Kitabı oku: «A DI Callanach Thriller», sayfa 4
Chapter Eight
Ava met Callanach in the city mortuary carpark. She waited, leaning on her car, as he parked his.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Ava asked as he got out.
‘No,’ he said. ‘How did the briefing go?’
‘Everyone’s still in shock. Most of the squad worked directly with the Chief at some point. I think there’s a softly spoken consensus that retiring after his heart attack was what killed him. All those years in the thick of things and he ends up with golf club membership and on a diet he hated. Hardly a replacement for the adrenalin and single malt he was used to. Let’s go in. Ailsa has stayed late for us.’
They walked into the mortuary, the clinical, chemical smell extending just beyond its external glass doors as if issuing an olfactory ‘abandon hope’ warning. Dr Ailsa Lambert was in her office, her assistant looking tired as he drew on his coat and bade them goodnight. Ava knocked.
‘Ailsa,’ Ava said. ‘Are you ready for us?’
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’d offer you both a drink only I won’t allow alcohol on the premises. If ever I needed it though …’ she stopped herself, picking up a file labelled DCI George Begbie. ‘Let’s start with this. I’m entirely convinced that George’s cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning. There are no injuries or findings inconsistent with that, internal or external. The toxicology samples will be picked up from here tomorrow and sent away for analysis but I’ve done an alcohol test on his blood. He was sober. I don’t just mean below the driving limit. I mean there was no alcohol in his blood at all. When he made the decision to take his life, he did it entirely consciously.’
‘Something must have triggered it,’ Ava said. ‘You found no other signs of illness? Nothing that would cause him to lose hope sufficiently to believe suicide was the only way out?’
‘There are no tumours, his organs – even given his heart condition – are all in reasonable order. I phoned his GP. He’d had a comprehensive check-up recently, blood tests and all. Came back clear. The notes indicate that George was in good spirits, no problems with his mood, sleeping, eating, even his cholesterol was dropping. Apparently, he was planning a surprise holiday for his wife Glynis on their anniversary. The GP has been seeing them both for years. She’s as shocked as we are,’ Ailsa said.
‘So he drove to the coast, hooked a length of hose-pipe up to the back of his car and sat there dying, knowing Glynis was cooking dinner for him. He was stone cold sober, in spite of the empty whisky bottle in his car, with no known problems. For Christ’s sake, Ailsa, it makes no sense,’ Ava said.
‘I’m aware of that,’ Ailsa said. ‘There is the matter of the markings on the inside of his left wrist.’ She clicked the screen and produced a blown-up photo of the area. ‘It’s clearer in this photograph than to the naked eye because we’ve been able to filter out some of the colour. You can see here that the capital N was formed of scratches, making three separate lines. They are quite deep violations of the epidermis, consisting of multiple scratches along each line. The small c is formed of a single curve, repeated several times in the same place.’ She clicked again and the c came up magnified. ‘You can see here that at the top part of the curve, the scratch was so deep that it had begun to draw blood. It would have taken some effort to do that without a tool or implement.’
‘Without a tool?’ Callanach asked. ‘You mean he …’
‘He used his right index finger. The scratched off particles of skin were found under the nail, sufficient to see without a microscope. Obviously, we’ve sent that for DNA testing but there’s really no doubt that he did this to himself.’
‘I have no idea what the c stands for,’ Ava said. ‘I’ve seen carbon monoxide poisoning victims before, but I don’t know much about the process before death. What sort of state would he have been in, once the car started to fill with gas?’
‘He’d have become increasingly groggy, disoriented. Concentration would have been difficult and he’d have been feeling extremely nauseous,’ Ailsa said.
‘So perhaps the letter sizing was just a symptom of his confusion,’ Ava said. ‘Perhaps they were both supposed to be capitals.’
‘You think they’re initials?’ Callanach asked. Ava nodded. ‘Anyone spring to mind?’
‘Not immediately,’ Ava said. ‘I’ll put Tripp on it in the morning.’
‘Ava,’ Ailsa said quietly. ‘There’s no evidence of a crime here. What we have is a tragedy. A desperate event for his family to endure, but my report will say that there are no suspicious circumstances.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Ava said. ‘It’s totally out of character and this thing on his arm …’
‘Could have been scratched at any time in the few hours preceding his death and might be totally unrelated. Or it could be an indicator that he wasn’t in his right mind at the time. It’s not evidence of foul play.’
‘It certainly warrants investigation,’ Ava said. ‘I’m not prepared to accept that this is a non-suspicious death.’
‘I’ve been asked to copy in Detective Superintendent Overbeck,’ Ailsa said. ‘I have no choice. Subject to the tox screen results, my preliminary findings indicate that that body should be released for burial or cremation. George’s family will suffer enough. There’s no reason to keep them waiting.’
‘Ailsa, you can keep this open a while. I know you can. I’m a Detective Chief Inspector. If I can’t decide what to investigate and what not, then …’
‘Ava,’ Callanach said. ‘You can’t ask Dr Lambert to write anything other than her honest opinion. She’s right about the Chief’s wife. Glynis needs to be allowed to grieve. Turning this into something it’s not will only make it harder for her.’
‘You’re right,’ Ava said. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Ailsa, I didn’t come here intending to pressure you. I just need to get this straight in my head. Luc, what was it that you needed to run through?’ she asked, looking away.
‘Lily Eustis. The young woman found dead near Arthur’s Seat. Do you have an update on her?’ Callanach asked, concealing his concern for Ava.
Ailsa Lambert was less concerned with how her behaviour was perceived, as ever, staring openly at Ava as Callanach spoke. ‘Right, Lily, poor girl. I’ve spoken to her parents this evening. They’re going to need more answers than I can supply, but essentially cause of death was major organ failure as a result of hypothermia. No surprise really. Out at night in December, on a hilltop in these temperatures the outcome was almost inevitable. I visited the scene, though. Someone had built a small fire. That should have kept her warm for a while.’
‘She was found naked,’ Callanach said. ‘It would have taken some fire to have kept her warm in those circumstances.’
‘The nakedness might have been a result of the hypothermia,’ Ailsa said. ‘It’s called paradoxical undressing. A person becomes disoriented with the increasing cold and begins discarding their clothing, thereby increasing the rapidity of heat loss.’
‘So she wasn’t dragged up there against her will?’ Callanach asked.
‘I can tell you that she was not assaulted, sexually or violently. There are no defensive injuries, no wounds. In fact she was a healthy young lady, good muscle tone, virtually no fat on her …’ Ailsa trailed off.
‘You sound hesitant,’ Callanach said. ‘What is it?’
‘Probably nothing,’ Ailsa replied, typing as she spoke. ‘But for argument’s sake, say I was experiencing moderate to severe stage hypothermia, enough to make me strip off my clothing and throw it down the hillside. What sort of state am I in?’
‘Agitated. Probably distressed. Frantic even,’ Callanach guessed.
‘Exactly,’ Ailsa replied, pointing to another photo on the screen. Lily Eustis lay on the ground as Callanach had first seen her, on her back, fully naked, shades of blue already darkening to black, arms out at her sides, as if she had just fallen asleep.
‘What’s your point, Ailsa?’ Ava asked.
‘She doesn’t look distressed or frantic here, does she?’ Ailsa asked. ‘She looks as if she’d decided she was a wee bit tired and wanted to take a nap. Her body isn’t folded up, twisted, scrabbling. Certainly there are no signs of terminal burrowing syndrome that can occur near death, during which she would have been curling up, seeking shelter, making herself as small as possible. There’s nothing unexpected beneath her fingernails. No dirt, no skin. There is only a single mark on her skin, about two centimetres long over her abdomen, which is the imprint of a zip.’
Callanach looked down at his own notes. ‘The log shows she was wearing zip-fastening jeans. We have them in the evidence vault.’
‘Exactly. It’s as if she was struggling with the zipper for a long time, perhaps in her confusion becoming clumsy and pressing the metal into her skin as she tried to get the jeans off. Other than that she’s exceptionally clean, as if she never experienced any trauma through the whole process of losing heat and passing away.’
‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing,’ Ava snapped. ‘Are we supposed to have wanted her to be traumatised?’
‘Of course we are,’ Ailsa said, ignoring Ava’s irritated tone. ‘The human instinct is to fight death, to run from danger. They also call terminal burrowing from hypothermia hide-or-die syndrome. Her body position, the very state of her, makes no sense to me.’ Ava sighed heavily. ‘Lily’s toxicology screen will go off tomorrow at the same time as George Begbie’s specimens. Before then I wouldn’t like to speculate.’
‘If you’re convinced Lily died of hypothermia, why run a tox screen?’ Callanach asked.
‘There was a slight odour to her stomach contents. Nothing I can be certain about, and it’s hard to tell with the variety of food and drink available, but I thought I smelled something odd on her skin too. It was fleeting. Gone as soon as she was out of the body bag. As I said, I won’t speculate now.’
‘All right,’ Callanach said. ‘Tox screen involving what?’
‘Hair, liver, bile, vitreous humour and the gastric contents, obviously. Blood and urine as standard. Some skeletal samples for good measure,’ Ailsa said. ‘That’s as far as I can take Lily’s case at the moment. Questions?’
They both shook their heads, Ava putting her coat on before Ailsa had even switched off her screen. Callanach said goodbye as Ava made her way into the corridor.
‘Ava,’ he called, catching up with her as she hustled out of the exit into the carpark. ‘You were a bit tough on Ailsa back there.’
‘I was assessing the cases,’ she said.
‘I know that, but Ailsa worked with the Chief longer than almost anyone in MIT. If she thought there was reason for suspicion, she’d be pursuing it.’
‘You finished?’ Ava asked. Callanach didn’t bother to respond. ‘Good. Now I’ve got work to do and you’ve had a difficult day. I suggest you go home. Follow up with Lily Eustis’ parents tomorrow morning. Leave an update on my desk.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Callanach replied. This time Ava didn’t bother to correct him as she climbed into her car and sped away.
Chapter Nine
Leaning against a pile of props backstage, he checked out the group of wannabes preening, flexing their necks and warming up their voices. It was pitiful really. So many young men and women clamouring to build a career in pretence. Acting was simply professional lying. He allowed himself a smile then checked a non-existent text on his phone to avoid conversation. The truth was that he would probably have been ideally suited for the part. Play-acting was, after all, a skill he had honed to perfection. He glanced over at Sean O’Cahill – youthful, brimming with enthusiasm, shimmering with nerves – who was next in line. Forcing himself to concentrate, he did what he was there to do. Sean’s height he estimated at 5’9”, and the would-be actor was slim, probably weighing no more than nine and a half stone. Those measurements were well within what he could deal with.
Taking lives was more complicated than people imagined. You didn’t just blunder in unprepared. He had to know he was capable of carrying Sean. A daily work out with dumbbells ensured that would be possible, and the exercise had the added effect of keeping his body toned and desirable. He wasn’t vain, but there was no point in false modesty. Good looks and taut muscles made life easier. Then there was fight or flight. Life was unpredictable. Better to imagine potential conflicts and prepare for them. He liked a fight though. Dominance. Exertion. But he knew when to run. The first lessons of his childhood – when to run, when to hide, when to remain silent. Staying in shape reduced the chances of capture.
Watching Sean warm up, he saw a man who prided himself on being jovial. There was a smile for everyone around him, one of those ‘what a wonderful world’ smiles too, nothing fake about it. Sean wanted to like and to be liked. That would make approaching him much easier. Manipulating him would be almost no challenge at all. A shame, really. Sean’s height and weight were the key to knowing how much sedative he would need for incapacitation. He didn’t want to kill him too quickly. That would give no satisfaction at all. Grief was best enjoyed slowly, a drip-drip-drip of emotion, and he wanted to be there to lick every tear from the face of Sean’s best beloved. There was more to do yet. Trust to be built. A fire to kindle. That made him think of Lily. He shut his eyes, willing himself not to be distracted by the memory. He studied Sean instead. There was something vital about him. Utterly intoxicating. His hands itched to hold him.
‘Sean O’Cahill?’ a young man called. Sean stepped away from the mirror and waved his hand in the air. ‘You’re up. Good to go?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ Sean blustered, trying to enjoy the moment. ‘No audition was ever a waste.’ That was his agent’s mantra. It was all one continuous learning curve. Sometimes there would be failures, less often successes, but every time you stepped onto a stage was a step closer to where you wanted to end up. Sean wasn’t convinced that was right. He’d had plenty of days when stepping onto a stage was simply a short cut to rejection. Being an actor was hard. Not hard like being a surgeon or a soldier, he knew that, but the constant disappointments were an ointment that thinned the skin, and his felt worn through.
‘Sean, right?’ a woman called from a few rows back in the small theatre. ‘Tell us a bit about yourself.’
‘Sure, well I’m Northern Irish. I moved from Belfast to Edinburgh quite recently.’ He remembered to smile.
‘Why Edinburgh?’ the woman – he assumed she was the theatre company director – interrupted.
‘Obviously because I couldn’t afford the air fare to Los Angeles,’ Sean said. There was an immediate laugh from the group of note-takers surrounding the woman in charge, echoed from the wings where a line of other hopefuls waited to audition. ‘And because I was at The Fringe last year. I saw the production your theatre company put on and decided this was the place I wanted to be. Also tartan really suits me and in Scotland I can get away with wearing what feels like a skirt when I go shopping.’ Another laugh, bigger this time, more ready to engage with his style of humour. He began to relax.
‘How old are you, Sean?’
‘You want the age on my passport or the answer my agent tells me to give?’ He grinned.
‘Closest to the truth,’ the director said, still laughing.
‘Thirty-five if I’ve been drinking Flaming Pig, twenty-eight when I wake up without a hangover, and more like twenty-six when I’m in make-up.’
‘Okay, we have your song choice here and a monologue. If you could start with the musical piece then run straight into the acting, that’d be great,’ the director said. The pianist began to play.
‘That was really good, Sean. Where did you train?’ the director asked.
‘Ulster University,’ Sean said.
‘Well, it was great. These are open auditions so we’re seeing a lot of people. We won’t have the call back list available until Friday but we’ll be emailing the successful people and asking to see them again next week. Thank you for your time today,’ she finished.
He hadn’t been cut short. That was all he could think about as he left the stage. He’d finished his song, nods all round, and had actually enjoyed performing the monologue, which made a pleasant change from being wracked with nerves throughout. Reaching for his mobile, he began texting Bradley before picking up his coat, got halfway through writing the text then deleted the draft. It would jinx it, he was sure. There could be no self-congratulatory words at this stage. He’d have to play it down. Since they’d moved in together he’d lost track of how many time-wasting auditions he’d attended, but he had a good feeling about this one. If he got the call back, he’d talk to Bradley about it then. By that stage he’d be one of just a handful going for the job. It wouldn’t pay much, but to be part of a company, working on a show, would be the start of something real.
He smiled at the man in the doorway, presumably awaiting his turn to audition.
‘Good job out there,’ the man said.
‘Thank you.’ Sean grinned, taking in the dirty blonde hair and open smile. ‘I’m Sean.’ He held out his hand.
‘Jackson,’ the man replied, shaking it.
‘Great name, I like it. You waiting to go on?’ Sean asked as he did up his coat against the sub-zero temperatures outside.
‘Not sure there’s much point,’ the man said good-naturedly. ‘Looks like you nailed it.’
‘I very much doubt that,’ Sean said, hoping beyond hope that the stranger was right. ‘Anyway, break a leg,’ Sean said, bustling past him. The man smiled once more as he left, his eyes on Sean’s back as he exited. Nice guy, Sean thought.
Bradley was itching to phone his boyfriend Sean. They were both starting to give up hope that Sean would get work although neither wanted to be the first to voice such a negative opinion, but this audition played to Sean’s strengths. The theatre company wanted an actor who could both sing and dance, able to ‘make comedy work’ was how they’d phrased the advert, and Sean could certainly do that. He didn’t have film actor looks, and was never going to be cast as the hero, the hard man or the icy-stare bad guy. He was, however, good at improvising. He could deliver a killer punch line. And he was easy to be around. If he could show that off, then he should finally make it to call backs.
Bradley dialled Sean’s number, cutting the call off before it could connect. He didn’t want to put too much pressure on. He needed to make Sean feel good about himself, to let him know that if not this time, then one day. A decent bottle of wine, albeit within their limited budget, would be good on the way home. They could talk about the audition over dinner, brought up casually. That would be better.
Brad shut down his computer, tidied his notes and put on his coat. Life as a junior actuary was lacking the drama and thrills of the stage, but he loved it. At least it brought in a steady wage, which was nothing to be sniffed at. Sean was the sort of partner who would sit and listen to Bradley talk about his day as if it was the most important thing in the world, and for the most part Sean even managed to look convincingly interested. If there was a downside to their different careers, it was that Sean’s world was so much more dynamic that occasionally Brad felt like the boring hanger-on. Every one of Sean’s dance classes and physical training sessions was full of gorgeous muscled men with regular bookings under the sun lamp. Not that Sean ever deliberately made Brad feel insignificant, but as an entertainer Sean naturally drew people to him. Everyone they met remembered Sean’s name immediately, social media friendship invitations came flooding in. Sometimes, just sometimes, Brad thought, it would be nice if he could be the centre of attention for a change. On his way out, he washed up his coffee mug in the work kitchen sink, chiding himself for being so ungrateful. Life with Sean was wonderful. So what if Brad sometimes felt blinded by the brightness of his lover’s personality? It was a fair exchange for the moments of intimacy and sweetness. He wouldn’t change what they had – not much of it, anyway – even if he could, Brad told himself as he wrapped a scarf around his neck and set off into Edinburgh’s chill evening air.
