Perfect Prey. Helen Fields

      ‘All right then. Now call if you have any questions. And be careful with this case. Whoever killed Helen Lott is operating beyond the extremes of violence that even we are familiar with.’

      Ava was dealing with a terrible case, Callanach thought. Close-up police work, dealing with levels of extreme brutality, could be too much for anyone. He pretended to be busy looking through the Sim Thorburn autopsy photos that Ailsa had left for him, but studied Ava peripherally. She was tired and not herself. Her best friend Natasha was away, spending a semester at a university in the States as a guest lecturer. Ava didn’t have her usual support network available and Callanach had been too distracted to notice. If he was honest with himself, avoiding Ava might be closer to the truth. He waited until Ailsa left.

      ‘We still haven’t christened that fishing rod you gave me,’ Callanach said. ‘When this is over and you and I finally get some time off, how about I take you up on your offer of showing me the lochs?’

      ‘I’m not sure I can think about that now,’ Ava said. ‘Too much going on.’

      ‘I understand,’ Callanach said. ‘Then how about a movie tonight? We could both do with thinking about something else for a while.’

      A figure appeared beside them. Callanach hadn’t been aware of being watched whilst he’d been talking to Ava, but DCI Joe Edgar had obviously caught the gist of their conversation.

      ‘That’s nice. Always good to see work colleagues supporting each other. I’m afraid Ava and I are having dinner with her parents tonight though. I haven’t seen Percy and Miranda for years. Can’t wait to tell them what I’ve been up to,’ Edgar said. ‘And I’ve moved that young DC of yours over to my incident room. He’ll do better mixing with my team full-time. He’ll have to buck up though. We keep pretty high standards. Hope it won’t be too much of a shock for him.’

      ‘He’ll be fine,’ Callanach said, a tiny muscle at the corner of his lower jaw flexing. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate Tripp.’

      ‘Good, we need them bright and on the ball for the stuff we have to deal with. See you later, darling,’ he said, giving Ava a pat on the shoulder. ‘Callanach,’ he nodded on his way out.

      Callanach shoved his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath as he watched Edgar leave.

      ‘He’s just a friend,’ Ava said, shaking the shoulder Edgar had touched.

      ‘Dinner with your parents? Thought you couldn’t stand that sort of thing. Or them, for that matter.’

      ‘What the hell would you know about me and my parents? God, could you just not comment? For once? You know, Luc, you’re the most closed-off person I’ve ever met and you’re lecturing me on my family relationships. You’ve got some nerve.’ She paused, staring at him. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

      Callanach stood still until she’d walked round a corner. Keeping a steady smile on his face and his pace measured, he went back to his office and shut his door. Then he slammed one foot hard into the base of his desk. The wood splintered. His toes ached. He grabbed his coat and headed out into the city.

      It was a long way to The Meadows from the station but he needed the air.

      There was a greater uniformed police presence on the streets than usual. Understandable in the circumstances. Of course, if there was another attack, the chances of the police being in the right place at the right time was still highly unlikely, but people felt better when there were uniforms around. The reality was that for all the protests and outrage, life went on. Though not for Sim Thorburn’s girlfriend, not for a while, anyway. And not for Helen Lott’s extended family, who’d made statements on the news about her terrible passing.

      Perhaps the most visual scar left on the city was the graffiti. It had started with one scrawling that an eagle-eyed news reporter had captured the day after the first murder. Callanach made his way to it – a pilgrimage of sorts. Near the centre of the city, where Guthrie Street emerged onto Cowgate, on the curved wall of a hostel in bright blue paint had been left the immortal words, ‘A Charity Worker!’ The fact that the enraged graffiti artist had bothered to punctuate the phrase spoke volumes. The press had embraced the simplicity of expression and adopted the image as their own banner of social indignation.

      Sim Thorburn wasn’t a drug dealer who’d sold one tab too many. This was no illegal immigrant with an unpronounceable name, or prostitute long since unrecognisable to friends and family. This was a symbol of Scotland’s heart and soul. The very innocence of the victim was a crime in itself, the press had made that clear. Callanach walked until he found the tag. Below it was the statement, ‘A hospice nurse’, no punctuation this time and the writing was smaller, in red.

      From there the copycats had taken over, using the walls in every part of the city to vent their fury at the violation of their peaceful lives. Callanach couldn’t blame them. Such violence was shocking. He’d investigated many terrible cases – child sex trafficking, drugs tested on Eastern European orphans, weapons experiments dressed up as religious wars – they had all come down to money. But this felt like something else. Perhaps just the sheer hell of it. That was what he saw in the words left on the city walls. Futility.

       Chapter Eight

      At home, a note had been stuck under his door.

      ‘Knock for me. Made way too much sausage casserole. Will keep it warm. Bunny.’

      Callanach contemplated slipping into his apartment silently, before realising he’d spend the whole evening feeling guilty and rude, and opted for the path of least resistance. Bunny opened the door as he was knocking it.

      ‘Brilliant timing!’ she said. ‘I was just coming to see if you were home yet. Did you get my note? Of course you did, silly me, that’s why you’re here. Come on in. I was opening a bottle of red. Much nicer not to be drinking alone.’

      Callanach murmured something noncommittal about how tired he was feeling but by then Bunny was pulling out a chair for him at a small table and putting a glass in his hand. The wine was cheap but drinkable. He was a grape snob – part of the French culture he’d inherited from his mother – but the food smelled good and he was hungry after walking miles around the city.

      ‘So I finally tidied up, thank goodness. Still got a few boxes to go, but it’s looking more like home. There’s tomato sauce if you want it. I can’t eat without it.’

      ‘I’ll pass,’ Callanach said. ‘So you’re settling in then?’ he managed, remembering his manners and the need to make small talk.

      ‘Oh yeah, been at it all day. And I’m having a flat-warming party next Saturday. I can introduce you to my friends. You free?’

      ‘I’m not sure,’ Callanach said, deciding to be at work whether he was needed or not. ‘I’m pretty much always on call. Never know what’s going to come up. Sounds like fun though.’

      ‘Oh, but I’ve told them all about you,’ Bunny said, piling more sausages in a beefy tomato sauce onto Callanach’s plate, and telling him every detail of her best friends’ lives as they made their way through dinner. ‘God, I nearly forgot. Some woman was at your door earlier. I did wonder what was going on, as she didn’t knock or anything, just stood there like she was trying to figure something out. She jumped a mile when I put my head out.’

      Callanach’s stomach tensed. He put down his fork. If Astrid had reappeared he’d have to move. There was no way he could face being constantly followed again.

      ‘Did you catch her name?’ Callanach asked Bunny.

      ‘She didn’t really say much. Muttered something about how it wasn’t important. She’d see you tomorrow.’

      ‘Can you describe her?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘Sure, average