and asphyxiation. A neighbour alerted police after loud noises were heard coming from the property late at night. The autopsy report suggests that the murder was torturous and orchestrated to cause as much pain to the victim as possible. Mrs Lott will be sadly missed by work colleagues and patients alike, who have described her as nothing short of an angel who had dedicated her life to nursing.” Did you know there’s graffiti about the murders emerging on walls across the city? God only knows who started that off. And we’ve just been notified that concerned citizens are planning a Take-Back-The-Night-style protest march. Like we don’t have enough policing to do already. What the fuck is going on?’
‘Have you reported the leak?’ Callanach asked.
‘Of course I have. We’ve got two officers interviewing anyone with access to the information at the city mortuary, and a member of our technical services team is checking the digital route the document took from there to us to make sure the breach didn’t come from Police Scotland’s end. On top of that, all the usual media outlets have been contacted to see if anyone approached them offering the article for money. No joy there so far. Why is the first thing that happens always the last thing you need?’ Ava huffed.
‘You want coffee?’ he asked.
Ava shook her head. ‘Sorry about yesterday. With Joe. It was …’ her voice dwindled.
‘None of my business,’ Callanach said.
‘Joe and I were friends at University. He phoned me a few weeks ago to say he was likely to be posted here. You know how sometimes you just pick things up where you left them as if no time had passed at all …’
‘Forget it. You want to get something to eat on the way home? If I don’t get a shower soon my clothes are going to sue me for hygiene abuse.’
Ava looked down at her hands.
‘It’s fine,’ Callanach said, Ava’s unspoken plans hanging in the air between them. ‘I’ll catch you tomorrow. And don’t worry about the papers. New story every day, remember?’
That turned out to be good advice. In spite of the endless coverage afforded by two murders in one night, the media headlines the next day focused on an altogether different target.
The largest incident room was taken up with an array of well-dressed plain-clothes officers, freshly washed and scrubbed, who obviously had not been up all night watching endless mobile phone footage and scanning photos with no results.
‘Something happen overnight?’ Callanach asked Sergeant Lively as he passed by.
‘Fuckin’ snobby idiots strutting around, acting like they own the place. Hunting a bunch of nerds no one in their right mind gives a damn about. Makes you look almost like a frigging native.’
‘Look almost like a frigging native, sir,’ Callanach reminded him. Lively sniggered.
‘Aye, whatever.’ Lively wandered off, stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. Callanach and he hadn’t hit it off since day one. A long-in-the-tooth sergeant with decades in the job, Lively had his own preferred candidate pegged to fill the role of Detective Inspector when Callanach had transferred in. It was a fair assumption that Lively had overseen a campaign of piss-taking posters and nasty rumours that had undermined Callanach until he nailed his first case with Police Scotland. He and the detective sergeant had finally progressed from coming close to blows, to tolerating one another, although the verbal abuse hadn’t stopped. At least the influx of Scotland Yard’s finest had provided a favourable comparison.
Callanach’s phone was ringing as he reached his office. He took the call as he threw his jacket onto the desk. It was too hot for any sane person to be wearing more than shorts and a T-shirt. Shirts and ties were one of the drawbacks of promotion.
‘Callanach,’ he said.
‘DI Callanach, I’ve left several messages for you,’ was the opening line. ‘This is Lance Proudfoot. I’m the editor of an online news and current affairs blog. I was hoping to get a statement about the festival murder.’
‘How did you get this number?’ Callanach asked.
‘Switchboard put me through.’
‘That’ll be a career-shortening decision then,’ Callanach said, imagining the conversation he’d be having later with the idiot who had answered the phone. ‘No statements. You had everything we’re giving out at the press conference.’
‘To be fair to the young lady on your switchboard, I may have given the impression that I was a family member,’ Lance said. Callanach sighed. ‘And your media office occasionally forgets to invite the online press to your conferences, hence the need for a certain level of … inventiveness about sourcing information.’
‘I’m not sure you and I are equally content to supplement the word inventiveness for the term lying, Mr Proudfoot. And I’m afraid I have to get on with some work,’ Callanach said.
‘So you can’t comment on last night’s hacking scandal either then? Only I heard that Scotland Yard had sent a crack team of investigators to Edinburgh.’ The last phrase was heavily laced with sarcasm. It was all Callanach could do to stop himself agreeing. Instead, he opened a news site on his mobile and scanned the headline. A group calling themselves The Unsung had hacked into the accounts of various bankers and investors recently awarded some jaw-dropping bonuses, and transferred the funds. ‘Brilliant bit of anti-establishmentarianism,’ Lance continued.
‘Looks like plain old theft to me,’ Callanach replied.
‘I beg to differ. The hackers transferred the funds into the accounts of several good causes, anything from children’s hospices to animal shelters. Only took twenty-five per cent of each bonus, too, so they weren’t even greedy about it. They were just making a point about the obscenity of the highest paid compared to the desperate underfunding of non-profit-making causes,’ Lance said.
‘Well, it’s not a Major Investigation Team case, I’m afraid, so yet again, no comment,’ Callanach said, itching to put the phone down, only the journalist on the other end was proving remarkably hard to get rid of politely.
‘Ah, so they have called in the cavalry. Doesn’t surprise me at all,’ Lance said. Callanach mentally kicked himself for his indiscretion. ‘Take benefits away from single mums and the disabled and there’s not one politician available for comment. Nick some cash from a load of fat cats and the government mobilises.’
‘It’s still a criminal offence. We don’t get to make judgement calls about the morality of the crimes we investigate,’ Callanach said.
‘You’ve got to admit it was clever though. Now the losers have to report each unauthorised money transfer as a crime, which is how the press gets the details of the offences. Then the so-called victims have to ask for their money back from each charity. What would you do, DI Callanach? Say you got a four million pound bonus on top of already inflated wages, three million is still in your bank account. You going to make a spectacle of yourself and insist that the local war veterans’ society gives you your million back? Named and shamed doesn’t even start to describe how little love the public have for these guys. Quite some stunt, isn’t it?’
Callanach didn’t answer. Quite some stunt indeed. It certainly explained the peacocking going on in the incident room.
‘Anyway, I’m just after one comment on the record,’ Lance
