Perfect Prey: The twisty new crime thriller that will keep you up all night

‘Here you go, laddie. This was Mr Swan’s mug. I’m sure it’s all just a terrible mistake. He’s a good man. No harm’ll have come.’ The caretaker picked up a well-used, slightly chipped mug bearing the legend, ‘Eat well, drink well, read well’, clutching it to his chest rather too tightly.

‘Thank you,’ Callanach said. ‘We’ll have a quick look round and let you get on with your day.’ Across the main hall of books was the entrance hall where they’d come in. Steps leading upwards were signposted to education rooms. Another side door bore no marker. ‘What’s through there?’ Callanach asked the caretaker.

‘That goes down into the basement. Holds books not currently on the shelves, ones that need mending or replacing, old posters, redundant furniture. More of a storeroom than anything.’

‘Did Mr Swan have a key to that as well as to the front door?’ Callanach asked.

‘Not on his own set, although there’s one kept on the keys in the desk so the staff can get in if someone asks for a book that’s not on display.’

‘Could you get it for me please?’ Callanach asked.

‘I’m not sure why he’d have left anything in there, particularly. But I’ll open up anyway.’

The caretaker walked ahead and Callanach followed, checking the time. He was due in a meeting with the press liaison officer to give another useless update on the Sim Thorburn case, but he should at least phone and say he’d be delayed. The heavy door swung open and the caretaker reached around the side to flip on the lights. Nothing happened.

‘Fuse box?’ Callanach asked.

‘I’ll go and see,’ the caretaker said. ‘Give me a moment.’ He wandered off back into the main hall as Callanach stepped inside, taking the few steps down into the basement. The door had been heavier than he’d anticipated and it swung shut behind him. The area was effectively windowless, with a dim pane of glass glowing green-brown with moss and mud from decades of a lack of cleaning, and only the faintest vein of light from beneath the door at the top of the steps. Something rotten hung in the air, as if the basement had been built too close to a sewer pipe, polluting with its sulphurous putrescence.

Callanach took out his mobile and switched on the torch app that would drain the battery in no time, but it would do for him to get his bearings and stop wasting any more minutes. He walked between rows of books, all neatly stored, with boxes at the end of each line containing the expected jumble and junk. Children’s toys, some costumes, ageing furniture that no one had decided what to do with. He turned a corner, letting his phone shine at the floor, sensing rather than seeing obstacles as he walked away from the neat rows of books. There was a noise behind him. He spun round, disoriented. One foot flew out from beneath him and he threw a hand to the side to grab what he could to stabilise himself. His other foot followed the same fate, slipping on the floor, and his free arm shot up rather than out, clutching at the first thing it touched. It was a textile, smooth and slippery, wet on one side. Callanach shouted as he fell, landing on his back as whatever his hand had found loosened in his grasp. He closed his eyes as pain shot through his coccyx. A few moments later he repositioned his mobile and shone the light upwards.

Above him was, without a doubt, the body of Michael Swan. He had been suspended horizontally from a metal structural beam by his neck and his bound ankles. Callanach could only see fragments as the beam of torchlight moved, shakily, along the length of the corpse. Whoever had hung him had almost entirely skinned Swan’s face. Callanach had read numerous articles about it but never seen a case where it had been done. An incision had been made around the outer circle of facial skin, starting at one side of the lower jaw, heading up around the cheekbone, across the forehead and back down the other side. Finally, like a perfectly skinned rabbit, his face had been peeled.

Callanach felt the stickiness in his palm and knew that the resulting flap of skin had been what he’d grabbed as he’d slipped. He didn’t need the torchlight to confirm the pool of blood he was lying in.

‘Police officer, put down your weapons,’ Salter shouted from the doorway, no doubt assuming an assault and possible injury.

‘I’m all right, Salter. There’s no one else here.’ He may not have checked every inch of it, but Callanach was sure the assailant had left the building the night before, taking Swan’s mobile and wallet with them.

‘The fuse box is fine, the light bulbs must all have blown.’ Callanach could hear the caretaker’s voice getting closer.

‘Salter, get everyone else out of here right now. Close down the scene. Contact the pathologist immediately and call forensics in. Do not enter. I’ve already compromised the evidence.’

He could hear urgent instructions being given and the sound of footsteps disappearing away.

‘You sure you’re not hurt, sir? It sounded bad,’ Salter called.

Callanach unlaced his boots and left them where he’d trodden so as not to spread any more evidence around the room.

‘Missing person confirmed deceased. I’m uninjured. It’s going to be a difficult crime scene to process. I want an absolute lockdown on communications going out of here.’ Callanach moved gingerly towards the door, feeling his lower back as he went. He’d cracked it hard as he went down and parts of his legs were numb.

‘What the fuck?’ Salter said before she could stop herself. She started forwards to grab him, but Callanach raised a warning hand.

‘Don’t touch me,’ he said. ‘If there were trace fibres or evidence on the floor, they’re on me now.’

‘God, sir, you’re covered in it. Are you sure you didn’t injure yourself? Only that looks like too much blood …’ her voice trailed off.

‘Take a breath,’ Callanach said, ‘then call Begbie for me. He needs to see this for himself. I want the whole building sealed off. No one touches anything. Make sure the caretaker doesn’t re-enter this part of the building.’ He could hear his own voice shaking.

‘How bad is it, sir?’ Salter asked. Callanach just stared at her. ‘Will I send uniforms round to notify Mr Swan’s wife?’

‘That’ll be our job, I’m afraid, but this will take a while,’ he said. Sirens were approaching at a pace. Salter made her way out of the building to ensure that the scene was protected from the outside of the building in.

Callanach stayed as still as he could, knowing every item of his clothing would need bagging and testing. He tried not to think about the gore dripping from his trouser legs and hands. He had witnessed horrors before, but the gruesomeness of this was its staging, the dreadful dramatic love with which it had been conceived. Even to the point of smashing the light bulbs, he now realised, so that the full effect of the killer’s creation could only be witnessed in torchlight. Michael Swan’s face reduced to a horror mask, still dripping with bloody gore, would forever be a scream in his memory. He felt dizzy, sick, made himself take air and get a grip.

Technicians appeared carrying swathes of plastic sheeting and battery lights by which to work. They said little as Callanach described the scene so that they could properly equip themselves, both practically and mentally.

Ailsa Lambert arrived looking concerned, issuing businesslike orders.

‘You’re holding your back,’ she said, looking Callanach up and down.

‘I’m fine,’ Callanach said. ‘Just a slip. Ailsa, this may be the worst …’

‘I’m going to organise a car to take you home, Luc,’ she said, pulling out her mobile.

‘There’s no time,’ he said.

‘Then you’ll have to consent to a paramedic assessing you for shock. If you try and drive in the next two hours I’ll have you disciplined myself. Understand?’ Callanach considered arguing but didn’t. ‘Good,’ Ailsa said. ‘Now this. Is it torture?’

‘Yes. Not sure if it was pre or post mortem. He’s strung up parallel to the ceiling.’

‘My job would be easier if human beings had evolved without imaginations. Right, strip off – I’ll have someone bring you a suit. They’ll have to swab your hands and face as well. We’ll need every fibre,’ Ailsa said.

‘What happened to you?’ Begbie roared, storming towards them, almost bursting out of the crime scene coveralls he was wearing. ‘Has this whole city gone mad?’

‘You’ll achieve nothing like that,’ Ailsa told him gently. ‘And my crime scene needs minimal disruption so go in easy, if you don’t mind.’

‘And we’ve no idea who we’re looking for, is that right?’ Begbie aimed at Callanach.

‘Not as yet, sir,’ Callanach responded. The Chief was already pushing himself through the doorway into the basement that was still in the process of being lit.

Callanach heard a string of expletives bellowing from the storeroom in an ever more guttural and breathy Scots accent. Begbie was both furious and bewildered, a combination of emotions with which Callanach could sympathise. There was a pause, a loud groan, then a thud. Other voices called out. Ailsa and Callanach went running. DCI Begbie was on his side on the floor, one hand clutching his chest, feet paddling furiously against the pain.

‘Call the paramedics,’ Ailsa shouted to the nearest scenes of crime officer. The Chief’s breathing was more reminiscent of a marathon runner than someone who had recently made a trip of a few hundred yards from a car, hauling air in and chugging it out. Ailsa removed his tie and loosened his shirt while Callanach grabbed a torch from a passing officer. The additional light showed Begbie’s face as ashen but slick with sweat. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes wide. Callanach took hold of Begbie’s right hand, half expecting rejection. The Chief squeezed Callanach’s in silent reply, gripping hard, holding on. Blood trickled from his knees and hands where he’d hit the floor and he looked unexpectedly like a victim. Confused, scared, helpless.

‘Help me sit him up,’ Ailsa said to Callanach. They sat the Chief with his back against a stack of boxes while a technician fetched a blanket. ‘George, these are aspirin. I want you to chew them slowly,’ she said, pushing two small pills into Begbie’s mouth. He grimaced but made the effort, his hands shaking as he steadied himself. ‘By God, man, I’m not supposed to be here looking after you. Have I not got enough to be getting on with? Quite the shock you gave me!’

Begbie did his best to issue a response, but managed nothing other than a breathless wheeze, and went back to chewing. Ailsa checked him over for other injuries, wiping her face when the Chief closed his eyes for a moment. If Callanach didn’t know better he’d have thought she was wiping away tears.

The paramedics were inside before anyone could get crime scene suits on them or even shoe covers. It took only a couple of minutes for them to get Begbie onto a stretcher with an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose, but in that time Callanach saw the look on Ailsa’s face turn from deep concern to complete frustration. Bloody footprints ran all the way across the floor. Begbie had fallen into the middle of the key forensics area, followed out of necessity by the men saving his life. Everyone stopped, hands on hips, shaking disbelieving heads at how much more complicated and unlikely to yield results their tasks had just become.

‘I’ll follow him to the hospital,’ Callanach said. ‘Would you mind calling Ava, please Ailsa? She’s friendly with the Chief’s wife. Someone ought to pick Mrs Begbie up.’

Chapter Ten

Callanach’s mobile rang just as he arrived at the Royal Infirmary.

‘How’s the chief?’ Ava asked.

‘I don’t know yet. We won’t get anything out of the doctors until they’ve run tests.’

‘What the hell happened? Where were you?’

‘At a crime scene,’ Callanach said.

‘You’re kidding. Must have been one hell of an incident to have got the chief that worked up.’ There was an empty silence. ‘Right, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’ve already had the superintendent on the phone asking what’s going on. She’s on her way too, so make sure everything’s under control.’

Callanach’s lower back flared into a ball of agony. ‘Got to go,’ he said, grabbing a door handle to keep upright and breathing hard.

‘Sir, are you feeling all right?’ a nurse asked. Callanach tried to nod, thinking he should make a joke to reassure her so she could move on. What came out was a wail as he finally lost control of the pain. ‘I need a bed,’ the nurse shouted. An orderly came running, taking Callanach’s weight, slipping one arm around him as the nurse pulled back a curtain to reveal an unused cubicle.

A doctor was with him in moments, stripping him and rolling him onto one side to press gentle fingers down the length of his spine.

‘Could you just give me some painkillers?’ Callanach snapped. ‘I’m with the man who’s just come in with a heart attack. And the superintendent is due any minute. I really can’t be on my back when she arrives.’

The doctor wrote a couple of notes whilst managing simultaneously to look completely bored.

‘Have you had a bad fall?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Callanach said. ‘I slipped, but it wasn’t that dramatic.’

‘It was dramatic enough that it appears to have fractured your coccyx. You must have landed on the edge of it pretty hard. The injury won’t limit normal activities, but it’s going to be painful for six weeks or so,’ the doctor said.

A voice that was authoritative and impatient in equal measure echoed down the row of cubicles.

‘I appreciate the fact that I am not family but I do have an amount of authority here. DCI Begbie became ill at a crime scene for which I am responsible, in the capacity of his immediate superior representing his employer. And where’s Detective Inspector Callanach?’

Callanach rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth as the doctor pressed more firmly against the base of his spine to complete the diagnosis.

‘Sorry, who?’ a nurse beyond the curtain asked.

‘Ugh,’ Superintendent Overbeck groaned. ‘Police officer, French accent, tallish, popular with the ladies.’

‘Oh, I know,’ the nurse replied. ‘He’s with the doctor, too. Just in this cubicle. You can visit him once the doctor has finished.’

‘Finished like hell,’ Overbeck said, ripping the curtain aside and walking in.

‘I’m with a patient,’ the doctor said. Callanach frantically but ineffectually tried to cover his backside with the edge of the sheet he was lying on.

‘Discharging him will solve that problem,’ Overbeck snapped. ‘Begbie’s having a heart attack and you’re in here getting a free back massage, Callanach. Get some clothes on, man. Unless you’re actually dying I want a debrief immediately.’

‘This patient has a fractured coccyx. It’s badly damaged and he’s in a lot of pain. I need to ask you to leave,’ the doctor said.

‘It’s all right,’ Callanach muttered. ‘I’ll be straight out, ma’am.’

The nurse handed him a gown.

‘You need medication, rest and further investigations. There’s no way you’re fit for work,’ the doctor said. ‘I’m signing you off from duties.’

‘Am I right in thinking there’s another body on its way to the mortuary, Detective Inspector?’ the superintendent asked. Callanach nodded. ‘Then are you fit for duty, or shall I have someone wheel you out in a nice comfy blanket?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Callanach said.

The doctor stared at him. ‘I’ll give you a shot to kill the pain. You’ll need a prescription to get you through the next couple of weeks. Avoid sitting for too long. No cycling, rowing, weightlifting or other sports that put a strain on your tailbone.’

‘What’s happening?’ Ava asked, appearing around the corner of the curtain. Callanach sighed.

‘Apparently the detective inspector needed a nap,’ the superintendent said. The doctor threw her a look that would have shamed most people. Overbeck seemed to take it as a compliment. ‘I’m going to express my sincere concern to Begbie’s wife. What’s her name again?’

‘Glynis,’ Ava said.

‘That’s right. You two, with me in five minutes.’ She stalked off, leaving the doctor to fill a hypodermic syringe. Ava turned her back as it was administered.

‘How’s the chief doing?’ Callanach asked.

‘Stable. It was more of a warning than full-blown cardiac arrest. He won’t be going home tonight and his wife’s very upset, but he’ll live.’

‘I’m sure the Super will make the Begbies feel much better,’ Callanach muttered. Ava smirked. The doctor cleared the room and pulled the curtain across to give them privacy. Ava kept her back turned as Callanach put the forensics suit back on.

‘You decent now?’ Ava asked after a minute.

‘More than I was when Overbeck walked in without any warning. She didn’t even break stride. Just stood there with me half-naked.’

‘Some day you’re having,’ Ava said. ‘Listen, Ailsa phoned me back. She told me what you walked into. It’s no wonder the chief reacted the way he did. Are you okay? Only I can make your excuses with Overbeck, get a car to take you home …’

‘I don’t think I’d have a job to come back to in the morning,’ Callanach joked. ‘A drink after work would be good though, if you’re not busy. It’ll be more fun than just taking painkillers.’

Ava paused before meeting his eyes. ‘That sounds like a good idea. I’ll meet you back at the station. We can go on from there.’

It was two in the afternoon before Callanach left the hospital, and his next stop was the mortuary. Ailsa was waiting for him with coffee as he walked into her office.

‘You’re walking strangely,’ she said.

‘I fractured my arse,’ Callanach replied.

Ailsa burst into a fit of laughing he hadn’t expected.

‘I’m sorry, dear, I shouldn’t be laughing. Alternate hot and cold compresses. Make sure you have a soft enough mattress. It’s painful. Was that when you slipped under poor Mr Swan’s body?’ He nodded. ‘I needed the laugh. It’s been quite a day and I’m afraid it’s not over yet. Drink the coffee. Take some painkillers if you need them. We have to go and spend some time with the body.’

Callanach had known he wouldn’t get away with simply being given an oral report. He’d viewed hundreds of dead bodies in his time, witnessed scores of autopsies, but this one was going to leave an indelible memory. He did as suggested and swallowed tablets before getting a gown and going in.

‘Has Mrs Swan been in for a formal identification yet?’ Callanach asked.

‘She has indeed, although I wish we could have spared her that,’ Ailsa said. ‘I replaced the skin over his face and did my best to make her husband look as he had in life, but there was very little softening the blow. I think Tuscany would be nice to retire to, don’t you? Warm climate, olives trees, good food. Have you been there?’

‘I have,’ Callanach said. ‘But I didn’t know you were retiring, Ailsa.’

‘Neither did I, Detective Inspector. But today, for perhaps the first time, it occurred to me that there is more to life, to what’s left of mine anyway, than this. Now, here we are. Look closely at the incision marks around the face. We pulled the edges of skin back together and took some photographs to make it easier to see. These are the marks close up.’ She moved back from the corpse to a computer and pressed a button. Immediately an image filled the screen that would have been impossible to understand had Callanach not been told what he was looking at.

The skin was grey either side of the wound, the central gash a line of black. The skin on the right-hand side of the incision was smooth, but on the left there were minute tags regularly along the path of the cut. Ailsa pointed along the uneven side.

‘Caused by the blade,’ Ailsa said. ‘The weapon was extremely fine and extremely sharp. What you’re seeing wouldn’t have been visible to the naked eye. We had to enlarge the image multiple times to pick this up.’

‘Why only along one edge of the wound?’ Callanach asked, walking away from the screen and back to the body to see if he could detect the difference on the skin itself.

‘Think of it like a bullet, with micro detail that links it to having been fired from a specific gun,’ Ailsa said. ‘All blades leave different impressions if you look closely enough. Find me that blade and I’ll be able to tell you if it’s a good match for this incision.’

‘That helps with evidence at trial but it doesn’t identify the attacker,’ Callanach said. ‘So who am I looking for?’

‘Someone who knows their way around the human body, who is not the least bit squeamish. A person who enjoys the spectacle. But that’s not why I got you here. Look at this.’ She tapped a key and another image popped up. The same smooth line ran down one side, a microscopically jagged edge along the other.

‘I see the same markings.’ Callanach walked back to look down at Michael Swan’s face. ‘Which section of the wound is that picture from?’

‘None of it,’ Ailsa replied. ‘You’ll be needing to look at Sim Thorburn’s injuries for that.’

Callanach stood still and let it sink in.

‘But that was a double blade. It can’t have been the same weapon as was used on Thorburn,’ he said.

‘Not the same weapon, but possibly scalpel blades manufactured in a single batch, all with the same minuscule flaw. The first two blades were used to home-craft the weapon that killed Thorburn. The next one became part of a more traditional knife. Without seeing the blades themselves I couldn’t swear to this in court, but between us, I’d say whoever killed one, killed the other. And there’s more than that. Come here,’ she said, beckoning Callanach over to Michael Swan’s body. ‘The scalpel’s point of entry is at the left lower jawbone and the victim needs to be lying down for this to work. The only way to get such a clean cut would have been for the killer to have been sat at the crown of the head, like so.’ Ailsa positioned herself behind the top of Swan’s head and held her pen as if it were the knife. ‘Starting at the left jaw and pulling backwards means the killer was using their left hand. It didn’t occur to me with Thorburn until I was doing this autopsy today, but the draw of the blade on Sim was from his right to his left. The video footage you have shows the perpetrator passing in that direction. I think the killer chose the direction of walking specifically to allow them to use their left hand.’

‘Anything else?’ Callanach asked. His mind was full of possibilities. The links between Thorburn and Swan. The description of the killer from the festival who was short and light, hardly a good candidate for hauling a grown man up to a ceiling beam. A growing sense that this was a beginning and that there was worse to come. ‘What could be worse than this?’ he asked aloud.

‘If you want the worst,’ Ailsa answered, assuming the question was for her, ‘then you’d best have it all at once. It was the loss of blood that caused heart and brain function to cease for Michael Swan, just as for Sim Thorburn. Swan was alive when he was skinned. And he took a while to die. It was torture of a degree that I find difficult to describe adequately. I see no evidence that he was drugged to make him compliant whilst the procedure was undertaken, although the toxicology screen will take a couple more days. Who’ll be taking DCI Begbie’s place while he’s on sick leave?’

‘We’re answering directly to Superintendent Overbeck on the current open murder cases,’ Callanach said. ‘She’ll need to be copied in on the autopsy report.’

‘She’ll have it tomorrow. You’ll be needing to rest your back now. No point aggravating it any further.’

‘It’s potentially a serial killer getting started then, Ailsa, that’s what you think?’ he asked quietly.

‘It’s a possibility we cannot afford to ignore. You and I have seen enough to recognise the signs. When people enjoy killing to this degree, there’s very little that stops them until they’re captured or dead.’

‘Ailsa, about the leaking of the autopsy report on Ava’s investigation into Helen Lott’s death …’ Callanach began.

‘I know what you’re going to say and I agree it would be disastrous for that to happen here. But it was no one in my department, Luc. If you find that I’m wrong, I’ll take full responsibility, but my staff respect what we do here, no matter how long the hours they work and how difficult the circumstances. No one does this job for the pay or the glory, and those who don’t like it leave pretty damned fast. Everyone my end has been interviewed about the leak and our procedures have been security-checked for weaknesses. We’re clean.’