Another baby had been left in the same park and the media was obsessed. This infant, though, whether tougher or luckier than the other two, or because the mother had not really wanted it to die after all, had been so well wrapped up that it had survived until a passing dog walker had found him.
DCI Begbie was in conference with Ava when Callanach went to see how the investigation was progressing. It was late. By rights no one should be at work, surviving on petrol station sandwiches and carbonated drinks, at four in the morning. Still, there was no point going home. Sleep had gone missing from his life at the same time Jayne Magee had disappeared from hers. He went back to his own office and texted Ava to join him for coffee once her debrief with the Chief had finished. Half an hour later she appeared.
‘You know you can’t carry on working twenty-four hours a day, right?’ she asked.
‘Hypocrite,’ he said. ‘What’s the news?’
‘The baby’s going to survive. He’s dehydrated but hadn’t been outside very long. Same blanket again so they’re all linked.’
‘No one’s reported him missing?’ Callanach asked.
‘No, but there is something. Forensics say there was some blood clotted and dried in a fold of flesh under his arm. The paediatrician doesn’t think it’s from the baby.’
‘From the mother?’ he said.
‘That’s the hypothesis. Results may be a couple of days, even pushing it through the labs urgently. The issue is how these women are meeting one another. There’s been no contact from any GP, midwife, health visitor or other professional saying they’re concerned about a baby who hasn’t attended for follow-up checks.’
‘Prostitutes not using public health care?’ Callanach suggested.
‘Wouldn’t they just have terminations if they didn’t want the babies?’ Ava ran her hands through her hair, grimacing.
‘I suppose some men have fantasies about having sex with heavily pregnant women. Maybe their pimps are forcing them to go full term, making money out of it then dumping the babies.’
‘I knew I should have gone home without talking to you. That’s such an appalling thought.’ Ava put her coat on. ‘Do you want a lift?’
‘You have two dead babies and one alive with no mother and no name. There won’t be a happy ending. And yes, a lift home would be appreciated.’
They walked down to the car together in silence, lost in their own cases. A noise behind them as Ava unlocked her vehicle made them both turn at once, staring into the darkness. When nothing else happened, they climbed into their seats. They were nearly at Callanach’s apartment before either of them spoke.
‘Did you ever contact the florist to find out who sent the roses?’ Callanach asked.
‘No time,’ she replied. ‘What made you think about that?’
‘Earlier it felt as if we were being watched. Reminded me about your secret admirer.’
‘You have an overactive imagination. It’ll be the caffeine,’ Ava said as they pulled up in Albany Street.
‘Just be careful,’ Callanach muttered getting out of the car. He considered whether or not good manners dictated that he should invite Ava up for coffee, looked at his watch and thought better of it. If he was lucky he could grab four hours’ sleep before returning to the station. She drove away before he could thank her for the lift.
He was climbing into bed before the realisation struck that he’d nearly invited a woman into his home. A month ago it would have been inconceivable that he could ever be so relaxed around a female work colleague, but DI Turner was different. She was comfortable in her own skin, unimpressed by anything, it seemed, except good cinematography. More than that, she was starting to feel almost like a friend. It had been too long since he’d had one of those. As he rolled over to get comfortable, his hand slid under the pillow to find a cold, hard object. At first when he tried to pull it out, it spun in his hand. In the pale moonlight that spilled through the crack in his curtains it flashed silvery, but the bedside lamp showed a multitude of colours and lines printed on its surface. The miniature globe was part of a key ring, no keys attached, and had previously sat on the Reverend Jayne Magee’s dressing table. Did she look at it each night, Callanach wondered, and think of all the places she could go, imagine the sights and sounds of a wider world than the one she ministered? Or was it only of sentimental value? A memento brought home by a travelling parent to show they’d been thinking of her whilst away. Glancing across at Elaine’s paperweight, now perched on a book on the table beside his bed, Callanach forced himself to bring the faces of both women into sharp focus in his mind. The physical presence of those two simple objects was his version of a shrine. There could be no forgetting, no avoidance, so long as he kept them close. He fell asleep clutching the tiny globe, and wondering where in the world Jayne Magee might be.
The next day brought confirmation of double wheel tracks embedded into the gravel outside Elaine Buxton’s garage. It should have felt like a victory, but the image of a woman bound and folded into a wheelie case was too vivid for him to feel pleased at the step forward. Callanach called a team meeting in the incident room that resembled a living jigsaw. One wall was dedicated to Elaine Buxton, her home, office and what forensic evidence they had. Another wall displayed photos of Jayne Magee. There was more to show for her, including press cuttings, papers she’d written, letters from the congregation and photos of the few people DS Lively had discovered were not in favour of having a female member of the clergy in their church.
Callanach had asked DS Lively to open the case update. ‘What we know is that both women were abducted on their arrival home. Their attacker, a male, packs his victims into a wheelie case after drugging them with chloroform in order to transfer them to another location. The presence of chloroform in the soft tissue attached to Elaine Buxton’s tooth was confirmed this morning. You’ve got copies of the witness statements. Police are on the alert in the Cairngorm area in case he tries to dispose of Jayne Magee’s body in the same manner as Elaine Buxton’s.’
‘What about profiling? If we can’t find Jayne Magee, can we not find out more about the man who’s got her?’ a constable asked from the back.
Sergeant Lively looked to Callanach to answer the question.
‘It’s not possible to formulate a suspect profile for a single murder,’ Callanach said.
‘Why the hell not?’ Lively asked.
‘There are restrictions on cases where that assistance is accessible and we don’t meet the criteria yet.’
‘Because we’ve only got one dead body? Or is it that profiling is just too bloody expensive to bother with? Reverend Magee is locked up with a lunatic. How many more hours is she going to survive?’ Lively was raising his voice. Callanach could see he was more affected by the case than he’d been letting on.
‘It’s not just a matter of finances,’ Callanach explained. ‘You cannot profile until there’s more than one body because there is no pattern. At this stage, making assumptions about the murderer might blinker us, lead us the wrong way. You can’t assess one murder and say the killer has features like this or like that. Right now, keeping an open mind is the greater asset.’
‘Bullshit,’ Lively said. ‘Bloody red tape.’
Callanach was saved from another confrontation with the detective sergeant when a uniformed officer stuck his head in and called two others into the corridor. It was a good enough excuse to call a halt to the meeting. From a hushed conversation outside the door Callanach caught the words ‘threat’ and ‘lockdown’ before Tripp handed him a bundle of overtime sheets.
‘These came back from the processing office, sir. You initialled them instead of writing your full signature. Accounts are refusing to pay the overtime until they’ve all been put right.’
Callanach cursed as he took the sheaf of paper from his detective constable.
‘Is it always like this?’
‘Not usually, but someone new’s handling it and it seems they’re a stickler for procedure.’
‘Of course they bloody well are. What’s so important that the briefing was interrupted?’ Callanach asked.
‘DI Turner had a threatening letter posted under her office door. It’s being taken seriously. All CCTV in and out of the building is being checked. The detective inspector’s with the Chief.’
Callanach arrived outside Ava’s door a minute later only to find himself being ushered away by the forensics team who were taking fingerprints and photographing the letter in situ before taking it for analysis. He opted to wait in the corridor outside DCI Begbie’s office until she appeared.
‘Busy morning?’ Callanach asked.
‘You could say that,’ Ava said. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Trying to establish why my briefing was interrupted. I thought I should get the information first hand. Police officers are generally unreliable sources.’
She tutted. ‘It’s a lot of fuss about nothing. Comes with the territory. Someone dropped off a note to make it clear they don’t like me. The most annoying side effect is that my office is out of bounds for a while. I wouldn’t mind, only I might as well have got a few more hours’ sleep.’
‘Could be related to the flowers. Maybe whoever left the note decided they needed to do something more extreme to get your attention.’
‘It’s a bit of a leap from roses to death threats, don’t you think? It’s not the first time someone’s wanted to kill me and it won’t be the last. This morning’s good news, however, is that the lab came up trumps with the DNA from the clotted blood, rushed it through the system and we’ve got results. It’s definitely not the baby’s DNA but they’re pretty sure it’s the mother’s. They’re running it through the database for a match.’
‘Unlikely,’ Callanach said. ‘Chances are she’s not been through the criminal justice system.’
‘Haven’t you got a squad of your own to depress?’ Ava asked.
‘You didn’t tell me what the note said,’ was his response. Ava rolled her eyes and tried to look bored. Callanach saw a woman glossing over the unpleasant knowledge that she was a target.
‘Something about taking an ice pick to my face and making me wish I’d never been born. I’ve been ordered not to go home until the forensic results are in. Like that’s going to happen.’
‘Take the advice,’ Callanach warned. ‘You never know.’
‘Thank you, Detective Inspector, I’ll bear that in mind.’ She gave a mock salute and marched away.