Perfect Crime. Helen Fields
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was a thumping mess of pain and she suspected the wound on her leg might require a dose of antibiotics in spite of Callanach’s admirable clean-up job, but all she really wanted was paracetamol and another hot bath. Climbing the few steps to Callanach’s front door, reaching out to press the buzzer for his flat, she sighed as her mobile began to ring. Caller ID showed her DS Tripp was on the end of the line.
The day’s events had wiped her mind blank and right now, she was supposed to be at the pub celebrating two of her team’s promotions. If she took the call, she was going to have to make an excuse. She certainly couldn’t reveal where she actually was and what she was there for. God, it never rained but it dumped an entire fucking ocean on you, she thought, ending the incoming call. She’d have concocted a proper excuse by morning, and there was every chance that both Tripp and Graham’s hangovers would be painful enough that they wouldn’t be talking much anyway.
Her phone began to ring again before she’d had a chance to put the mobile back in her bag. Ava stared at it. DS Tripp was perhaps the most sensible officer on her crew and when you combined that with his good manners, there was no way he’d call twice in rapid succession simply to remind her about a few swift ones after work. She gritted her teeth and answered, hoping beyond hope that Overbeck hadn’t read her email and was demanding her presence back at the station for an update.
‘Turner,’ Ava said. ‘What’s up, Tripp?’
‘Ma’am, you’re needed at 278b Easter Road. There’s a body. I’m on my way there now. Apparently it’s a bit chaotic,’ Tripp said.
‘Okay.’ Ava was already pulling her car keys back out of her pocket. ‘Where’s DI Graham?’
‘Still at the nursing home working with Scenes of Crime, trying to figure out which other patients, medics and visitors had access to the deceased’s room. I’ve been trying to get in touch with DI Callanach but he’s not responding at the moment.’
Ava looked up at the window above her and hoped Callanach was okay. He’d had a bad day and as someone who’d been accused of misconduct before, she wasn’t sure how well he was going to handle a second incident.
‘I’ll find him,’ Ava said. ‘We’ll both be there shortly.’
Finally, she got to press the buzzer. Callanach’s answer was simply to allow her access. He was standing holding his flat door open by the time she got to the top of the stairs.
‘I’ve made food,’ he said. ‘I assume you haven’t eaten anything since leaving here this morning.’
‘Will it keep? We’re wanted at Easter Road. You can drive. My leg hurts like hell.’
‘Are you kidding? I can’t go. DI Graham was right. You have to suspend me, Ava. If Overbeck decides you broke protocol this could turn out worse for you than for me, and I don’t want to be responsible for that.’
‘Have you written up your statement as I asked?’ Ava demanded.
‘Yes, of course, but there are circumstances …’
‘And have you taken part in any criminal activity or conspired to commit any crime in relation either to the crime scene or the victim?’ she continued.
‘Ava, you know I haven’t …’
‘Good. Then suspending you is simply going to create endless gossip and speculation. It’ll go on your record and, frankly, I don’t want to be without my most experienced DI at the moment. Now, someone’s dead and we have a job to do, so let’s go. Also, do you have any more paracetamol?’ she added, softening her tone.
Callanach smiled at her. ‘Sure,’ he said, disappearing off in the direction of his kitchen and reappearing with pills and a bottle of water.
They made it in under ten minutes, leaving the car down the road, one side of which had been blocked off as a tent was erected to give some privacy at street level. Easter Road led out of the city towards Leith. The area was suffering a sad decline, and the three-storey housing featured sheets hung in place of curtains and window frames that had lost more paint than remained on them. The flat in question was on the second floor with a shared entrance hall.
Ava and Callanach donned white suits, shoe covers, gloves and hats, and prepared to enter. A sulphuric, metallic smell gave the situation away from the first-floor landing. The body had been there a while. The weather was so cold that unless the flat had been heated to an extreme, the smell would have taken a while to get so strong.
Ailsa Lambert appeared at the front door of the flat, talking brusquely to a member of her team and handing over a camera.
‘You ready for us to come in and take a look?’ Ava asked her.
‘Go ahead,’ Ailsa replied shortly.
Ava and Callanach shared a brief look. If Ailsa was out of sorts, then whatever was waiting for them had to be bad.
The bathroom was tiny and the forensics team cleared out to allow them access. Ava stood with her back against the window and Callanach spread his legs either side of the toilet so they could both look down into the bath. Tripp appeared in the doorway as they were taking stock.
‘Who reported it?’ Ava asked him.
‘A neighbour,’ Tripp replied. ‘The smell had been getting worse over two weeks, so he finally called the police.’
‘Two weeks?’ Ava hissed. ‘Are you kidding?’
‘Afraid not. I suspect the neighbour might be selling some weed on an informal scale judging by the smell of his own apartment and the fact that while I was talking to him, his mobile rang repeatedly. He’d obviously just cleaned off every surface in his flat but neglected to cover up the scales on the floor in the corner.’
‘So he didn’t want the police in here until it got to the stage where the stench was actually affecting his clientele, is that it?’
‘Something like that, ma’am,’ Tripp replied. ‘The pathologist confirmed the body’s been here at least two weeks, more likely three. Judging by the photos on the walls, I’d say the deceased is the owner and resident, a Mrs Hawksmith.’
As one, they all looked down at the woman’s body. Mrs Hawksmith was past middle age but not yet old. Each of her ankles was bound by a cable tie to a tap pipe, below the handle, at the end of the bath, leaving her legs splayed open, slightly bent, and flopped against the sides. Her wrists were bound with handcuffs over her stomach. A deep wound – Ava estimated three inches long – ran across the inner bend of her left elbow with another, shorter one, on the same wrist. Her head lolled against the side nearest them, eyes open, mouth agape, as if she were appealing for help.
The corpse was bloated, limbs swollen and hard, a dark red colour with brown patches. The putrefaction gases were appalling, even though the doors had been open for some time. She was a large woman but not obese. Her tattoos were visible but not clear through the discolouration of her skin and there were no other obvious wounds. The goriest of tidemarks was a muddy-crimson line around the rim of the tub and the plug remained in place.
‘The bath was full when she bled out,’ Ava said. ‘The water must have leaked out slowly in the days that followed. Has anyone found the key to the handcuffs?’ she asked Tripp, leaning over to take a closer look at the cuffs.
They weren’t police or military issue, nor were they the joke shop sort with the button that could be pressed to spring them open. A key had to be fitted into a central slot to release the wearer, which would have been possible if the key was within grabbing distance.
‘No key as yet,’ Tripp said. ‘You can get those sort of cuffs online or in sex shops. They’re bondage-type regalia. Maybe she was tomming.’
‘Okay, get asking the neighbours if there were men – or women, for that matter – coming to the flat at odd hours, or if Mrs Hawksmith was coming and going at unusual times. Does she have any previous convictions?’
‘Still checking.