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
