woman tried to speak. Her mouth worked itself open and shut but nothing came from it. Uniformed officers appeared, Ava looking at them in a way that made it clear they should never expect promotion after letting members of the public burst onto a crime scene.
‘Move these people to somewhere private and secure. Look after them. Make sure they have access to medical assistance if required and ascertain their relationship to the deceased, please,’ Ava said. The uniformed officers wrapped blankets around the shoulders of the two obviously grieving people, and persuaded them gently towards a vehicle.
Ava pinched the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb, grinding her teeth.
‘Can we not get a frigging break? Bodies are piling up and we seem to be the last to find out what’s happening,’ she muttered. ‘How in God’s name did they know where to find us?’
Callanach pulled out his phone and internet searched the terms ‘body’, ‘Edinburgh’, and ‘breaking news’. It took just seconds. Various pages popped up with the story. As yet, not one news agency had been stupid enough to risk prosecution by posting the shared photos of the dead girl, but there was a clear description of both the girl and the crime scene, right down to the details of what she’d been wearing.
‘A young woman has been found dead in a Valleyfield Street dumpster,’ the first article began. ‘She is believed to be in her twenties, with long blonde hair and wearing a scouting uniform. Of particular note is the multicoloured, knitted scarf around her neck. Police have not yet issued a statement or confirmed her identity.’
‘Ma’am,’ a uniformed constable said, keeping his distance from Ava. ‘That’s Mr and Mrs Balcaskie. They’ve confirmed the deceased is their daughter, Emily. She’s twenty-four years of age and attended a scout meeting here last night in that building over the road. When she didn’t come home they assumed she’d decided to stay with friends in the city. It was the description of the scarf on the news reports that made them realise it was her.’
‘Thank you, Constable,’ Ava said. ‘I’ll be over to speak with them personally in a moment.’
Ailsa took photos as Ava and Callanach stared in at the corpse. The knitted scarf was wrapped several times around the girl’s neck, pulled so tight that the fibres were straining, the ends of it shoved hard into her mouth. Her eyes were bulging, the whites stained dark red from haemorrhaging.
‘What’s happening, Luc? Four murders in two weeks? It’s as if a pack of wild animals has been let loose in the city.’ Ava wiped a tear away, keeping her back carefully towards her squad. Callanach hadn’t known her long, as friendships went, but he never thought he’d see her emotional at a crime scene. She was a career police officer – a fiercely tough, professional one. He wanted to stretch a hand out, to give some comfort, but DCI Edgar’s words squirmed in his guts. Perhaps Ava did need some space, want to keep the boundaries of their friendship rigid and clear.
‘Sometimes these things all happen at once. There’s rarely an explanation,’ he said. ‘I’ll report to Overbeck for you. There’ll have to be a press conference soon and a lid needs to be put on media coverage. How did they get hold of photos of the body so quickly?’ he asked.
‘Didn’t you hear?’ Ava asked. ‘It was the press who reported the body. They alerted us. Even gave us the address. Someone wanted her found, and with as much media circus as they could rouse. Tell Overbeck I’ll call later to update her in person. And if you bump into Edgar, explain that I’ll be busy for the next twenty-four hours, would you?’
‘Sure,’ Callanach said, taking a step away, his mind made up about whether or not it was appropriate to offer support beyond the procedural or administrative. It was clear that DCI Edgar was already filling that gap. He left Ava making her way towards the couple who should never have faced the tragic indignity of hearing the news of their daughter’s death via the media, regrouped with Salter and headed back to the police station.
Callanach headed straight for Begbie’s office where Superintendent Overbeck had temporarily set up shop. She was on the phone when he entered, cooing a mixture of ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ into the mouthpiece in a reassuringly soothing manner. Five minutes later, she put the phone down and looked up.
‘Sit down, Callanach. I’ve got gridlock across a square mile of the city, the press want to hang me out to dry and I’m being chased by a team of American fucking documentary makers who want to do a two-hour special on the murder craze sweeping out of control on Edinburgh’s streets.’
‘Ma’am, I’ve just—’
‘Don’t speak, Inspector,’ she said, taking out a mirror and lipstick. ‘Your current job is to accompany me and not to bollocks anything up. We are going down to give a press statement now. The ladies and gentlemen of the media are to be regarded as our friends – the sort you exchange Christmas cards with but are always too busy to actually see in person. We will appear obliging whilst giving them precisely nothing. We have an opportunity with these cases. We can solve them quickly, providing justice and relief to the families of the deceased, and come out of this acclaimed and heroic. Or they will continue to blight Scotland, in which case you and DI Turner can take an endless vacation in the back of beyond as I scapegoat you for incompetence. Either way, I will not be made the whipping girl for any monumentally shit-storming failure to protect the general public from the lunatic killers currently rampaging unchecked. Do you get it?’ She applied liberal lipstick, raising one appraising eyebrow in her mirror. ‘Good. Off we go then.’
The conference room was buzzing. It was hard to imagine how any more cameras, microphones or bodies could possibly have been shoe-horned in. Unlike past press conferences with the well-worn figure of DCI Begbie at the helm, when Overbeck stalked in with her high heels, perfect hair, and an attitude you could use to cut sheet metal, there was an immediate silence. Introductions and formal announcement done, the superintendent began spinning.
‘I’m personally overseeing the Major Investigation Team in the absence of DCI Begbie, and I shall be relying heavily on Detective Inspector Turner and Detective Inspector Callanach to bring these cases to a swift and successful close. Rest assured that I will not allow my officers to sleep until these killers are behind bars. As you know, we now have four open murder cases and I will not tolerate anything but the highest of standards being applied. We owe that to the deceased and their families and loved ones, who are constantly in our thoughts. In the meantime, we appreciate your continuing support and may, at times, ask for your understanding and discretion. I’ve worked closely with many of you before,’ Overbeck managed a suitably sad-looking smile, ‘and I hope you know that where I can release information, I will.’
‘Superintendent, can you confirm the identity of the latest victim?’ the question was shouted across the sea of journalists’ heads.
‘Emily Balcaskie was found dead this morning. As you all know by now, her body was found in Valleyfield Street. She was a primary school teacher at Bonaly. Last night, in her capacity as a scout leader, she attended a meeting and failed to return home afterwards. We believe, although the investigation is in its most preliminary stages, that she was walking through The Meadows towards her car when she was approached. It seems likely that she was killed in the park and then her body was returned to Valleyfield Street.’
‘Are all four killings the work of one serial killer, Superintendent?’ a different voice yelled. Overbeck didn’t even blink, Callanach had to give her credit for that. Nor did she pause before answering in a silky smooth voice that wouldn’t have been amiss in a chocolate advert.
‘The methods used in the murders of Sim Thorburn, Helen Lott, Michael Swan and Emily Balcaskie have all been wildly
