could get to Lyon, in Scotland. It had the feel of a town, in spite of its size and busy economy, and a history its inhabitants celebrated. The city was easy to love with its sympathetic blend of old and new architecture and a population that seemed to have embraced different races and cultures whilst maintaining its own heritage. If they could only control the wind chill factor, he thought, it would be ideal. Callanach had rented a flat in Albany Street. A hundred years ago, it would have been a grand old terraced house, set over four floors, home to one of Edinburgh’s elite families. These days, the inhabitants were busy professionals who would come and go through the central hallway, marking the nearness of their lives with only a raise of eyebrows or curt greeting. He found it wasteful, how little communication passed between neighbours. It was why dead bodies were noticed only by their unbearable odour and how domestic violence could be perpetrated on the same victim repeatedly without intervention. Good neighbours enabled good policing.
He poured a large glass of red wine and picked up a book. Reading himself to sleep had been a habit as far back as he could remember. It was the only thing that distracted him from work. But tonight concentration was difficult. With every page, the image of the bleak Cairngorm Mountains reappeared, forbidding and harsh. Winter was approaching. The Braemar bartender had told them the town would be full of skiers and snowboarders at the first flakes. It was a couple of weeks off yet, but December would bring snow to the peaks. The crowds of summer hikers were long gone, high winds and rain deterring all but the hardiest. The killer’s timing, then, was either planned to perfection or lucky beyond the very best of odds.
Callanach woke early, realising he had no food, craving the tiny cafe on the street corner near his old apartment where he could eat freshly baked croissants and read a newspaper in French. Instead, he hurried to the only place close by and open, a health food store across Broughton Street, where he was surprised by the friendly reception, and picked up dried fruit, yoghurt and rye bread.
He plugged in his computer as he ate, wondering what his private emails would bring. They’d been stacking up for a week and he was tempted to simply delete the lot before reading.
There were administrative emails from Interpol dealing with his departure, requesting a forwarding address for documentation, nothing important. Then there were updates about local events in Lyon he’d usually have attended – a wine festival, sports rally, the opening of a new restaurant – and he pressed delete with a sense of resignation. Much of it was the usual e-junk but then he spotted it, hidden between a wine-club subscription offer and a newsletter from his last gym. A bounce-back notice had come from his mother’s email address. She had apparently moved beyond steadfastly ignoring his communications and taken action by changing her email completely, as she had already done with her mobile phone number. His letters were returned unopened, his landline calls were screened. Callanach threw the remainder of his breakfast in the bin and slammed his laptop closed, immediately regretting how he’d let it affect him. Getting angry wouldn’t change a thing. He was where he was. What mattered now was Elaine Buxton. Nothing else. He had to make the new start work for him. Offending DI Turner the previous evening was a less than impressive start, and an error it would be tactically sensible to rectify sooner rather than later. With the office still to be organised, he changed from his sweats into a shirt and trousers then left for the station.
Tripp was waiting outside his office when he arrived, looking eager and rested. That was the benefit of being in your twenties, immune to too little sleep and careless of stress. For a couple of seconds Callanach was tempted to send him back to Braemar. Uncharitable, he thought. At least DS Lively hadn’t been waiting for him.
‘DS Lively was wanting to talk to you, sir.’ Callanach rolled his eyes. ‘And I thought,’ Tripp continued, ‘given what we learned in Braemar, you might want to visit Elaine Buxton’s flat today, so I’ve organised that for lunchtime, and her ex-husband’s phone number is on your desk.’ Tripp had been busy. Callanach mentally rebuked himself for wanting to send Tripp back to Braemar. The young detective constable was sweetly unselfconscious of appearing too keen. That was a rarely seen attribute in any police officer.
‘Thank you. Where is the detective sergeant?’
‘In the briefing room. Shall I fetch him?’
‘No, we’ll go to him. Coffee en route.’
Approaching the briefing room, Callanach could hear the exact conversation he’d suspected would be taking place. The door had been left open, sensitivity not a concern, and Lively’s voice boomed out.
‘How the hell did he end up walking straight into a detective inspector post? That’s what I’d like to know. It’s not as if there weren’t plenty of other candidates, people who know the city and understand the people. Rumour has it, some bastard pulled more strings than make a fishing net to get him in here. He wasn’t through the door more than ten minutes before dragging us off our patch into someone else’s investigation.’
‘Leave it out, Sergeant, he was just doing what he thought was right for the victim,’ a female voice spoke up. It took Callanach a moment to identify it as DC Salter’s. Tripp tried valiantly to get a few steps ahead and stop the discussion but Callanach put an arm out to prevent him.
‘Let it run, Tripp.’
‘But, sir,’ Tripp started before Lively began again.
‘Go on then, Salter, tell us what you think of him. Some sort of genius, is he, coming out of Interpol and all? Begs the question why he moved here. Maybe the detective inspector couldn’t cut it in the big league and thought this would be a soft option?’
Callanach booted the door fully open and slammed his coffee down on the desk.
‘You asked to speak with me, Detective Sergeant. Is there an update?’ Callanach stared at Lively, ignoring the rest of the crowd.
‘They found blood on the baseball bat and some soft tissue on a tooth nearby. DNA from both is a match for Elaine Buxton. Her case has been officially upgraded from missing person to murder. The pathologist’s report will be through later today. And the Chief wants to talk to you.’
‘Set up a board, Salter. Maps, photos, forensics, everything we have,’ Callanach called as he walked towards the door.
‘It’s still not our case yet, Inspector,’ Lively shouted.
‘It’s about to be my case. If you don’t want it to be yours then there’s a large empty desk in my office where you can leave your letter of resignation,’ Callanach snapped.
Lively stood up. Callanach knew he should leave it there and let tempers cool, but the conversation he’d overheard in the corridor was still worming its way through his veins.
‘You want rid of me, do you, pal? I bet you do, ’cos I heard what you did. Shall I tell you what we do to men like you in Scotland? You fuckin’ froggies might think it’s all right to …’ Lively had stepped forward and punctuated his last few words with a finger poke to Callanach’s shoulder. He didn’t get any further. Callanach shoved him backwards so hard that Lively went flying into the arms of his fellow officers who broke his fall and probably saved him a fractured coccyx. Lively hid his embarrassment with a laugh that made its way through the group as a strained echo.
‘You wanna watch that temper of yours, Detective Inspector,’ Lively said, his mouth a hard smirk across his face. ‘It’ll get you in trouble. Of course, you’re used to that …’
Callanach stepped further towards Lively and his support group, his fists itching to punch the smug grin, biting down so hard he could taste blood in his mouth.
‘Sir,
