minute later, a tall, elegant figure slipped out of the club’s backdoor.
Lance was just putting his rucksack into a pannier when a man stopped him, holding out a sheet of paper.
‘Excuse me, sir? I think you dropped this,’ the man said, taking hold of Lance by the shoulder as he was putting on his helmet. Lance started, instinctively pulling away, moving out of the man’s reach. ‘Are you all right?’ the man asked.
‘Yes, fine, apologies,’ Lance said, settling down as the man smiled gently at him, leaving the piece of paper in his hands. He was good looking, a similar age to Lance, with the distinctive skin and hair colour that denoted eastern European forefathers in spite of the Glaswegian accent. ‘I wasn’t aware I’d dropped anything.’
‘My mistake,’ the man said. ‘You have a good day.’ He walked away, leaving Lance holding the paper, still breathing hard. When the hand had landed on his shoulder, he’d been convinced he would turn round to see either Knuckles or his side-kick Perry. It had all seemed like some harmless adventure until then. Now Lance wasn’t so sure.
He opened up the sheet of paper to check it hadn’t fallen from his rucksack.
‘Happy Hour – Monday to Thursday, 7pm to 10pm. Membership rates available,’ it read. ‘The Mazophilia Club welcomes you.’
Chapter Forty-Five
Ava took the stairs in the station two at a time. ‘Tripp!’ she shouted. ‘Where the hell’s DC Tripp?’ she yelled into the incident room.
‘He’s with Cordelia Muir’s daughter at their house, ma’am,’ someone replied.
‘God-frigging-dammit,’ Ava said, storming towards her office and firing up her laptop. She bit her lip until a search engine page appeared, typing in ‘Dolour, meaning,’ and waiting for a circle to spin irritatingly around. ‘A state of great sorrow or distress,’ came the result. ‘Origin – Middle English via Old French from Latin; pain, grief.’