Perfect Death. Helen Fields
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to take place at a French restaurant this year – a sarcastic homage to DI Callanach, she imagined – his half-French half-Scottish ancestry still the butt of as many jokes as when he’d joined Police Scotland from Interpol a year earlier. Even his accent had paled into insignificance compared to the mickey-taking he’d had to endure when his squad had found out about his history as a model. Callanach had the sort of face it was hard not to stare at, and women regularly did. His dark eyes, long eyelashes, strong jaw and olive skin were never destined to fit in with the crowd, a fact Ava found constantly amusing when they socialised. Or when they used to socialise, Ava corrected herself. Since her promotion they’d played an awkward game of saying they really should do something together soon, never defining what or when.
She had one hand on her phone to call Callanach for an update as it rang in her fingers. She snatched it to her ear. ‘Turner,’ she said.
‘Goodness me, could you not answer the phone like that, please? I’d rather not have people contacting the Major Investigation Team feeling as if you’re mid-crisis before they’ve even introduced themselves. We’re not mid-crisis, are we?’ Detective Superintendent Overbeck asked.
‘No, ma’am,’ Ava said. ‘Sorry. I was just about to …’
‘Good, good. I have the shortlisted applicants for the open Detective Inspector position. I thought you should have a chance to look through them before we interview so I’ll email the list to you this afternoon. If you could let me have your thoughts some time tomorrow that would be helpful. You were invited to drinks with the City Fellows this evening but I gather you’re not attending. Why is that?’
‘Oh, that’s this evening? I’ve got a physiotherapist appointment. Didn’t want to take any time off work for it, so I arranged it in the evening. It’ll be another month if I cancel tonight,’ Ava said, glad the Superintendent was quizzing her by phone rather than in person. In spite of years watching other people lie convincingly during interviews, Ava still hadn’t honed that particular skill.
‘Fucking right you shouldn’t take time off work for a quick massage. Too late to change it now I suppose, but in future you need to remember that this is how the game’s played. Don’t miss the next one. And keep the overtime levels low again next month. We’re within budget for once, which means I’m not getting shit from the board. I’d like to keep it that way,’ Overbeck sniped.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Ava said, already talking to a dead line. She dropped Dr Ailsa Lambert, Edinburgh’s Chief Pathologist, an email asking for an update on the body at Arthur’s Seat, then allowed herself the guilty pleasure of checking what films were on at the cinema. She preferred the reruns of old classics that occasionally made the late night showings, but right now she’d settle for anything mindless with a large popcorn. Luck was with her. There was an 11pm showing of Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in The West. Ava had a date with Charles Bronson, which was an improvement on another night home alone, and was close to a lottery win compared with the City Fellows’ drinks party. There was tedious, then there was being called ‘dearie’ by eighty-year-old men who felt entitled to ask you to fetch them another drink just because you happened to be a different gender to them, and who wanted to talk golf handicaps while you stood silently and looked impressed. Detective Superintendent Overbeck might have become adept at playing those promotion inducing games, but Ava was both less tolerant and less ambitious.
Her door opened again and DS Lively reappeared.
‘Would you give me a break?’ Ava sighed. ‘If you’ve come to taunt me about the coffee, can I recommend …’ She caught the look on his face. The usually sour, perpetually hard-done-by grimace was slack but his neck was drawn in tight, his throat working hard but producing no sound. DS Lively was, she realised, doing his damnedest not to cry. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘It’s DCI Begbie,’ Lively said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ava stood up, knowing what the look on her detective sergeant’s face meant, needing to hear him say the words anyway. ‘Stop apologising, Lively, and just say it.’
‘Ma’am, I’m not sure what happened. His car’s been found. Too late to do anything. The Chief’s dead.’
Ava felt a stab of pain in her chest. She was winded, crushed, the sentiment producing a remarkable physical effect. Her former commanding officer and decades-long friend was gone.
Out at Gipsy Brae recreation ground, north of the city, the wind sliced sideways. It carried away voices and notebooks, whipping hair and leaving the landscape stark. The road had been cordoned off before the entrance to the park. Ava sat in her parked car, delaying the walk to where Begbie’s vehicle was lit up in the distance. The recently retired Detective Chief Inspector George Begbie had been a policeman’s policeman. Crabby at times, long-suffering, straight to the point and a champion of victims. In all the years Ava had worked with him, she never once saw him lose sight of what mattered. Somewhere at the heart of every case, someone had been hurt or had lost something. The Chief had fought for those people with all his considerable might, ignoring the brass bearing down from above, paying no attention to the press, oblivious to the politicians. He’d been as sharp as a pin and never expected a single officer to work more hours than he himself put in.
It was Begbie who had saved Ava from the misogyny that might have cost her a career as a detective, giving her a post on the Major Investigation Team, promoting her against more obvious candidates, even suspending her not long ago while her name was cleared regarding a breach of protocol. She knew it had hurt him to do that. They had evolved from colleagues to firm friends over late nights at crime scenes and early mornings when they were short-staffed. Even as a junior officer, Begbie had never excluded her from meetings, seeing her potential. If the rest of the squad liked and admired him, Ava had loved him like a favourite uncle. One who had occasionally shouted at her and made her work three days straight without sleep but, nonetheless, he was most of the reason she’d stuck with a career in policing. She didn’t want to believe he was gone.
Ava locked her car and went on foot, wondering why George Begbie, who favoured warm pubs and comfy chairs, had chosen this barren place to say his final goodbye to the world. Staring out across the North Sea with Cramond Island to his left, Granton Harbour on the right, and nothing but vast grey skies reflected on icy water, it was a horribly bleak ending for such an oversized personality.
Ava hung back at the top of the small road that led down to the sea allowing access for caravans and maintenance trucks, now also to Begbie’s ancient Land Rover. He had parked it away from the footpaths, facing the waves. No one would voluntarily have gone close to a lone male sitting in a vehicle, especially such an intimidatingly large figure. Ava put on a white suit, shoe covers and gloves, for what little good it would do. A determination of suicide had already been made, subject to autopsy. A snake of piping had been disconnected from the car window and lay still on the grass, malevolent even now. Tenting had been erected to protect the scene – more from prying eyes than to preserve evidence – and the busy silhouettes of Scenes of Crime Officers were bustling.
Walking down the gentle grass slope, hands in pockets, Ava was mindful that the light had gone from the day and soon a full lighting rig would be required to process the scene. A young Sergeant, his uniform immaculate, face a picture of concern, walked towards her.
‘Do you have your ID on you, please?’ he said.
Ava handed it over, too tired to explain who she was.
‘Major Investigation Team?’ the officer asked. ‘I’d hardly have thought this was your territory.’
‘Sergeant, if you’ve finished telling a Detective Chief Inspector where she should be and what she should be doing, perhaps you could chase that dog walker over there off this grass. And you address me as ma’am or DCI. Now get going.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, pulling his coat up around his neck and heading off into the wind.