At precisely nine the next morning Tripp brought a nervous-looking Liam Granger to Callanach’s office. He was in his early twenties, with no police record.
‘I just want to go over what you witnessed the night Jayne Magee went missing. You said in your statement you saw a man talking to himself,’ Callanach said.
‘That’s right. Muttering, you know, but as if he was having a conversation with someone else. That’s why I noticed it. I suppose, once I’d heard him speak, I was surprised that I didn’t see anyone walking with him. At first, I thought maybe he was on his mobile or something, but his hands were by his sides,’ Liam said.
‘Did you see his face?’
‘Sorry, only what I said already. I can’t even tell you how tall he was as I was on my bike and he was in the shadows. He had a Scottish accent though, I’d have noticed otherwise, and quite a deep voice.’
‘Could he have been using a hands-free kit, possibly?’ Tripp asked.
‘I suppose so, but it was just the way he was speaking that struck me as odd. Mumbling to himself. I’m probably not helping,’ Liam said, zipping up his jacket and shoving his hands into the pockets.
‘Can you remember any of the words he used?’ Callanach asked.
Liam thought about it. ‘I heard two things. He said something about the lane, something like we’re going to the lane. And then twelve. That I heard pretty clearly. He said the number twelve.’
That was all Callanach got from the cyclist but it was enough to get him thinking.
‘Is there something called The Lane or Lanes in Edinburgh?’ he asked as Tripp returned from seeing Liam out and brought a much needed caffeine reboot with him.
‘A nightclub, I think, and possibly a shop. Why?’
‘Get me some details. Not that I can see our suspect frequenting a nightclub.’
‘Maybe that’s where he went to search for victims?’ Tripp suggested.
‘Not these victims. Not unless both Elaine and Jayne had secret lives completely at odds with everything we know about them.’
‘I’ll check it out anyway. See if the club has membership records. Could it be an address? Number twelve, something Lane,’ Tripp said.
‘Possibly, but it would be an odd thing to say out loud, wouldn’t it, your own address? I’m off to Braemar with DC Salter tonight, back tomorrow evening. Keep Professor Harris off my back and let me know what’s happening.’
‘Got it,’ Tripp said, ‘but DS Lively will ask where you are.’
‘Tell him I’m working on those precious few leads he keeps pointing out that we have.’
Callanach was climbing into the car Salter had borrowed from the pool when Ava caught him.
‘Luc, wait a moment would you?’ she said jogging towards him.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
Ava beckoned him away from the open car door then reached behind him to close it quietly and give them some privacy. ‘I just took a call that should have been for DCI Begbie. Luckily he wasn’t available. It was from a woman called April Grady at Strathallan airfield. Do you know her?’ Callanach glanced at DC Salter who was putting her seat belt on, then took several steps further away from the car. Ava followed him.
‘This isn’t a great time,’ Callanach said. ‘I’m just on my way to Braemar to revisit the crime scene. I need to double-check the witness views of the fire and I’d like to get there before full dark. This conversation will have to wait until I get back.’
‘If you make me wait, I’ll have no choice but to tell Begbie about it. I don’t want to do that. Would you talk to me, please?’ Ava kept her voice low.
Callanach breathed out hard and clenched his jaw. What he did outside of work was no one’s business but his own. April Grady had no right discussing what had happened with anyone else.
‘Is it true?’ Ava asked matter-of-factly. ‘Did you deliberately not deploy your main chute?’
‘I got disoriented,’ Callanach replied. ‘It happens occasionally when you’re skydiving, which is why I always set the automatic device as a backup. My rig’s regularly serviced and in good working order. I’m not stupid.’
‘You don’t have to be stupid to be suicidal.’
‘I hadn’t realised you were a psychiatrist,’ Callanach said.
‘Are you actually going to be confrontational with me? Only in the circumstances I’d think that was rather unhelpful. What do you expect me to do – treat this like it’s some sort of joke?’
‘I expect you to give me the benefit of the doubt instead of being influenced by what someone else, who doesn’t know me at all, thinks she saw. And I expect my private life and my work to be two different things without interference between one and the other,’ he said.
Ava paused, ran her eyes over his face and his crossed arms, then put her own hands in her pockets. ‘Fair enough,’ she said, ‘but you’ve been under pressure, moved countries and had a major investigation land on your shoulders. You’re responsible for a team of people who need you focused. Can you promise me you’ve got this?’ she asked.
Callanach looked her full in the eyes.
‘I’ve got this,’ he replied. Ava nodded, walked away, paused then came back.
‘I’m here if you need someone to listen. You know that by now, right?’
‘I don’t need a counsellor,’ Callanach repeated, hating the terseness of his own voice.
‘Do you need friends?’ Ava asked before retreating.
The hills that rolled towards Braemar were as stark as Callanach’s mood. It was amazing how fast the landscape ran out of trees once the Cairngorms were in sight. There was the odd tumbledown house but farming here was plainly an exercise in futility. Signposts warned of the dangers of icy roads and steep inclines. Edinburgh wasn’t that far as the crow flew but civilisation would feel a million miles away if your car broke down in the winter months. Salter tried once or twice to make conversation, carefully avoiding any mention of the scene with DI Turner. She might not have overheard anything but Callanach knew the body language must have been pretty clear. In the end, Salter gave up, put on the radio and left him to stare out of the window. The temperature was plummeting as they rose into the foothills. The paths could be treacherous in the daylight, never mind the half dark, but he had to achieve something to keep sane.
‘Drive straight up to the crime scene,’ Callanach said. ‘Get as close as you can. Do you have a torch?’
‘In the boot,’ Salter said. ‘We won’t see much tonight though. Wouldn’t it be better to go at first light?’
‘We’ve two bodies,’ Callanach replied. ‘There’ll be a third unless we catch him soon and the dots aren’t joining up. Everything Professor Harris said made that clearer than ever.’
‘But I thought you disagreed with the profile, sir.’
‘I did, which is what made it so helpful. Leave the car here.’
They got out and walked. Salter was wearing hiking boots, the sensible choice. Callanach had slipped into his only pair of smart black shoes for the occasion, chosen to replicate the shiny pair Magee’s abductor had been seen wearing. They had no tread at all and were a slippery nightmare.
‘Look at that, Salter,’ he said. ‘Your hiking boots have left a deep trail.’ She swung the flashlight round and it showed every detail of her footprints. He took the torch from her and tried to see his own imprints. Here and there the odd plant was downtrodden where he’d walked but the smooth, flat leather soles had left no distinguishing marks at all. The murderer might have come and gone without leaving any impression on the place.
‘Do you think he foresaw that, or was it blind luck?’ Salter asked.
‘I think he’s a man who makes his own luck,’ Callanach answered, handing back the torch. At the bothy, Callanach took out a local map and set it at his feet. He opened a digital compass application on his phone and studied the surrounding geography.
‘So the back of the hut is set into the rock. The view the hikers had is west of here. He can only have parked his car below and walked up. He’d never have pulled the body across the valley between us and where the hikers were,’ he said.
‘How did he move it, do you think?’ Salter asked.
‘Maybe something resembling a sledge to pull the body easily over the rough ground. I’m guessing anyone who saw him would have assumed it was sports gear or camping equipment. It’s the view the hikers had that interests me. It’s in the middle of a long-distance trail, right? One you’d have to set off from miles away to walk. The killer knew he wasn’t going to be spotted dumping the body because no one would have set off in the dark. If they did, he couldn’t have been seen anyway.’
‘I agree,’ Salter said, ‘but I don’t see how it helps.’
Callanach picked up the map, traced his finger to where a red cross was situated, checked his bearings with his phone and waved for Salter to follow him. A few minutes later, tripping where the torch light failed to show all the rocks, he stopped.
‘This is where the dogs picked up the buried baseball bat. A few metres away was the tooth from which we got Elaine Buxton’s DNA. This land is slightly higher than the bothy and so can’t have been between the hut and his car.’
‘So he ran up here to bury it, and disposing of the weapon in case he got stopped on the way down. Maybe he didn’t even realise the tooth was still attached,’ Salter said, kicking the dirt at her feet as she spoke.
‘You don’t believe that, do you? What’s wrong with the theory?’
‘Just doesn’t feel right,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you exactly why.’
‘For me, it’s the hikers,’ Callanach said. ‘It’s too perfect, too good. We’ve been looking in the wrong place for him, concentrating our efforts where he directed us, which was here. I think we should have been looking over there.’ He lifted his arm to point across the valley into the darkness. ‘Over here he was careful. He knew when he could come and not be seen, and he knew it because he’d walked the trail from where our two friendly hikers spotted the fire. He must have done to be sure he wouldn’t be surprised any earlier.’
‘What’s the other side of the valley?’ Salter asked.
‘That’s more helpful,’ Callanach said. ‘The hiking trail is limited. It starts at a camping ground to the north and ends up at a car park with an outdoor pursuits centre to the south. It’s long and difficult and has no obvious branches off. That’s why he chose this place. It’s also why it makes no sense to run up here and drop the murder weapon. Imagine you’ve done that much research, been that careful, found the perfect place to burn the body, walked a path that starts miles away to reconnoitre, plotted daylight and average walking speeds. You’ve rigged up a way to get the body from the car to the bothy. You’ve even soaked the body in an accelerant so that it burns at an advanced speed because you know how much time you’ve got until the first witnesses might appear.’
‘There’s no way he panicked and threw the weapon into the dirt,’ Salter said.
‘With a tooth still attached? No,’ Callanach finished. ‘He knew it would be found.’
‘What about the bit of scarf that escaped the fire under the rock?’ Salter asked.
‘I’m beyond thinking there are any mistakes, any coincidences.’
‘So he’s not chaotic like Professor Harris said. What else was he wrong about, then?’
Callanach hunched down and ran his hands through the dirt. ‘Remorse. Harris is wrong about that. This man wanted us to find the bodies. He wanted us to know these women were dead. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s posturing, maybe it’s about causing pain to the families or creating a sense of fear or panic. Perhaps he takes pleasure from the game. All I’m sure about, is that everything we’ve found so far is what he wanted us to find. The trolley at the base of the sea wall with the bag of clothes was the same. He knew the tide would wash it in. He left it like a gift for us.’
‘Like presenting a trophy?’ Salter asked.
‘Token evidence,’ Callanach said. ‘The only way to find him is to ignore what he’s leaving for us and to research his research. Come on. We’ve got some hiking to do tomorrow.’
Salter had done them proud with the bed and breakfast booking. Breakfast was a mountain of protein on a plate and it was the first time Callanach had ever tolerated drinking tea with milk. Their first stop of the morning was the satellite police hut in Braemar. As they crossed the bridge over the freezing and fast-flowing Clunie Water, Callanach stopped to look at the old stone well balanced precariously over the river. He wondered how long it would last, built to resemble a tiny tower, withstanding the bitter winds of the Highland winters. He ran a hand over the ageing stones and stared down into the dark waters below.
‘You’re in a thoughtful mood today, sir. Everything all right?’
‘Detective Inspector Turner wasn’t answering her phone last night,’ he said quietly. He’d tried to call her three times over as many hours, wanting to make peace. ‘Have you heard from anyone at the station?’
‘No, I went straight to sleep. That’s what happens when I stay somewhere without a television in my room. Probably good for me,’ Salter said.
A car beeped as it passed them and Jonty Spurr’s face could be seen momentarily.
‘Let’s go, Constable, we’re late,’ Callanach said.
The pathologist was parking his car when they reached him. He got out carrying a file and a bottle.
‘DI Callanach, didn’t think we’d be seeing you back here. Shall we get started?’ Spurr bellowed good-naturedly. They followed him into the police station where a few chairs had been dragged around a table. ‘What was it you wanted?’
‘The scarf,’ Callanach said. ‘What do we know about the blood on it?’
‘Definitely Elaine Buxton’s, no doubt about the DNA. The blood was very dry but then I’d expect that with the heat from the fire. The material only escaped because it was wedged so fast under the stone, as you know. There’s a photo.’ He took out an A4 sheet of photographic paper. On it was the image of a flowery scrap of material with frayed edges, a brownish stain marring one corner.
‘The blood has a pretty regular shape around the edges.’ Callanach ran a finger around the outside of the stain on the photo. ‘What does that tell us?’
‘That it didn’t get there as a spatter. It’s a single small pool of blood on the end of the scarf which was either dripped onto it from above or the scarf got dropped into a pool. It’s not the sort of mark you’d see if it was being worn during a shooting, for example.’
Callanach nodded. ‘And this, round the edge of the piece of scarf. The fibres are the same colour as the rest of the material,’ Callanach noted.
‘It’s not burned, not at all,’ Salter said. ‘You were right.’
‘Right about what?’ Jonty asked, inspecting the photo more closely.
‘That the scrap of material, just like the baseball bat and the tooth, were arranged for us to find. If it had got caught under the stone by accident and the remainder had burned, the edges would be blackened. These edges are frayed, probably cut. That means he chose a scrap of Elaine’s scarf with her blood on it and planted it for us to find.’
‘Clever boy,’ Jonty Spurr said.
‘He is,’ Callanach agreed. ‘Too bloody clever for us, apparently.’
‘I wasn’t talking about him,’ Spurr said. ‘Sometimes in my job I find that I look so closely at the details that the bigger picture becomes obscured. Was there anything else?’
‘Only the teeth,’ Callanach said.
‘They’re definitely Miss Buxton’s. We cross-referenced her dental records. Teeth degrade slightly in high temperatures but they don’t burn and the one near the baseball bat still had soft tissue firmly attached. DNA told us the same story.’
‘Could you have the forensic odontologist take another look at it? Call it desperation, but anything you can find that we weren’t looking for the first time, like scraps of food that might tell us what he fed her, chemicals on the tooth that suggest what environment she’d been kept in. Things that might have been overlooked when we were only trying to confirm the identity.’
‘I’ll get on to it,’ Spurr said. ‘Could you return the favour when you’re back in Edinburgh?’ He picked up a gleaming bottle of single malt whisky. ‘Give this to Detective Inspector Turner from me.’
The label bore the name Lagavulin. It shone like dark gold honey and claimed to be sixteen years old. Callanach was tempted to open it right there.
‘I didn’t realise you knew Ava,’ he said.
‘I’ve not met her in person,’ Spurr said, ‘but I saw her speech at the televised press conference last night. All I know is she’s got some guts and I admire her for expressing her point of view. Unfortunately I’d say she’s headed for trouble with the brass. Thought the whisky might help.’
‘What do you mean?’ Callanach asked.
‘You didn’t see it?’ Jonty raised his eyebrows. ‘Your colleague has singlehandedly taken on the Roman Catholic Church. It’d be an understatement to say she didn’t pull her punches.’
It took an hour of driving though unrelenting rain before they reached the camping ground. There was nothing permanent there, no toilet blocks or showers. It was unmanned, and only signposts warning campers not to leave litter or start fires in the National Park marked the area. Callanach and Salter began the hike without bemoaning the weather. It was a bad day for walking and they both knew it. There was no gain to be made from stating the obvious. It took them more than three hours to reach the valley across which the remains of the bothy were just visible in the far distance. Even then the pouring water splashed its own mist back, limiting visibility. Callanach checked the position against the witness statements, wondering at the dedication and single-mindedness of the murderer. He was driven, obsessive, almost as if it was the planning rather than the killings themselves that was his object.
‘It’s not about sex,’ he said to the vast valley between them and the bothy.
‘Beg your pardon, sir?’ Salter asked, pausing between taking photos and making notes.
‘Sexual crimes usually contain high levels of impulsiveness. Even when the victim is chosen for a particular reason, often the assailant gets to a point where they lose control.’
‘Are you saying he doesn’t rape them?’ Salter asked.
‘I’m not saying that, but I’d be surprised if it was his primary motivation. It’s too long in the planning to be the usual type of rapist. Too clinical, too clean. Let’s get back to the car. We’ve still got to drive across and check the other end of the trail. We won’t get to Edinburgh until late as it is.’
The outdoor pursuits centre looked deserted. A mobile number on a note stuck inside the glass door looked old, but it rang when Callanach stood on a rock to get a signal.
‘Yes?’ a voice answered. Callanach introduced himself and explained where he was. A couple of minutes later, the lock turned and a girl’s head poked out.
Salter explained that they were investigating the fire at the bothy. The girl had the sensitivity not to say Elaine Buxton’s name but it was obvious she knew.
‘This is a long way away from there,’ she commented. ‘I’m not sure how I can help.’
‘We’re looking for a visitor who might have stood out, either because of his clothing or the way he was behaving. It would have been some time in the weeks leading up to the fire. He would have had binoculars, probably, and a camera.’
‘Everyone who comes here has binoculars or a camera,’ the girl said. ‘When it’s busy we have hundreds of people through each week. Sometimes there are coach parties who get dropped off then the coach picks them up at the other end of the pass.’
‘This man would have been on his own, middle aged, maybe not dressed as you’d expect for hiking.’ The look on the girl’s face was enough for Callanach to know that she had something to tell them. ‘What is it?’
‘Hikers on their own,’ she said, opening a cupboard and pulling out a log book. ‘We keep a record, names and licence plates. It’s unusual for people to walk this trail alone and if anything happens to them we may not be alerted for a long time. If a car isn’t moved after forty-eight hours we check the log and give the police a name. It’s a steep enough drop in places to attract suicides.’
Salter opened the log book and flicked through the previous few months.
‘There aren’t that many names,’ she told Callanach. ‘It won’t take long to check them against the licence plates.’
‘I hope you catch him,’ the girl said. ‘It usually feels so safe and peaceful here. It’s ruined it a little bit.’
Salter smiled at her. For the first time since the investigation had started, Callanach saw something other than worry on his constable’s face. ‘We will,’ DC Salter said. ‘Soon.’
In the car they set the SatNav for Edinburgh. Salter drove as Callanach phoned in the names that predated Elaine Buxton’s death, going back six months.
‘At last, some real progress. You were right about following the research rather than the bodies. You’ll be a bit more popular with DS Lively, at least, sir.’
‘The murderer will have used a false name,’ Callanach said. ‘It’s not going to be all that easy. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
He switched on the radio and scrolled through until it picked up a news channel. The baby death case would be headline news, especially if the details of St Gerard Majella school had got out. He’d not even had a chance to pick up a newspaper. Callanach glanced at the bottle of single malt he was ferrying back to Ava. Her failure to answer his calls last night was a bad sign. Sure enough, the media was reporting the offences in as much detail as allowed, given that the girls were minors. He turned up the volume when the reporter mentioned the Church.
‘No representative from the Roman Catholic Church has been available for comment in person today,’ the news announcer informed them, ‘but a written statement has been released by the Vatican condemning remarks made by Detective Inspector Ava Turner at a press conference yesterday evening.’ There was a momentary buzzing while a tape recording cut in, then Ava’s voice came through so clearly she might have been in the car with them.
‘It is beyond comprehension in this day and age, that any religion should force its doctrine upon children and deny them access to proper, balanced medical advice and care by professionals not tainted with pre-existing biases. What happened to these girls, being imprisoned at their parents’ behest in a school with the sole purpose of preventing them from exercising choice about their pregnancies, amounts to torture. The Roman Catholic Church should answer for this at the highest level. We’re not living in the dark ages. What was happening at St Gerard Majella school was no more godly than the Inquisition burning women accused of witchcraft.’
The presenter’s voice cut Ava short. ‘The police have revealed that one nun has been charged with assault and that another male is being interviewed in relation to a suspected rape. Three girls are also helping police with their enquiries.’ Callanach clicked the radio off and sighed.
‘DI Turner is amazing,’ Salter cooed. ‘I’d never have had the guts to say something like that to the press.’
‘She’s going to pay for it,’ Callanach said.
‘But she was right,’ Salter protested. ‘How can she be in trouble for telling the truth?’
‘Being right isn’t always enough,’ answered Callanach. ‘You have to maintain the appearance of having no personal views. Take me straight to the station, Salter. I need to catch up on what’s happened.’
Salter drove like a demon and they hit no traffic. Two hours later they were at Edinburgh’s outskirts and they already had confirmation that half the names in the log book matched their registration numbers. DS Lively had texted to say he was personally overseeing the checks and would stay at the station all night to finish the job.
Ava was behind closed doors with DCI Begbie when Callanach arrived. Not prepared to wait for an invitation to join the party, and in no mood to be silenced, Callanach stormed straight in.
‘Chief,’ Callanach said before the door had even swung shut. ‘You weren’t there, you didn’t see what we saw. Everything DI Turner said at the press conference was fair comment.’
‘Welcome back, Callanach,’ the Chief said, hands on hips, teeth clenched. ‘I don’t recall requesting your attendance at this meeting.’
‘It’s eleven o’clock at night,’ he replied, ‘so it doesn’t seem to be a formal meeting, especially as Ava doesn’t have a representative with her.’
‘Don’t quote disciplinary procedures at me, Detective Inspector. I’ve been round this particular block a few more times than you,’ Begbie shouted.
‘It’s all right, Luc, I can look out for myself,’ Ava said.
‘I’m looking out for you, too, in case you’d forgotten. I’ve got half the Roman Catholics in Scotland baying for blood. They’re saying you overstepped your mandate,’ the Chief blustered.
‘So sack me,’ Ava said. ‘I’ll even admit it, I was expressing my personal view. I ignored my training and my position. Can I go?’ She looked exhausted and fed up. Callanach held the bottle out to her.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘It’s a gift from Jonty Spurr, the pathologist on the Elaine Buxton case. For every person you’ve offended there will be a dozen more who are pleased you spoke out.’ Callanach forced his voice down a pitch. ‘Sir, you can’t let public pressure sway you. It was a well-executed case that will save who knows how many more girls from the same torment. DI Turner deserves a promotion, not a reprimand.’
‘I’ve got to do something,’ Begbie sighed, ‘or I won’t be able to protect you, Ava. It’ll end up going over my head. The letter in the Herald this morning was nothing short of a religious call to arms, raising issues about falling police standards and prejudices. I’m sorry, but I need you to accept a fourteen-day suspension during which I can conduct an official investigation and draw up a report.’
‘And what good will that do?’ Callanach yelled, knowing he was out of line but too enraged to stop.
The Chief got to his feet. ‘It’ll give everyone some breathing space, let things cool down. And it means I’ll have followed procedure so that hopefully, when I find DI Turner handled the investigation in an irreproachable manner without victimising the Roman Catholic Church, the story will be about the abuse carried out at the school and not about us,’ he said, punctuating his final three words by slamming the tip of his forefinger down on the desk.
‘What about Ava’s professional record …’ Callanach was raising his voice.
‘Leave it, Luc,’ Ava said. ‘The Chief has no choice.’
‘The Catholic Church is kicking up to take the focus off themselves,’ Callanach continued.
‘So I should have seen it coming and not handed them my head on a plate. My mother always said I was my own worst enemy. Can’t believe I finally proved her right.’
‘And another thing,’ Begbie interrupted them. ‘The department received a package today addressed only to “The Detective Inspector”. It was a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne which I’m sure I haven’t pronounced correctly nor will I ever be able to afford. Apparently it was delivered by hand, signed in under the name Joe Smith, by someone wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. The note inside said, “What is life without pleasure?” although the sender neglected to leave their name. That little caper wasted an hour of my time having it checked out as a security risk, so whichever one of you is conducting your love life through my department, I’d be grateful if you’d tell your secret admirer where to get off.’
‘Same as the roses,’ Callanach muttered. ‘I said you should have reported it.’
‘Enough already,’ Ava whispered. ‘All right, Chief. Point taken. See you in a couple of weeks.’
She pulled Callanach away, shutting Begbie’s door quietly and regrouping in Callanach’s office.
‘You should have told him,’ Callanach said once they were out of earshot.
‘You don’t think my life just got complicated enough already?’ she replied.
‘One anonymous gift might have been a joke, two is harassment. And what if they’re from the same person who sent the death threat?’
‘Not exactly the same modus operandi, is it, or were you sick that day at Detective School? Look, I’m tired and my day is not yet over, so could you save the lecture for a more opportune moment?’
‘Do you want me to drive you home?’ he asked.
‘Actually I need your help. I’ve been stuck here dealing with this, but Natasha phoned earlier really shaken up. She thinks someone’s been in her house. I promised I’d call round and take a look. Given that I’m suspended I can go as a friend but if any action’s required, I’m useless. Would you come?’
‘Only if you bring the single malt,’ he said.