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 continued. ‘The public want to know that their city is safe. Will you not take the opportunity to reassure them?’
‘This is a murder investigation,’ Callanach said. ‘Not a game and not a publicity opportunity. Have some respect.’
‘Listen, I do this because I care about getting news stories out. I don’t work for a paper that’ll edit my words to meet the owner’s political agenda, or to maximise advertising revenue potential. I’m my own boss and I take responsibility for what I write. Do me a favour. Just one line. We’re not all bad, you know.’
Callanach brought up Lance Proudfoot’s online profile. His news blog had nearly one hundred thousand followers and it looked as if his feed was picked up by some of the bigger media outlets. He sighed. It was worth keeping the popular press onside. And there was always the possibility that it might actually prove useful.
‘Fine,’ Callanach said, feeling resigned. ‘But unnamed. An anonymous source inside the police. The festival attack appears motiveless. Whilst the majority of murders are committed by persons known to the victim, this does not appear to be the case. We ask the public to remain vigilant and for anyone with any information to come forward as soon as possible.’
‘That’s all?’ Lance asked.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ Callanach said. ‘Use my name and we never talk again.’
‘Does that mean I can call you if I have more questions?’
‘No, it doesn’t. And the next time you lie to switchboard to get put through, I’ll have you arrested.’ Finally common sense kicked in and Callanach hung up, flicking back to the news headlines and reading the hacking story more thoroughly.
Ava’s friend DCI Edgar was going to have his work cut out wading through the mire of public relations mud about to rain down. The Unsung may have committed grand scale fraud and theft, but it was hard to imagine many people condemning them. And it was a big enough story, just about, to deflect the media’s attention and provide some breathing space while they made headway on the murders. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, Callanach thought, wondering how long Joe Edgar would be using Edinburgh as an investigative base. He reached for his coffee and for an unlit Gauloises cigarette to suck.
DC Christie Salter wished Callanach a quiet goodnight and went home to her new husband. She’d put off taking her sergeants exam for her wedding and honeymoon. When Callanach had advised against making the sacrifice, she’d laughed. Max Tripp went home to his twin brother with whom he was flat-sharing. The Chief went home to a wife who had tolerated him for no fewer than thirty years. Even miserable Sergeant Lively had someone waiting for him to get home so they could share a meal and stare at a mutually chosen television programme and forget the outside world.
Callanach retreated to an empty flat.
Scotland had been a new start for him, returning to the land of his long since dead father. But it had meant shedding the social circles and family comfort that had been at the centre of his world. He was trying, certainly. There was the gym, work, a good wine shop, places where people knew his name and greeted him with a smile. Beyond that, replacing old friends with new was time-consuming and soul-destroying.
He fired up the computer, waiting for his emails to appear and hoping desperately for contact from his mother. There was also the matter of checking that Astrid Borde had not been in touch. Since she’d falsely accused him of rape when they’d worked together at Interpol, then followed him to Scotland, he had worried every day that the nightmare might begin again. It hadn’t mattered that the rape allegation was entirely a figment of Astrid’s twisted imagination and a symptom of her obsession with him. The stigma of it had stuck. People he’d worked with for years avoided him. His closest friends grew guarded, then distant, finally disappearing altogether. Innocence, he had learned, was a technicality when sexual assault was involved. However many times he told himself to live in the moment, there was little escape from the impact of the past. Not when it still affected him as physically as it did.
Too restless to sleep and too tired to go out, Callanach checked out Lance Proudfoot’s online news blog again. He found a brief section outlining Proudfoot’s career history with publications in the US and Canada, as well as some of the larger British newspapers. His news coverage wasn’t bad. Less sensational than the tabloids, and less prone to navel-gazing than some of the broadsheets. There was an interesting editorial piece on the hacker thefts, with a side piece on the National Cyber Crime Unit, largely highlighting how far behind the offenders’ capabilities the police were, given the budget constraints and compared to the sort of money the gifted could earn in the private sector. DCI Joseph Edgar’s name popped up briefly and Callanach checked him out for something to do. Public school, followed by a law degree, chair of the debating society, with interests in cricket and rugby. Never married, steady career path. Callanach picked up his mobile to text Ava. He was halfway through it when there was a knock at his door. It was late, much later than he was used to being disturbed. Not that anyone ever knocked on his door.
‘Who is it?’ he called as he walked slowly through his lounge. There was no reply. Callanach peered through the spyhole. In the corridor he could hear banging then rattling, but no visible person. Searching for a blunt weapon, he selected a knife sharpener from the kitchen and made his way back to the door. More frantic noises came from the area just out of the visual field of the spyhole. Callanach slid the bolt back as quietly as he could and stepped out, weapon raised.
‘Please don’t hurt me!’ the girl in the corridor screamed, arms raised, falling backwards against the wall.
Callanach dropped the sharpening steel and raised his own hands.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m a police officer. Are you hurt? Was it you who knocked my door?’
The woman began to laugh, breathing fast, somewhere between terrified and amused.
‘Yes, that was me. You didn’t answer, so I assumed there was no one in. And no, I’m not hurt. I just moved into the flat opposite yours,’ she said, pointing at the only other door on the same level as Callanach’s in the converted house. His new neighbour was tall and
