Detective Constables Salter and Tripp were in Callanach’s office surrounded by paperwork.
‘So you’re saying these women are still alive, but they’ve had their teeth pulled out,’ Salter said. ‘Is Hand still in custody?’
‘Yes,’ Tripp told her, ‘but only for giving false information and the indecent images found on his computer. Sergeant Lively is handling it. The Chief’s about to announce the reduction of Hand’s charges at a press conference. Professor Harris is in with DCI Begbie now. I told them you were still out at Causewayside.’
‘Good,’ Callanach said. ‘That should buy us some time. I want those missing persons files back from Harris without him figuring out what’s going on or he’ll interfere. Salter, can you get them for me?’ A purposeful exit from the room was her answer. ‘Keep a unit watching that garage, Tripp. He may yet return there. Ask Salter to take those files down to my car. I’ll read them at home. Figuring out the identities of the dead women is the only way to catch him, and I need some peace and quiet. Stay here and keep everyone else away from me. All right?’
Tripp nodded. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Good job.’
‘Not yet,’ Callanach answered, ‘but let’s keep hoping.’
He drove home. Daylight was dying. The news would be full of Hand’s release on bail, his charges reduced from murder to attempting to pervert the course of justice. The headlines, though, would be about police incompetence and the spectre of a killer going undetected. Not unfairly, he thought.
Callanach felt bruised from his day, having repeatedly taken one step forward and several more back. Progress, failure, revelation, frustration. And in the midst of it all had been Astrid. Seeing her had been the last thing he’d expected, but somehow he hadn’t thought about her all afternoon.
Now, alone in the dark as he drove, Callanach could still see the inside of the police cell in Lyon. He could hear his lawyer telling him it might be best to plead guilty, to get credit from the judge by not putting Astrid through the trauma of giving evidence. A guilty plea meant a substantial reduction in the time he would serve. The fact that he was an Interpol agent would be an aggravating enough factor when it came to sentencing. He’d considered it too, falsely admitting guilt to minimise the prison time, hoping he’d be sent to a secure wing. He knew what treatment he could expect inside. Then twenty-four hours before the case was due to open, with no warning, Astrid had announced that she wouldn’t give evidence. It was like a sick joke. All he’d been able to think about was getting as far away, as fast as he could. For him, every colleague’s face was permanently masked with the first reaction they’d had to his arrest. Pity, smugness, disbelief, horror. After months of bail conditions – a 6 p.m. to 9 a.m. curfew, surrendering his passport, not leaving the Lyon area, not visiting the Interpol building – he felt as if he’d already served a sentence.
His mother had done her best to stand by him at first, but as she’d heard more and more of the case details she had slowly distanced herself. It was the one relationship he’d assumed could never be weakened. She’d remained unshakeable through his early years as he’d come to terms with the fury he’d felt at losing his father. Even his behaviour at university and his journey into adulthood hadn’t diminished her belief that he would turn out well. But after proving everyone wrong, after taking control of his life and pursuing a career in which he sought to do nothing but good, she had fallen away when he’d needed her most. That had been the most painful loss imaginable. The closest thing to an explanation from his mother had been a clipped voicemail message, saying she couldn’t bear to watch him destroy himself any more, that every time she thought he’d changed there was one more blow to come. It was as if she had finally run out of the strength to love him.
The fact was that Callanach had been declared not guilty on a technicality. Astrid hadn’t admitted lying. The truth never came out. And here he was again, facing the same demons he’d tried to leave behind. Astrid Borde had threatened Ava’s life and wasted an opportunity to catch a killer because of her obsession with him. Callanach had come full circle.
He glanced down at the passenger seat. There sat the same pile of files he’d been preparing to read when the Chief had handed them to Professor Harris instead. At the time, Callanach had been grateful to have the professor distracted by what had seemed a low priority task. Look where that had got them. They were back checking cold cases, clueless, chasing their tails. He was no further forward and his friend and colleague was in the hands of a psychopath. Women were dead, and more were sure to die unless the murderer was caught.
He was certain that Ava was in the city somewhere. He had no idea if Elaine Buxton and Jayne Magee were with her or what they’d suffered. All he knew was that another victim was waiting to be saved. A woman who had no idea what was coming and who’d done nothing to deserve her fate.
Back in his apartment, Callanach showered, getting his head in order before he started reading. In the cupboard next to the sink was a pile of towels, at the bottom of which sat a paperweight, a globe key ring and a child’s prayer slate. If anyone found them, he would be accused of taking trophies and his guilt of their theft was undeniable. But holding those items, sensing the ghosts of their former owners’ hands, had kept each woman alive for him. Now he knew that they were, in all probability, still alive, he wondered what he would do with his stash of intimate treasures.
Back at his desk, he spread the missing persons files out in a line. The lives of more than one hundred women, each no longer where their loved ones wished they were, had been reduced to tiny summaries. Some had run away. The majority, he suspected. There were suggestions of drug abuse, alcohol addiction, abusive partners and mental illness. Many had taken a credit card, or clothes, or a treasured photo. Not much, but enough to deduce that wherever they’d gone, they had made the decision to leave. Only the ringing of his doorbell snapped Callanach out of the daze of reading too similar, too depressing stories.
Natasha was at his door. If he’d passed her on the street in such a state he might not have recognised her.
‘Sorry, Luc. I couldn’t sit at home and wait for news any longer,’ she sobbed.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you a drink then I should call a constable to take you home. You’re a witness and I’m still in the middle of the investigation.’
‘You’re working,’ she said, staring at the mess of scattered papers. ‘Can I help?’
‘No,’ he smiled, ‘unless you feel like cooking. I apologise for the sexist undertones of that comment.’
‘I’d love to cook. Don’t send me home. I never want to set foot in that road again.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ he said. ‘There are eggs and salmon, probably some asparagus, brie.’
‘Just carry on,’ she said. ‘I need to be busy. I promise not to disturb you.’ She bustled into the kitchen and Callanach picked up the files where he’d left off.
Two teenagers from the Highlands, best friends, had apparently packed their bags and disappeared. The father of one of them had given a statement talking about his daughter in the past tense, like some contrived eulogy, full of self-glorification about his extraordinary relationship with her. Callanach had the chilling sense the girls were long since dead, not partying with secret boyfriends in a distant city, but they didn’t fit the age range as a match for either Elaine or Jayne. He put the papers aside to request follow-up action.
The next file related to Grace Smith from Glasgow. The missing person report had been registered by a man with an eastern European name who claimed he was her business partner. It was an interesting euphemism, Callanach thought. Her lengthy previous convictions for soliciting, combined with the street from which she’d disappeared, were enough to tell Callanach that the statement had been given by her pimp. He must either have been sleeping with her or short of cash to go to the police for help. Natasha emerged from the kitchen clutching two plates, an omelette and salad on each.
‘Here you go. When did you last eat?’ she asked.
‘Can’t remember,’ Callanach said.
He skimmed the statement as he ate, reading the pimp’s account of the last time he’d seen his prostitute. It might be a ruse. Sometimes when a pimp didn’t get the full amount of cash they were expecting after a night’s work, they got violent. He wouldn’t be the first, or the last, to kill with a misjudged punch then try to cover it by reporting the girl missing. There was detail in the statement, though. A broken interior car light, the girl was jittery, the pimp had demanded cash up front. That was odd, Callanach thought. Admitting that he’d been pimping. Not the actions of a man creating a false history. Other than describing a musty, lemony odour coming from inside the vehicle, the pimp had given little detail about the client. Male and white was as far as the statement went. There was no make or model for the car either, and Grace hadn’t had a phone with her.
‘Maybe she just saw her chance and ran away to a better life,’ Callanach said.
‘Pardon?’ Natasha asked.
‘Talking to myself,’ he said, still scanning the pages. ‘It must be catching.’
‘First sign of insanity, apparently. Who was it who said that?’ Natasha mused.
‘Lemony,’ he said.
‘Lemony?’ Natasha echoed, refilling her wine glass.
Callanach was up and dashing to another pile of files heaped on an armchair. He threw one then another to the floor, but opened the next, running his finger down the index.
‘Here it is, Isabel Yale,’ he said.
Natasha had forsaken her omelette to look over his shoulder. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked.
‘The witness who saw a man with a wheelie case leaving Jayne Magee’s road.’ He speed read the statement, flipped the page then ran his finger under a line of text. ‘Natasha, what do mothballs smell like?’
‘Acidic, I suppose. A bit unpleasant, cloying. Citrusy would be the kindest description.’
‘Grace Smith,’ Callanach muttered to himself. ‘Right age range, easy target. He broke the light deliberately.’
Natasha had begun picking up the discarded files and putting them back on the chair to create a stationery-free pathway back to the kitchen.
‘I hate the smell myself,’ she said. ‘Reminds me of my departmental administrator. Did you meet him at Ava’s lecture?’