slashing, I understand. Probably a dead-end case, but it needs investigating. I’m leaving it with you and Salter. I need every other body on Zoey Cole’s murder, so don’t expect help from anyone else. Wrap it up as quickly as possible, then I’ll review DC Salter’s suitability for another case. This stays between us, all right?’
Lively stood up, nodding, as Ava’s office door opened.
‘Sit your carbohydrate-endowed arse straight back down in that chair, Sergeant,’ Detective Superintendent Overbeck said.
Lively crossed his arms and remained standing, but stayed where he was.
‘Is there a problem, ma’am?’ Ava asked her superior, who was looking stunning in a tight-fitting midnight blue suit and six-inch stilettos, with bright red nails. It was a wonder she could hold a pen or type, Ava thought, wondering if she was aware that all the police under her command called her the Evil Overlord out of her earshot, not entirely unjustly.
‘When isn’t there a frigging problem in your team, DCI Turner?’ Overbeck said. ‘I’ve just had the pleasure of being interviewed by some of those do-gooders who occasionally get to come in and visit the prisoners in their cells, just to check we’re providing five-fucking-star care for Edinburgh’s charming criminals.’
‘I think the ones in our cells are usually called suspects, ma’am,’ Lively smirked. ‘Something about innocent until proven—’
‘Sergeant, if you speak again before I ask you to, I will pour that steaming coffee on the desk all over your balls, get me?’
Lively winced and Ava did her best not to smirk. Lively was regularly insubordinate to her, and even more so to Luc Callanach. This was the first she’d seen him silenced by a superior officer and it was pleasing to watch.
‘Am I to assume there was a slip in our usual standards?’ Ava enquired.
‘To be fair, only if you call having an incomprehensible man with half his frigging face hanging off, stuck in our cells instead of being in a hospital – or preferably still on the streets given how badly he was fouling up the custody area – a slip!’ Overbeck hissed. ‘Now,’ she stood directly in front of Lively, ‘as you were the arresting officer, you’d better have the shiniest, most watertight explanation for why this has happened to me on a day when I finally got my husband on a plane for a month-long golfing vacation and was looking forward to a serious amount of alone time without anyone pissing me off.’
‘Gone somewhere nice, has he?’ Lively grinned.
‘Pass me your coffee, Turner,’ Overbeck said, holding out her hand.
‘Don’t you dare, ma’am,’ Lively said. ‘That’s the first cup of coffee I’ve ever made anyone in this police station. I don’t want it wasted!’
‘Sergeant, would you please answer DS Overbeck’s question?’ Ava said.
‘Only if she says please.’
‘Lively, you’re going to get yourself fired.’ Ava shot him an unmistakable look.
‘Stay out of this, Detective Chief Inspector,’ Overbeck said. ‘I don’t have any problem at all with your sergeant giving me a reason to fire him.’
‘Lively,’ Ava said, getting to her feet and glaring.
Lively tutted and gave in. ‘He’s a victim of crime, refused an ambulance but we need a statement from him. He’s also homeless and a drug addict. We need to question him, and the only way to stop him from disappearing was to book him as drunk and incapable, and wait it out.’
‘So you just made up the drunk charge?’ Overbeck asked. ‘Even though he actually wasn’t?’
‘That’s right.’ Lively smiled.
‘So you’ve not only broken every procedure we have in terms of custodial care of the seriously injured, you’ve also reported a false charge against him.’
‘Aye, that pretty much sums it up,’ Lively said. ‘Was there something else you wanted, or am I free to go and try to extract a statement from our guest?’
Overbeck stepped closer, her eyes level with Lively’s, their bodies forming strange polar opposite silhouettes against the window, one stick thin and the other seriously paunchy. Ava held her breath while she waited for one or other of them to concede defeat.
‘Get him out of my cells, out of this police station and preferably out of this city,’ Overbeck said. ‘Ensure not a single particle of shit is going to hit any proverbial fan, then either retire or make sure I never have cause to speak with you about this again. Do you understand, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Happy to oblige,’ Lively said.
Callanach and Tripp parked around the corner from the domestic abuse shelter, then phoned ahead to have the back door opened up, the front door being used as little as possible to disguise the nature of the property from any save for those who needed to know. Most of the women inside were running or hiding. The police weren’t always welcome visitors, either. Too many victims had been ignored, told there was insufficient evidence to prosecute, or just plain disbelieved. Modern policing was attempting to bridge the trust gap, but that was a long-term project. There were generations of failings to make up for, Callanach thought, as he rang a silent doorbell and looked into the security camera, holding up his identification for closer viewing. Tripp did the same. Eventually the door buzzed open and they stepped through into a vestibule. A woman appeared behind the glass of an internal door.
‘Would you check that the outer door behind you is firmly locked, please?’ she asked. Tripp did so. She unlocked the inner door and let them into a wide hallway. ‘I’m Sandra Tilly, the deputy shelter manager. Would you mind coming into the kitchen to talk, only I don’t want to disturb the women in the lounge.’
‘Of course. I’m DI Luc Callanach,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to disturb anyone unnecessarily but it would help if we could see Zoey’s room. I know other officers have already been in there, but it’s useful to get a better idea of who she was.’
They walked down the corridor and entered a functional room with cupboards marked only with numbers. ‘They correspond with the bedroom numbers upstairs,’ Sandra explained. ‘The women who stay here often don’t use their real names, although Zoey actually did. She said it was therapeutic for her to feel as if she’d stopped running. Other women use pseudonyms until they feel really safe with each other. If anyone ever does manage to break in, they won’t find it easy to figure out which room they want. Zoey was in number four.’
‘Do you mind if we have a look in her kitchen cupboard?’ DC Tripp asked.
‘Sure,’ Sandra said, opening it. ‘Have you arrested anyone yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Callanach said. ‘Were you aware of anyone harassing Zoey, or trying to contact her? Any letters, emails, texts?’
‘Nothing that I was aware of,’ Sandra said. ‘A lot of the women here choose to spend a period of time in the digital dark. They get rid of their old mobile numbers, change email addresses, shut down every form of social media. This shelter isn’t for mild cases of abuse. We have limited places and it’s expensive to run. As horrible as it sounds, we only house women or girls who have suffered long-term, major-impact abuse and who are
