Czytaj książkę: «A DI Callanach Thriller»
Copyright
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018
Copyright © Helen Fields 2018
Cover photograph © Alamy
Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com
Helen Fields asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008181611
Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780008181628
Version 2020-10-29
Dedication
For Sollie
Changing the world one great big smile at a time. Remember this, my darling boy – there are no limits to what you can achieve. None at all. You take my breath away.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Keep Reading for a sneak peek of The Shadow Man …
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Lily’s life was very nearly over, it was just that she didn’t know it yet. He stroked the photograph of her he’d kept by his bed for the last few months. In it, she was bending over the edge of a pond, throwing bread for ducks, laughing, entirely unaware of her stunted future.
Much remained to be done before the evening, but he could allow himself a few moments with his box of treasures. He pulled the bottom drawer from his bedside table, putting his hands into the dark void beneath to grip the wooden container. He’d made it in woodwork at school – one of the few triumphs in a largely wasted period of his life – but then he’d moved around a lot, and academics had never come easily.
Sliding the lid off, he caught his breath looking at the scraps of lives contained within. A brooch, inlaid with semi-precious stones, in the shape of a sprig of heather. He remembered the back-breaking hours of gardening he’d had to do for that one, never allowed a rest to avoid the rain, yet it had been worth it in the end. Then there was the tiny silver letter opener, so well used and well loved that part of the swirling design on its handle had been worn away. A lucky coin, or so its owner had claimed, kept always in a pocket or a purse. Just went to prove there was no such thing as good luck. Finally, a tooth. More specifically a crown, dislodged in the torment and drama of those final moments when nothing had gone to plan. He liked the smoothness of its surface, the integral part it had played in the life he’d ended. Where did a body’s energy go once death was complete? He thought back to his school days once more. There had been something about energy changing form but never ceasing to exist. Not enough knowledge to have passed a science exam, but he was pleased with the tiny pearl of wisdom. He wondered if it was possible to breathe a dying person’s energy in.
Making a small space in the centre of the objects in his box, he imagined a new prize there. Its owner had taken more time to cultivate than the rest. Lily kept herself to herself, enjoyed family life, and worked hard. Soon he would have his memento of her, ready to savour among the others he’d worked so hard for.
He checked the tiny vial of cannabis oil he’d spent weeks brewing. Buying small quantities here and there rather than risking scrutiny for purchasing a massive amount in one go had been time consuming but worthwhile. Most of the process after that had been easy, snagging only when he’d tested it on himself and ended up sleeping so deeply that he’d missed work the next day. Not good. He had expenses. Such a complex calling required careful financing, and cash in hand jobs were in short supply.
Sliding the box back beneath the drawer space, he ran through the details once more in his head. His car was ready. All the lights were working – no point attracting attention from the police over something as ridiculous as a blown bulb. Everything had been handled with gloves. All his supplies. There wasn’t one item touched freely. He’d watched enough true crime television to know that these days fingerprints weren’t the issue. Skin cells could leave enough DNA to make a case against him. He didn’t want to get caught. There was so much to do. So many more people that needed his attention.
All ready. He could even afford the time for a nap. Better not to be tired given all he had to do. Not just the physical aspects. Killing was hard work. Anyone who believed a human being perished in the few seconds portrayed in TV crime dramas was an idiot. Death, more often than not, was a slow striptease of a show. There were ways it could be done fast – gunshot, explosion, massive head trauma – but hands on, it inevitably took longer. Suffocation and drowning were the real time-heavy activities, and chances were that you’d end up injured yourself. Scratches, groin kicks, broken bones. He’d had enough of that.
Lying back on his bed, he closed his eyes. The anticipation was all a part of it. Rushing to the end point was like reading the final chapter of a book first. It was the build-up, the investment in the characters, that made the pay-off so thrilling. In the past he’d struggled to find the ideal victims, and now three had come along at once. He laughed. It was a brutal choke of a noise that exploded in the air like a firecracker. It was a cruel sound, but he wasn’t a cruel man. Not unnecessarily. Only when cruelty was absolutely required.
Chapter Two
‘Hey, sweetie, let me get you another drink.’ Joe smiled at Lily as she returned from the pub toilets. Lily squeezed between a final pair of Friday night oblivion seekers, failing to notice the one staring at her backside as she turned side-on to get through. Fair enough, Joe thought. It was a body worth staring at and he wasn’t going to start a fight over something so petty.
‘Joe, it’s my turn. You don’t always have to buy,’ she said as she dropped to the seat at his side. They huddled in the limited space, raising their voices against the increasing uproar of drinkers, music and the shuffle of feet on the wooden floor.
‘Are you saving money for university?’ he asked, gathering up their empty glasses.
‘You know I am,’ she replied, ‘but that doesn’t mean …’
‘And are you going to bust your ass to become the best doctor ever?’ Joe leaned down to kiss her. The crowd of girls sharing their table rolled their eyes, tutting, jealous beneath their masks of disgust.
‘You’re crazy.’ Lily kissed him back.
‘So am I doing the world a favour by helping Miss Lily Eustis save future lives without starting her degree an extra’ – he looked at the ceiling, calculating – ‘eight pounds forty-six in debt?’
‘I give in,’ Lily laughed, kissing him again then pressing her face into his neck as she blushed.
‘Okay, you got me, I have a thing about women in white coats with stethoscopes. This is my way of secretly funding my own bizarre fetish,’ Joe said. Lily mock punched his arm as he walked away. He didn’t hear the woman staring at him whistle under her breath. He didn’t notice as the girl sitting next to them looked daggers at Lily. They were a couple lost in each other.
Getting to the bar was like climbing a mountain. Drinks spilled down backs as people moved away with their hands too full. Positions were claimed and voices raised when one customer was wrongly served before another. Requests to change the music were yelled, and complaints made that someone was locked in one of only two cubicles in the ladies’. A beer pump ran flat. Joe stood patiently, quick to smile, to forgive the toe-treaders and elbow-jabbers. He had Lily, and she was everything he’d dreamed of.
In his car was everything they needed for the perfect romantic evening. Wood, firelighters, matches, a flask of liquor to warm them up, a sleeping bag. Even the weather had been kind. It would be cold but the rain was going to stay away. He’d even been thorough enough to check out their destination a few days ago. Edinburgh would spread majestically beneath them, its lights a reflection of the stars above, clouds willing. He would, at last, have Lily all to himself, and the time to show her what she really meant to him.
* * *
It was too cold for anyone to have been outside naked. That was Mark McVeigh’s first – and most ridiculous – thought. The scene the drone camera was relaying back into his monitor was nothing like he’d imagined he might capture. The wintry frost and barren rocks, yes. A hard, blank sky with a horizon veiled in layers of fog, yes. A woman sprawled, one knee bent, one leg straight, one arm behind her head, the other slung out across the ground, no. Her long red hair was wind swept, a fluttering veil over her eyes. At her feet were the ashy remains of a fire. Abandoned at her side was a box of matches. He moved the drone closer, trying to convince himself that he might see her ribcage rise and fall. No joy. Mark directed the drone towards her face, hoping he wasn’t about to be accused of some brand of perversion, and wishing to any number of deities that his gut instinct was wrong. Being wrong right now would be good. The drone copter was out of his eye-line over a ridge. He controlled its descent, careful not to bring it down directly over the woman in case she awoke, sat up and collided with it. Closer inspection brought no relief. The drone was fitted with a decent lens, and his screen was filled with shades of blue that had nothing to do with the frost or the winter-dead heathers. The blue was her lips, her open eyes, her veins and oxygen-starved skin.
Mark sprinted, knowing it was pointless as he exerted himself, but the idea of merely walking towards the dead woman smacked of disrespect. He took the ridge on his hands and knees, the longer, gentler pathway around the edge of the hilltop out of the question. He was bleeding by the time he could see her directly, a tableau on the ground, the good people of Edinburgh waking unaware in the distance, Arthur’s Seat above them. Ignoring his skinned knees and cut hands, Mark flew down the scree slope, calling out to her as he went.
His drone was a grounded, whirring mess of plastic and metal a few metres away. He hadn’t even realised he’d thrown down the remote. The mobile in his pocket was playing a game of cat and mouse with his fingers. Then he was at her side, kneeling on the frozen ground, pressing his fingers against her neck, aware that it wasn’t possible for a body that colour to have a pulse. He ripped off his winter coat in spite of his certain knowledge that life had fled her flesh, in order to cover her nakedness. After that he called the police, giving the best description he could of their location within the mountainous landscape that stood regal over Scotland’s capital.
Close-up, Mark could see she was younger than he’d thought, the freezing night having robbed her of the blush denoting her youth. Like him, he thought, she was in that teetering abyss between teenage and adulthood. A tiny diamond in the side of her nose sparkled with the first rays of morning winter sun, off-setting the blonde highlights artfully added to her copper hair. It was all he could do to stop himself brushing the hair from her face, but then he would see her eyes more clearly and he didn’t want that. Mark stood up, peering over the ridge of the hill to check for approaching vehicles, but there was no clear view of any roads. In summer, free of corpses, it would have been a private and sheltered idyll. A waving patch of red in the scrub grass some twenty metres away caught his eye.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said. It had seemed rude not to say anything, even to a dead body. Without his coat, the cold was already setting in. He forced himself into a jog to keep warm, wondering how long the police would take to arrive, given how hard the spot was to access. His own car was a mile away at the foot of the hills, the steep slopes and rocky tracks inhospitable to anything other than four-wheel drives.
The red object turned out to be a shirt, a warm one made from heavy cotton, perfect for nights by the fire and drinking in pubs. He picked it up, looking back at the girl, assessing the rough size as a match for her, coming up positive. A couple of minutes’ walk further down the hillside he found a bra hanging off the edge of a rock, stark white, the metal fastener icy on his fingers.
Mark heard the helicopter before he saw it, the whap-whap of the rotors scaring wildlife and echoing off the rocks. The police circled, getting a location on the body and communicating the scene to the units whose blue lights became visible for the first time below. Mark carried the clothing he’d found back up the steep bank towards the girl.
A face appeared over the ridge, followed by two more. The one in the lead walked directly to Mark, holding out his hand.
‘Good morning,’ he said, his French accent clipped but still obvious. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Luc Callanach. I’m assuming it was you who called this in?’ Mark nodded. ‘Let’s get clear of the scene. How are you doing?’
‘Don’t really know,’ Mark said. ‘Better than that girl, I guess.’
Better than the girl, indeed, Callanach thought, hoping death had found her accidentally, wondering how much time he would spend staring at her face in photos on the incident room board. Did anyone ever sense it, he wondered, when they awoke on the morning they were destined to die? Did they take one extra glance in the mirror before they dashed from their homes to their jobs or studies, feeling that something in the universe had shifted? In a momentary burst of anger, he hated Scotland’s chill air, its damp and greyness. The girl had perished in the freezing cold, watching her last breaths wisp into the air. It was no way to go. A bitter, stark and lonely passing. He could only hope she had been unaware that it was coming.
Chapter Three
Five months into her promotion, Detective Chief Inspector Ava Turner was still suffering from chronic impostor syndrome. It wasn’t having so many people under her command, or the meetings she was expected to attend, nor the new office. It was simply that she no longer felt able to hang around in the incident room, drinking coffee and dissecting the day’s events, having a bit of a laugh when circumstances allowed it. What she liked even less was the pressure of balancing the public well-being with Police Scotland’s magically shrinking budgets. It felt as if the word ‘no’ had become her go-to response recently. Could they afford another expert for a certain case? No. Could the Major Investigation Team have a few more uniformed officers to help with enquiries? No. Could they trial some new software technology to filter CCTV footage? What the hell do you think the answer to that is? It wasn’t that Ava regretted taking the promotion. It was more that every step up the ladder turned her dreams of doing good and solving crimes into something that felt more like a dripping tap of disappointment.
Whilst her professional life was being lived in an increasingly public space, her private life had taken on a positively desolate quality. The women and men from MIT felt the distance between themselves and their Detective Chief Inspector was too great to invite her for their occasional trips to the pub, and Ava would have felt obliged to make an excuse even if an invitation had been extended. Her peers were too busy with children or spouses to want to socialise after work. The youngest of her rank in her mid-thirties and as yet unmarried, Ava had no such distractions. Her best friend was in the throes of a new relationship hotter than a Carolina Reaper chilli pepper and would be unavailable until either she or her latest girlfriend remembered that the rest of the world was still functioning beyond their bedroom door. The price of success, apparently, was endlessly long evenings. Ava stared at her office phone, knowing better than to want it to ring, understanding that her need to be occupied could only come at someone else’s cost.
Detective Sergeant Lively, in his late fifties and unaware of the concept of political correctness, appeared without knocking. Ava considered reminding him that announcing his intention to enter was commonly considered good manners, but was too pleased to have company to issue any sort of reprimand.
‘Did you find DI Callanach?’ Ava asked.
‘I did. We checked the men’s toilets first. He’s usually to be found not far from a mirror. Surprisingly though in this instance he was out doing some actual detective work, ma’am.’
‘Thanks for that, DS Lively. If you’ve finished your jibes you might like to tell me what case your commanding officer is attending,’ Ava said.
Lively grinned. He and Callanach didn’t have the best of relationships to begin with although more recently they’d settled for casual avoidance and occasional insults. ‘A body’s been found in the hills up at Arthur’s Seat. There’ll have to be an investigation but initial reports are that no foul play was involved. The pathologist has been to the scene. There are no obvious injuries or signs of violence. The body’s been taken for autopsy. Only outstanding matter is identification. Once the victim’s name is ascertained and the family has been informed, looks like it’ll be a straight forward case. Nothing to bother you with, I’m sure.’
‘Even so, would you ask DI Callanach to brief me once he gets back? I’d like to keep up to date with it,’ Ava said. She looked at the mug in DS Lively’s hand. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance that’s for me?’ She smiled.
Lively took a long sip. ‘Sorry ma’am, I’d have made you one, only I know that’s frowned upon these days. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you expected the rank and file to make you coffee. Flies in the face of modern policing, that does.’ He left.
Ava leaned back in her chair, cursing the adrenalin her body had generated at the mention of a new investigation. It was a sick and sad indictment on policing that they should become bored rather than delighted when they had nothing to do, but there it was. It was tragic that a soul had perished up on Arthur’s Seat, and Ava was grateful there was no suggestion of criminal involvement, but she needed something to occupy her other than signing off on the annual MIT dinner.
Some humorist had arranged for it to take place at a French restaurant this year – a sarcastic homage to DI Callanach, she imagined – his half-French half-Scottish ancestry still the butt of as many jokes as when he’d joined Police Scotland from Interpol a year earlier. Even his accent had paled into insignificance compared to the mickey-taking he’d had to endure when his squad had found out about his history as a model. Callanach had the sort of face it was hard not to stare at, and women regularly did. His dark eyes, long eyelashes, strong jaw and olive skin were never destined to fit in with the crowd, a fact Ava found constantly amusing when they socialised. Or when they used to socialise, Ava corrected herself. Since her promotion they’d played an awkward game of saying they really should do something together soon, never defining what or when.
She had one hand on her phone to call Callanach for an update as it rang in her fingers. She snatched it to her ear. ‘Turner,’ she said.
‘Goodness me, could you not answer the phone like that, please? I’d rather not have people contacting the Major Investigation Team feeling as if you’re mid-crisis before they’ve even introduced themselves. We’re not mid-crisis, are we?’ Detective Superintendent Overbeck asked.
‘No, ma’am,’ Ava said. ‘Sorry. I was just about to …’
‘Good, good. I have the shortlisted applicants for the open Detective Inspector position. I thought you should have a chance to look through them before we interview so I’ll email the list to you this afternoon. If you could let me have your thoughts some time tomorrow that would be helpful. You were invited to drinks with the City Fellows this evening but I gather you’re not attending. Why is that?’
‘Oh, that’s this evening? I’ve got a physiotherapist appointment. Didn’t want to take any time off work for it, so I arranged it in the evening. It’ll be another month if I cancel tonight,’ Ava said, glad the Superintendent was quizzing her by phone rather than in person. In spite of years watching other people lie convincingly during interviews, Ava still hadn’t honed that particular skill.
‘Fucking right you shouldn’t take time off work for a quick massage. Too late to change it now I suppose, but in future you need to remember that this is how the game’s played. Don’t miss the next one. And keep the overtime levels low again next month. We’re within budget for once, which means I’m not getting shit from the board. I’d like to keep it that way,’ Overbeck sniped.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Ava said, already talking to a dead line. She dropped Dr Ailsa Lambert, Edinburgh’s Chief Pathologist, an email asking for an update on the body at Arthur’s Seat, then allowed herself the guilty pleasure of checking what films were on at the cinema. She preferred the reruns of old classics that occasionally made the late night showings, but right now she’d settle for anything mindless with a large popcorn. Luck was with her. There was an 11pm showing of Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in The West. Ava had a date with Charles Bronson, which was an improvement on another night home alone, and was close to a lottery win compared with the City Fellows’ drinks party. There was tedious, then there was being called ‘dearie’ by eighty-year-old men who felt entitled to ask you to fetch them another drink just because you happened to be a different gender to them, and who wanted to talk golf handicaps while you stood silently and looked impressed. Detective Superintendent Overbeck might have become adept at playing those promotion inducing games, but Ava was both less tolerant and less ambitious.
Her door opened again and DS Lively reappeared.
‘Would you give me a break?’ Ava sighed. ‘If you’ve come to taunt me about the coffee, can I recommend …’ She caught the look on his face. The usually sour, perpetually hard-done-by grimace was slack but his neck was drawn in tight, his throat working hard but producing no sound. DS Lively was, she realised, doing his damnedest not to cry. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘It’s DCI Begbie,’ Lively said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ava stood up, knowing what the look on her detective sergeant’s face meant, needing to hear him say the words anyway. ‘Stop apologising, Lively, and just say it.’
‘Ma’am, I’m not sure what happened. His car’s been found. Too late to do anything. The Chief’s dead.’
Ava felt a stab of pain in her chest. She was winded, crushed, the sentiment producing a remarkable physical effect. Her former commanding officer and decades-long friend was gone.
