by Helen Fields
‘It’s all right,’ Monroe told him. ‘Mina just needs some time, don’t you?’
Mina looked at Lively leaning against her doorframe, and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. Lively went back to his place on the stairs.
‘So this isn’t your friend, right? There are obvious differences between the man we’re looking for and the person you’re concerned about. I understand that. The good news is that we have the fingerprints of the man we’re looking for. We got them from the fridge in Cordelia Muir’s office where he volunteered for a while. That means your friend can’t be wrongly accused. We’ll be able to eliminate him from our enquiries quickly and easily. He won’t be in any trouble at all and I’m sure he’ll be pleased to help. We have no interest in catching the wrong man, Mina. The sooner we talk to your friend, the sooner we can cross his name off the list and get on with finding Cordelia Muir’s real murderer.’
‘My friend’s not a murderer,’ Mina whispered.
‘Exactly my point,’ Monroe said. ‘So actually, by not giving us his details, you’re doing more harm than good. You said he doesn’t wear glasses?’
‘No,’ Mina said.
‘Where did you first meet him?’ Monroe asked.
‘At the university. He’s studying for a Masters degree in American literature, so there’s no way he was volunteering at some charity. I used to see him in the library all the time,’ she said.
‘That’s great, Mina. Really helpful. Could you give me his name?’
Mina hesitated. ‘Do I have to?’ she asked.
‘I think you know the answer to that already,’ Monroe said.
* * *
DS Lively was downstairs radioing the information through to the incident room, while Janet Monroe continued to speak gently to the girl sobbing on her bed. ‘The man’s name is Christian Cadogan,’ Lively said. ‘He fits the description of our sketch of Jeremy albeit that Mina reports he does not wear glasses and has no stutter. Apparently, he’s a mature student at Edinburgh Uni. She believes him to be twenty-seven years of age, and she’s given us a temporary address in the city for him. Have uniforms check it out immediately. Ask DC Tripp to contact me, would you?’
Half an hour later, after a conversation with Mr and Mrs Eustis, they climbed back in their car. ‘Shall we go straight to Cadogan’s address?’ Monroe asked. ‘I know you want to.’
‘You’re on desk duties,’ Lively said. ‘I’m not taking you anywhere there’s a disturbance likely to occur.’
‘I’ve just been on field duties interviewing a witness, so I think we can view the rules as moveable depending on what’s required,’ Monroe replied.
‘Argue all you like. I’m your superior and my decision is final,’ Lively said.
‘I’ll stay in the car. We’re not far away. It’s a waste not to go there yourself. You have a feel for the case already. The uniforms who attend won’t have your sense for what’s going on,’ Monroe said.
‘Are you always like this?’ Lively asked.
‘You mean logical and honest?’ Monroe answered.
By the time they arrived in Annandale Street, uniformed officers had tried the door and got no answer.
‘That’s not cheap,’ Lively said.
‘Hardly student digs,’ Monroe replied. ‘Mina said Christian is currently house-sitting for a friend. She was there with him a while ago, so he definitely has the keys.’
‘What do we know about the place?’ Lively asked the sergeant in charge of making enquiries.
‘We’ve just spoken to a neighbour,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Not all of these flats are occupied yet, they’re still so new. The neighbour was under the impression that the flat we’re looking at is rented out for short-term lets. Holiday makers, businessmen in Edinburgh for a week at a time.’
Lively put his hands on his hips. ‘There’s a website, right? One where you can book these sorts of places. I can never remember the names of these things.’
‘Airbnb,’ Monroe said.
‘Is that what the neighbour was talking about?’ Lively asked. The sergeant checked his notebook and nodded. ‘Clever bastard,’ he said. ‘He gave a different address on the Cordelia Muir application form, but that property was rented through the same website.’
‘They’ll have credit card details on file,’ Monroe said. ‘If he had the keys to this place, then he had to pay for it somehow. Let’s find him.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
The briefing room was overflowing. Callanach watched Ava talking to PC Monroe and DS Lively. Her arms were wrapped around her waist, her shoulders huddled up towards her neck as if she were standing outside with no coat on. Across the room, Tripp was studiously ignoring the noise from the crowd and tapping away on his computer, eyes scrunched as he typed and clicked. An alert buzz from his mobile reminded Callanach that Lance had left him a voicemail earlier that he had yet to play. He stepped into the corridor for some quiet.
‘Luc, it’s Lance. I’ve emailed you photos of the damage to the car that hit Louis Jones’, with the licence plate showing. My source confirmed the link between the thugs you were asking about – Knuckles and Brian Perry – and The Maz club. The two lads are well known in certain parts of Glasgow and they’re not people you’d want to mess with. I’ll fill you in properly when I get back to Edinburgh. There was one other thing, although it’s probably unrelated. As I was …’
Ava called the briefing room to order. Callanach paused the voicemail replay and went to take a seat. Lively began by summarising the information provided by Mina about her friend Christian Cadogan, and finished with a description of the Airbnb accommodation. Tripp stood up.
‘We’ve done an all agencies records search and identified nine men known as Christian Cadogan over the age of eighteen in Scotland. None of them have previous convictions for anything other than driving offences, petty theft, benefits fraud or breaches of the peace, so we need to narrow down the field. More importantly, we still do not have a firm evidential link tying Cadogan to Lily Eustis’ death. All we have at the moment is Mina Eustis positively identifying the artist’s impression of the man who worked in Cordelia Muir’s office as someone who had befriended her shortly before her sister’s death. It’s a link, a strong one, and he is our main person of interest, but we do not yet have a case we could take to court. Even if we find the Christian Cadogan we’re looking for, currently he’ll take advice from a lawyer and immediately claim coincidence. Cordelia Muir’s daughter does not recognise the man we now believe to be Cadogan. She is currently picking up her seventeen-year-old brother, Randall, from the hospital he was admitted to following a suicide attempt. DCI Turner and I will speak with Randall immediately after this briefing to ascertain if he has had any contact with Cadogan. We’re still trying to make sense of this case, and where all the pieces fit. If located, remember that Cadogan may be dangerous.’
Ava stood up. ‘Alarming the public by announcing that there may be a repeat killer on the loose is not an avenue we want to go down before we’re sure of the facts. However, we should all be setting our minds to what Cadogan might be planning next. The Cordelia Muir killing was substantially more audacious than Lily Eustis’, so either Cadogan was just finding his feet or the buzz wasn’t enough the first time. That means he might do something even more reckless this time, possibly more violent or extreme. The priority is to locate him before that happens. I’m pulling everyone off the Louis Jones investigation except PC Monroe and DI Callanach until we have Cadogan in custody. I need the university library’s CCTV footage checked to see if we can identify Cadogan on the occasions when he met Mina Eustis there. What do we know about library security?’
‘Students and staff have swipe cards,’ a uniformed officer read from a notebook. ‘But you can access the library as a visitor. You get a day pass, although you have to produce some ID.’
‘We already know Cadogan’s not a mature student as he claimed to Mina Eustis. He’s not on the American literature course or any other, cert
ainly not under the name Christian Cadogan,’ Monroe said. ‘There are cameras around the campus, some inside the library, but it’s going to take a lot of checking. We have officers on their way to the university now to liaise with security.’
Callanach fetched the strongest coffee he could stomach and went back to his room. Janet Monroe was already waiting for him.
‘You did well with Mina Eustis,’ Callanach said. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much to work with as far as Louis Jones’ murder goes. I found a handgun and a stack of used notes left in a concealed space in his office. Makes me wonder if he was really running at all. Maybe we got it wrong.’
‘Jones had time to take the gun, but didn’t? Maybe he underestimated the threat,’ Monroe said, ‘although he left his precious birds with a month’s supply of seed dumped in their cage.’
‘How did he know that he needed to leave?’ Callanach asked. ‘Someone either warned him or scared him, in person or by telephone.’
‘I’ll go back through the phone logs,’ Monroe said. ‘Presumably someone looked at the last incoming call?’
‘That won’t help. The final inward call logged was from St Leonard’s police station, chasing the owner of the vehicle after the crash had been reported,’ Callanach said.
‘The call before that then,’ Monroe said, opening the file and running her finger down the call log column. ‘There’s nothing before Dimitri’s call for an hour, in which case Jones would have had plenty of time to have left and he’d have been well away from the outskirts of Edinburgh before the crash took place. Doesn’t make sense. Someone must have tipped him off in person.’ Monroe grabbed a pen and began scribbling notes. ‘There’s something wrong with the timings.’ She tipped her head to one side.
‘How do you know?’ Callanach asked.
‘The times are wrong between Jones’ crash and the call log. Maybe it’s a software glitch,’ Monroe said.
‘Can’t be. It’s all centrally logged by the telecoms provider. The time is never manually controlled. What’s the problem?’ Callanach asked. She didn’t answer. ‘Monroe?’
‘The call from St Leonard’s went through twenty-seven minutes before the crash was called in,’ Monroe said. ‘Which isn’t possible. I know the crash time was recorded properly because I was one of the first on the scene. So the call log must be wrong.’
Callanach looked over her shoulder. ‘How did Ava miss that?’ he asked.
‘DCI Turner wouldn’t have had access to the road traffic accident case file at that time. She wouldn’t have been able to put the timeline together accurately,’ Monroe said. ‘I’ll contact the telecoms provider and let them know there’s a fault on their system before any other investigations are compromised.’
‘Monroe,’ Callanach said quietly, ‘what if it’s not a fault and the log is right?’
‘I’d have realised. I’m always careful about accurate case timelines. I was responsible for putting the file together for the Procurator Fiscal,’ Monroe said.
‘You’d only have been looking at the timeline on the crash, not cross-referencing it with a possible burglary.’
‘But Jones’ address would have been checked in any event to see if he was there. Eventually he’d have been logged as a missing person. Sooner or later the burglary would have come to my attention too.’ Monroe frowned, flicking back and forwards between the files. ‘Give me a minute would you, sir?’ she muttered, picking up the phone. There were a few minutes of redirection of calls before she spoke again. ‘Jock,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s Monroe. Listen, I’ve checked out a number from an investigation log and it comes back to your extension. You know the evening we attended the Louis Jones car crash, were you at your desk when we got asked to attend that incident?’ There was another pause. ‘So, if you didn’t call out during that period, do you have any idea who did?’ Monroe’s face froze briefly then went slack as her colleague answered, resting a hand over her eyes. ‘Cheers Jock. No, not an issue. Just tying up the loose ends for my statement. Want to finish up all my outstanding paperwork before the baby, you know how it is. Give my love to the wife.’
She rang off, opening the call logs one last time before meeting Callanach’s eyes.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Makes even less sense now,’ Monroe said. ‘A little while before we were sent over to the Louis Jones crash, my colleague was away from his desk. Returned to find CI Dimitri just ending a call. Dimitri explained that his own landline had been playing up.’ Callanach thrust his hands into his pockets and stared out of the window. ‘Sir, if you’re thinking the Chief Inspector had anything to do with this, there’s no way I wouldn’t have realised there was something wrong sooner or later.’
‘Not if you left on early maternity leave, Callanach said. ‘That left him free to finalise the prosecution papers himself,’ Callanach said.
Monroe closed her notebook and looked at the floor. She stayed that way for more than a minute. ‘The missing paint flecks,’ she said. ‘You suspect that someone made sure they went missing.’
‘Not only that. There was also the speed with which Louis Jones’ car was demolished. Destroying it immediately for lack of tax and insurance seems a bit hasty, especially given the fact that it had been in an unresolved accident,’ Callanach added.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Monroe said. ‘If we report these suspicions, I’ll be branded a bitter employee who didn’t like being told to take time off. Chief Inspector Dimitri has no motive for interfering in your investigation. None of it makes sense.’
‘Louis Jones didn’t take his gun with him,’ Callanach said. ‘If he did speak with CI Dimitri just before he fled his offices, maybe he thought he’d be safer unarmed. A man with a gun is liable to have serious, possibly lethal, force used against him by the police, and no one would have questioned it. Jones knew that perfectly well.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Monroe asked.
‘Nothing until I can establish a motive,’ Callanach said. ‘Get DCI Turner on the phone and tell her I need immediate access to the case file involving Ramon Trescoe, Dylan McGill and Louis Jones. Everything that’s happening now seems to be linked to that. If there’s evidence to be found, it’ll be in those documents. I’ll be in records waiting for her to authorise their release. Make sure she knows there’s not a minute to lose.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
Ava signed off release of the Trescoe case to Callanach, though what use it might be she couldn’t imagine. She and Tripp were waiting in Cordelia Muir’s living room when Randall arrived home. His sister had been appointed his guardian, and contact had been made with Randall’s psychiatrist to ensure he was fit to be questioned about the artist’s impression of the man they were now calling Christian Cadogan. Even so, it felt like an intrusion. The poor boy had just lost his only surviving parent. Life was cruel, and rarely in small doses. A part of Randall would, Ava knew, always be seventeen years old, forever stuck in that moment when his mother had been ripped from him. The things that happened during such formative years were a constant trap waiting to ensnare you at every low point throughout your life. Ava hoped his sister was up to the task of meeting Randall’s needs as she dealt with her own grief.
Randall walked in looking more self-assured than Ava had expected. He’d been in shock when he’d attempted to take his own life, but the young man who held his head high as he entered the lounge seemed quite composed.
‘I’m DCI Turner,’ Ava said, holding out her hand to him. He took it, shaking hers with a firm grip. ‘I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, especially when I’m sure you simply want to be left alone to settle back home.’
‘That’s okay,’ Randall said. ‘I was told you had some questions for me.’
‘I do,’ Ava said, opening her file. ‘Would you sit down a moment? I won’t keep you long.’
Randall sat, reaching a tremulous hand for the arm of the chair before lowering himself in. His composure was at least partly acted
then, Ava thought, aware that she should detain him for as short a time as possible.
‘I’ll fetch tea,’ Randall’s sister said, leaving Tripp and Ava to maintain the polite facade. Randall’s eyes caught the light from the miniature chandelier that hung centrally in the room, and Ava saw their glaze. His pupils were dilated, and an oily sheen decorated his skin that she suspected was more to do with medication than the pitfalls of teenage life. She had a five-minute window, no more.
‘Randall,’ Ava said. ‘There was a man who worked for your mother, a volunteer. He called himself Jeremy. Did your mother ever mention him to you?’
‘No,’ Randall said. ‘I didn’t really ask her about the people at work. Was that wrong?’
‘Not at all, I can’t imagine any teenager being interested in what their parent’s day in the office was like. That’s not why I was asking. I just wondered if you had any information about him. Where he came from, why he was volunteering, even if it didn’t seem important.’
‘She never mentioned him at all. I think … I think we mainly talked about me and my day,’ Randall said blandly. ‘I don’t recall ever asking about hers.’
‘We’ve had an artist draw a likeness of him that we’re circulating. Would you mind taking a look? It’s possible that he might have gone by a different name,’ Ava said. She turned over the sketch she’d been keeping on her lap, watching Randall’s face as he stared at the image. The corners of his mouth rose slightly. He held out his fingertips to gently brush the page.
‘It’s the wrong picture,’ Randall said.