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

‘Stop looking at everyone else’s food as if they’re eating poison. It’s off-putting. You’re not doing anything to help your reputation for French snobbery,’ DI Ava Turner said, pushing a fork into his free hand. ‘Prawn salad. Not home-made, so you’re safe from my pathetic efforts.’

‘I thought you were off duty and not coming in until late tomorrow. Have you been demoted to the catering division?’

‘You can always hand it back,’ she said, checking her phone and frowning.

‘Too late.’ Callanach ripped open the packaging and tucked in. ‘Ailsa Lambert was asking after you. Do I take it that Edinburgh’s elite social circle is not functioning properly?’ he smiled.

‘How do you tell someone to shut up in French?’ she responded without looking up from her phone. Ava had spent much of her career trying to distance herself from the privilege she was born into. The expectation that she would become a doctor, lawyer, actuary or similar – at least until she settled down and produced grandchildren for her eager parents – had spawned a rebellion landing her in the grimy world of policing. But even at work she couldn’t escape the fact that her family’s closest friends included the upper levels of Police Scotland brass, politicians, CEOs and even the city’s chief forensic pathologist.

DC Salter interrupted, handing over two pages of A4 and checking her watch. ‘DCI Begbie said he knew you were busy so he’s organising the press conference for you.’ Salter was trying not to smile. Turner ruined the effort by laughing out loud. ‘I’ve written out some notes for you, sir. Media will be gathered in about an hour.’

‘Wow. Reduced to using the media circus already? This time tomorrow morning women will be swooning over your face on the front cover of every paper. So Police Scotland’s pin-up detective is getting back out there, is he?’ Ava said. Callanach had been with the Major Investigation Team in Edinburgh for eight months, and in that time Ava had never missed an opportunity to make fun of him. His distant career as a model made him a particularly easy target.

‘It wasn’t my idea,’ Callanach muttered. ‘Merde!’

‘Language,’ Ava admonished.

‘I thought you couldn’t speak French,’ Callanach said.

‘You’ve been mistaking my ignoring you for failing to understand you. It’s a different concept,’ Ava said.

‘Do you not have work to do?’ Callanach asked, shaking his head at her, watching the grin spread across her face. Ava was the sort of woman who left men wrong-footed. She looked innocent enough, her long brown hair a tangle of curls, with grey eyes that shifted colour depending on the light. But she could cut to the chase in a second. Being direct seemed to be the only way she knew. When he’d arrived from France his head had been a mess. Too much had happened for him to walk away unscathed emotionally. The last few months had been curative, and Ava had played a large part in that, mainly because with her he could just be himself.

‘Earth to Callanach,’ Ava said, waving her hand in front of his face. ‘I was only teasing. It’s that bad then? You’ve really got nothing to go on?’

‘Less than nothing,’ Callanach said.

‘DI Turner!’ Begbie shouted from the corridor.

‘I’m off duty, sir,’ Ava shouted back. ‘In fact, I’m not even in the building. You’re imagining me.’

‘Too bad for you I have such an active imagination. Get a squad over to Gilmerton Road. There’s been another murder.’

Chapter Three

The house in Gilmerton was an unpretentious semi-detached, with a plain but carefully tended garden and a Mini in the driveway. A high wooden gate allowed access to the rear garden. The upper windows of the property were small, but at one corner, presumably where the internal staircase ran, an unusual slit of window spanned both floors to look out over next door’s driveway. Two uniformed officers had been posted at the gates and the circus of forensics, pathology, and photography had yet to properly begin. The area was peaceful, the streets asleep.

‘What happened?’ Ava Turner asked the officer guarding the front door.

‘A neighbour heard some loud banging followed by a couple of screams, phoned it in. There was no answer when we knocked so we went round the back and found the kitchen door open. Body’s in the bedroom, ma’am. Do you want me to come in with you?’

‘No, stay put. And keep people off the garden. Who’s the victim?’ Ava asked.

‘Mrs Helen Lott, mid-forties, lived alone as her husband passed away a while back, apparently. Neighbour was quite friendly with the deceased. We haven’t told her what we found yet …’

‘Good. Where the hell are the rest of the team?’

‘All still over at The Meadows dealing with the murder at the festival. No one was expecting a second murder on the same night,’ the officer said, rubbing his hands together. Even in July, Scotland was no place to stand outside in the small hours.

‘Bloody right. That’s Edinburgh’s murder quota for the whole year. God almighty, the press will have a field day,’ Ava muttered, already making her way along the narrow path to the rear of the property.

The lock on the back door had been sliced through. If it was a burglar, then it was a highly professional job as opposed to the usual smash-and-grab, taking whatever was nearest to the window. The perpetrator had paid a lot of money for decent tools, and must have known what he’d need. Ava pulled gloves and shoe covers from her bag and made her way in through the kitchen door, careful not to disturb anything as she went. The lock had been broken, although there hadn’t been any chain or secondary security. She cursed how cheaply people valued their lives.

The house was dark, as it would have been when the intruder crept through. Ava kept the lights off, imagining how the killer had moved and navigated the property. There was enough light from a street lamp to make it easy. None of the stair floorboards were squeaky. There was every chance the killer had got all the way to Helen Lott’s bedroom without disturbing her at all. Dark smudges on the stair carpet and a glistening trail on the handrail were an insight into the scene that was about to unfold.

The smell of vomit was noticeable from halfway between floors, beginning as a sharp twang, growing riper and more meaty as she got closer. Something else, too, when Ava pushed open the door to the main bedroom. A rotten smell. Human faeces.

In the bedroom, she turned on the light to allow a detailed view, taking an involuntary step back from the carnage on the floor. The body was difficult to see at first, hidden as it was by a wooden chest of drawers. Clothes had tumbled out everywhere, hiding all but the woman’s right foot and right arm. Ava tiptoed across and peeled the corner of a jumper away from the face. Blood had erupted from her mouth, nose and ears. The vomit was already crusting on the carpet and in the wrinkles and folds of her skin. The victim’s eyes, a vivid and unusual shade of blue, bulged in their sockets, and stared somewhere over Ava’s shoulder as if watching, terrified, for her attacker to return. There was very little white remaining in her eyes, the haemorrhaging like crazing on an antique vase. Her neck and face were swollen solid, a deep shade of purple. It was as if she had been painted from the neck up by an angry toddler in all the colours of fury.

The chest of drawers, a broad, weighty piece, lay across her body. Its position there was no accident. Ava looked carefully at the damage. The chest’s back panel, which now faced the ceiling, had been smashed in, the sides caving inwards. Faint bootprints marred the floral pastel bed linen. The attacker had jumped from the mattress onto the chest, adding to the murderous crushing pressure that had squeezed the breath from the victim’s lungs as she’d lain terrified beneath it. Helen Lott’s visible leg was twisted to an unnatural angle, and the nails of her free hand were bloodied and hanging. Ava folded the hand upwards to where the nails would have made contact with the chest of drawers. Sure enough, corresponding scratch marks ran down the polished surface. The poor woman would have been conscious then, enough to have done all she could in those last desperate minutes to fight her way out. Death would have been the only kindness, Ava thought. Mrs Lott would have been grateful when the darkness finally swallowed her.

‘Oh, my dear,’ a small voice came from the doorway, ‘what on earth is this, now? I was just saying to Luc earlier how I was missing you. I certainly didn’t mean to see you under these circumstances.’

‘I need as much as you can tell me about the killer. Single assailant or a gang, was there a weapon? Just give me enough to get started, Ailsa,’ Ava said.

The pathologist, covered head to foot in a white suit, making her appear smaller than ever, opened her bag and withdrew a thermometer and a variety of swabs.

‘It’s a difficult scene, not much room. Keep your squad out until I’m done. Get me some decent lighting and I’ll need the photographer immediately.’

‘That’s fine,’ Ava said, as Ailsa knelt next to the body.

‘She’s still quite warm, so the attacker, singular or plural I can’t say, hasn’t gone terribly far yet,’ Ailsa said, photographing with her own tiny camera as she went, shining a light in Helen Lott’s eyes, ears and mouth. ‘Death was within the last forty-five minutes, that’s the best I can do for now. I’d put money on the perpetrator – if it was one person acting alone – being male and very large. This took an absolutely extraordinary amount of strength and overwhelming rage. No weapon other than this furniture was required to cause these injuries. Whoever it is must be covered in blood though. They’ll be keeping out of sight until they’ve cleaned up. This blow to the face, you see the swelling and discoloration here,’ Ailsa pointed to the side of Helen Lott’s head, ‘probably fractured the cheekbone, maybe the jaw too, and would have put her on the floor so that the furniture could be pushed on top of her. The weight of the furniture forcing the air from her lungs, combined with the fractured jaw would have prevented her from screaming. That might have been incidental or planned, no way of knowing. It’s an unusual crime scene. Very personal. I’ve never seen a crushing death outside of a car or industrial accident before. And these blood spatters here and here,’ Ava followed Ailsa’s eyeline outwards from the chest of drawers along the carpets to the walls and wardrobe, ‘suggest to me that the crushing wasn’t a single continuous force.’

‘Meaning what?’ Ava asked.

‘Meaning, I’m afraid, that whoever did this jumped again and again, causing individual injuries and almost explosive bleeds each time they landed. When we’ve moved the furniture and the body, we’ll see a star shape coming out around her.’

‘Bastards,’ Ava said, hands on hips, hanging her head.

‘I bet you don’t let your mother hear you speak like that,’ Ailsa said, smiling gently. ‘Now let me take care of Mrs Lott.’

Ava went back down the stairs, turning each light on as she went, issuing orders through her radio. Technicians were carrying lights and sheets in before she’d even reached the kitchen door. Ava walked out onto the street and looked around. It was a quiet residential area, devoid of CCTV and not wealthy enough for any of the residents to have invested in their own surveillance systems. It would have been obvious that the house was occupied, so late at night with a car on the driveway. The burglar – if it was a burglary gone wrong – would have been cautious about the residents.

‘Officer,’ Ava called to the uniform she’d spoken to on the way in. ‘Is there anything obvious missing or any sign of ransacking?’

‘Handbag with purse in it still on the kitchen table, ma’am. Other than that we didn’t want to disturb too much.’

She went back to her car and dialled Begbie’s number.

‘Turner here. It’s a bad one, Chief. Female victim, living alone. Crushed to death with a piece of her own furniture.’

‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding me,’ Begbie sighed. Ava could almost see him scratching his head as he tapped his pen on the desk. He sounded exhausted. ‘Sexual assault?’

‘No idea. And we won’t have confirmation until Mrs Lott has been taken in for a full autopsy. The torso and two limbs have been pretty comprehensively flattened.’

‘Suspects?’

‘Nothing yet. Pathologist’s still with her. Everyone was over at The Meadows so it’s taken a bit longer than usual to get going. Almost certainly a male attacker. Not sure if there’s more than one. It’s brutal, a lot of force. We have a bootprint. Officers are with the neighbour taking a statement. After the incident at The Meadows, the press will—’

‘I know, I know,’ Begbie said. ‘But they’ll have to be told. They’ll find out soon enough anyway. Better from us.’ Ava could hear the Chief’s heavy breathing down the phone. His chest sounded as if it was chugging between words.

‘Sir, nothing else will happen tonight. Maybe you should just go home. Callanach and I are both available to take calls.’

‘Don’t you start too, Turner. If I wanted another woman nagging me, I’d have committed bigamy long ago. Just seal off the scene and bring back some useful bloody info. The very least I expect is one hundred per cent more than Callanach’s turned up from The Meadows. Not that that’s setting the bar very high, mind you.’

Chapter Four

Callanach sat with an expressionless video editor, and tried to avoid the pile of newspapers that some helpful person had left on his desk. What he needed to do was sift through the footage from four different cameras and see if anything recorded might resemble a lead. Thankfully the timelines were such that the job, initially at least, was a limited one.

The first two tapes were from static cameras, no operators. They both covered the front areas of the crowd, and the place where Sim Thorburn had been standing was a distant blur. The remaining footage was more difficult to navigate. One camera operator had been moving around on the stage, intermittently filming the band and looking out at the crowd. The second camera operator had been on a cherry picker crane to give more dynamic angles. It was painfully slow to sit through, but finally the first glimpse of the thankfully tall Niek De Vries emerged amidst the masses.

‘Stop it there,’ Callanach said, leaning forward and peering hard at the screen. ‘That area, can you make the section larger?’

The editor pressed a few keys and leaned back, hands behind his head.

‘Is that it?’ Callanach asked. ‘It’s too blurry.’

‘Yeah, you know that stuff in films where they can suddenly zoom in and it all goes super-sharp and you can see inside people’s pockets and read what’s written on a note? That’s all bollocks,’ the editor said. ‘There’s one picture, it consists of a certain number of dots. You can see closer but then it gets less sharp. If I had a pound for every time I’ve had to explain that.’

‘Zoom back out then, left a bit,’ Callanach said. ‘That’s Sim,’ he said. ‘Play it from there.’

As the screen came to life, Callanach could see Sim bouncing up and down, in and out of the line of sight. It was sketchy, but unmistakably the victim. He was bare-chested, like many of the men in the crowd, having presumably shed his T-shirt in the heat of the sun and the crowd. Sim was singing along, one arm in the air pumping in time to the music. He looked relaxed and happy. Behind him and slightly to the right stood Merel De Vries.

‘He has absolutely no idea what’s coming,’ Callanach said to himself. The camera began to shift to the right, and Sim’s face edged towards the far side of the screen. ‘No,’ Callanach shouted. ‘It’s just about to happen. Freeze the frame or something.’ The editor tapped the space bar. Callanach searched the picture but found nothing new. ‘Let it play,’ he said. Another tap and away slid Sim’s face, about to shift fully out of frame as he seemed to bump into the body of someone passing in front of him. ‘Stop! Right there. That’s it.’

Callanach’s mind filled in the blanks. The subtle shift of a body through the crowd, slipping the knife out of a pocket, pulling off the sheath, sliding the razor-sharp blade along Sim’s naked stomach as they passed, ready with a cloth to clean up and avoid bloodying anyone else. Slipping quietly away before the victim had hit the floor. They would have moved in a zigzag through the crowd. Taking a straight course through the masses, directly out of the area, would have been too obvious.

‘Play it back again,’ Callanach ordered. On a second view, it was clearer that Sim’s head hadn’t even turned. There had been no distraction, no conversation, no recognition. Had there not been the movement of a few blurred pixels, dark in colour, vague in shape, passing just in front of the lower half of Sim’s face before he’d fallen, it might have been murder by ghost. ‘You’re going to tell me we can’t improve that section of the picture, aren’t you?’ The editor simply raised one eyebrow. ‘I need the best quality print-off you can get of all the frames when his face and that blur are in sight.’

Tripp entered, holding a document that he was reading as he walked.

‘Forensics, sir. Just came through by email. Nothing on it.’

‘What do you mean nothing?’ Callanach asked.

‘Only what you already found out at the autopsy. Victim had no drugs in his system, trace amounts of alcohol. Healthy, no previous injuries except what looks like a childhood broken leg. He was clean. Cause of death as you’d expect,’ Tripp said.

‘Any new information since the press conference?’ Callanach asked.

Tripp looked edgy. ‘You’ve not heard, sir? You turned your mobile off again, then, did you?’ Callanach’s hand went to his pocket and came out again clutching a black screen. ‘Someone started a media site, people have been uploading every bit of festival footage from their phones. There are thousands of hours to view. Other than that, no useful leads. Then there’s the public outcry. I think DCI Begbie may have barricaded himself into his office. Media relations have been trying to get hold of you. Some journalist wants an interview.’

‘Do you think it will help?’

‘Not my call, sir. But I think one of the papers dubbed you Police Scotland’s answer to Brad Pitt, so maybe you won’t want to …’ Tripp’s voice faded out.

‘That’ll be all, thank you Tripp. Is the DCI available?’

‘He said only for people with good news,’ was Tripp’s parting reply.

‘Seems like we’re all going to have a disappointing day then,’ Callanach muttered.

He walked into Begbie’s office to find the Chief handing a bundle of files to a plain-clothes officer he hadn’t seen before.

Begbie pointed to a seat which Callanach decided not to bother taking.

‘No idea how long we’ll be here, I’m afraid,’ the plain-clothes officer continued, ignoring Callanach’s presence. ‘Obviously we’ll be working with your regional squad. We may also need a few of your men for on-the-ground inquiries.’

‘I’m afraid that as of yesterday all my lot are taken,’ Begbie growled, eyes closed. ‘Unless Callanach here has some unexpected news for me.’ Callanach stared out of the window. ‘Well then, you can have what office space you need, all the facilities, local knowledge to your heart’s content. Manpower is your problem.’

The officer made a non-committal noise, which Begbie ignored as he flicked the switch on the small kettle he kept in his room, presumably to minimise the need to walk the few yards along the corridor to make tea. Callanach took the opportunity to study the newcomer. The accent was recognisable as upper-class English, and the corresponding attitude was clear from the tone of his voice plus the slight upward angle at which he held his head.

‘Right, I’ll be getting along then. We’ll review our requirements and revisit the manpower issue at a later date, DCI Begbie.’ He left without a thank you, not quite bothering to ensure the door was shut. Callanach finished the job for him.

‘Anything I should know about, sir?’ Callanach asked.

‘Not today,’ Begbie muttered. ‘Got a suspect yet?’

‘Dark hair. Short, slight build, but that’s a guess as the crowd wasn’t disturbed by the murderer passing through. Could be male or female. My best description would be something along the lines of Professional Grade Murderer.’

‘Thank you Detective Inspector, be sure never to repeat those words in front of another living being. DI Turner is currently in her office trying to organise an investigation into a man she has, much like yourself, already named inappropriately. You may have a Professional Grade Murderer on your hands; Turner has The Crusher. Almost certainly male, heavy, strong, brutal and a raving psychopath if the autopsy details are anything to go by.’

‘Two in one night? Isn’t that unusual for this area?’

‘Unusual? It’s a disaster of monumental proportions, is what it is! Do you know what the headlines said this morning?’ Callanach still hadn’t braved the papers. ‘No? Well, let me halve my burden by sharing it with you. “Not safe on the streets, not safe in our homes. Edinburgh’s Night of Monstrosities”. Not catchy but pretty bloody appropriate, don’t you think?’ Begbie threw himself into the chair behind his desk so hard that it skidded backwards half a metre. ‘And I don’t have the money in the budget to pay for any overtime for the remainder of the year! Do something about it, man. I’ve got two bodies in the morgue and I daren’t so much as answer the phone.’

Callanach didn’t wait to have Begbie vent any further. It sounded as if Ava was having an even worse day than him. He wandered in the direction of her office for some mutual bemoaning of fates, not bothering to knock. As he opened the door there was a sudden parting of bodies, Ava stepping quickly backwards and banging her hip on the corner of her desk, the man she was with looking more annoyed than embarrassed to have been interrupted. Callanach recognised him as the plain-clothes officer who had recently departed the Chief’s office.

‘Begbie didn’t introduce us. Seems he’s having rather a busy day. I’m DCI Edgar,’ he said.

‘Callanach,’ he replied, holding out his hand and shaking the detective chief inspector’s. ‘I interrupted. Apologies.’

‘No, you didn’t. What was it, Luc?’ Ava asked, brushing hair away from her face.

‘Thought I’d just see how you’re doing. The Chief said you’ve picked up a rough one.’

‘That’s the best kind, isn’t it?’ Edgar chipped in.

Ava made her way to the other side of her desk and sat down.

‘Joseph’s here from the National Cyber Crime Unit in London. An attack is imminent and there’s intelligence that it’s being organised from Edinburgh.’

‘Probably best to limit the spread of the information, Ava. I gather Callanach has matters of his own to worry about.’

‘I do,’ Callanach said, ‘so I’ll catch you later. Good to meet you.’ He closed Ava’s door, grimacing, and wiping the palm of his right hand on his trousers as he went.

Chapter Five

‘Some bastard leaked the autopsy summary!’ Ava yelled, slamming Callanach’s door and throwing herself into a chair. ‘Which means either someone in Ailsa’s office or a police officer here is responsible, as if this wasn’t bad enough already.’

‘Have you slept?’ Callanach asked.

‘Listen to this.’ Ava ignored his question, tearing open the newspaper she was clutching and beginning to read. ‘“Helen Lott, a forty-six year old palliative care nurse, was deliberately crushed to death in her own bedroom.” Of all the monsters I’ve ever dealt with, who would want to kill a nurse who looks after terminally ill patients? “Injuries included multiple fractured ribs and sternum, a collapsed windpipe and severe damage to internal organs, resulting in internal bleeding and asphyxiation. A neighbour alerted police after loud noises were heard coming from the property late at night. The autopsy report suggests that the murder was torturous and orchestrated to cause as much pain to the victim as possible. Mrs Lott will be sadly missed by work colleagues and patients alike, who have described her as nothing short of an angel who had dedicated her life to nursing.” Did you know there’s graffiti about the murders emerging on walls across the city? God only knows who started that off. And we’ve just been notified that concerned citizens are planning a Take-Back-The-Night-style protest march. Like we don’t have enough policing to do already. What the fuck is going on?’