Perfect Prey. Helen FieldsЧитать онлайн книгу.
Ailsa pulled her mobile out and tutted.
‘I’ve got to go. All I would add is that Mr Swan was pulled up there immediately upon the cut to the facial skin being completed. His legs were slightly higher than his head, helping the continued bleed from the facial wound. That’s why there was so much blood on the floor directly below the face. Keep that copy of the photos for reference.’ She handed them over as her phone beeped repeatedly. Ailsa swiped at the screen. ‘God knows what’s going on, I’ve got a hundred messages a minute coming into my phone.’
‘Thanks Ailsa,’ Callanach muttered, staring hard at the photos of Michael Swan’s face. The pathologist was nearly at the door when Callanach called back to her. ‘Ailsa! Is it possible that the killer cut round the edge of his facial skin, then hoisted him up to the ceiling, climbed on a chair or desk then pulled the skin flap down when he was already suspended?’
Ailsa stood still a moment. ‘Entirely possible,’ she said eventually. ‘It would explain the relative lack of blood on his clothes and the rest of his body. Unfortunately it also probably means that he was conscious after the cut and before being hauled up there. He might well not have passed out by that stage.’
‘Meaning Mr Swan might have watched his own blood pouring onto the floor, suspended there, waiting for death?’ Salter asked.
‘Whoever committed this crime is evil, and that’s not a word I use lightly. I think you should assume the very worst. If nothing else, it will give you more incentive than ever to catch the perpetrator,’ Ailsa said.
‘I think that image is rather more incentive than I need to do my job properly,’ Salter said as Ailsa left quietly.
Callanach’s phone buzzed, displaying a number he didn’t recognise. Sending the call to voicemail, he walked slowly around the basement, getting a feel for how the killer and Michael Swan would have moved around and how complex it would have been to set up such an elaborate tableau. That was how it felt. As if the killer had been creating something akin to an art installation. Of the sickest mind and most foul imagination, but an installation it was. And about as far from an impulsive killing as it was possible to get.
Even with the bright crime scene investigation lighting it was hard to see clearly beneath the book shelves, between the stacked boxes and unused piled-up furniture at the sides of the room. Callanach set his mobile to torch and flashed it down at floor level as he crawled stiffly along, wincing at the pain in his lower back. It was always possible that the scalpel had been dropped and not yet spotted or that some tiny object had spilled out of the killer’s pocket whilst taking out gloves or a knife. The basement was a galaxy of DNA, passed across from chairs once sat in, books borrowed, shoes that had traipsed in and out over more than a century. The chances of the forensic team being able to isolate any evidence relating to the killer’s identity were lottery-worthy, which might well have been part of the attraction of the kill-site.
Salter looked washed out. The edge of her hairline was visibly damp and she was half covering her mouth with one hand. None of them were immune to the shock of such barbarity, no matter how long they’d been on the job.
Callanach stood up, suddenly feeling ridiculous for thinking he could magic evidence out of thin air. He took another look at Salter who didn’t seem to be recovering and pointed towards an old chair pushed against the wall.
‘Take a seat for a minute,’ he said. ‘Begbie’s out for the foreseeable future and I’m injured. I’m not prepared to take any more risks with my squad members.’ Salter plodded towards the chair, breathing hard. Callanach knew the sound of someone trying not to throw up when he heard it. His phone began buzzing in his pocket again.
‘Sir,’ Salter said.
‘Unrecognised caller again. Who the hell got hold of my mobile number? Those idiots on switchboard need—’
‘Sir!’ Salter repeated, pointing towards the wall.
Callanach looked up. His DC was pointing at an old corkboard that had been leaned against it. It contained ageing posters about library fun days, an advert for a meet the author event, some personal notices – people selling, buying, offering services – and, near the top, a photo. Nothing dramatic, just a woman walking towards the car in her driveway. Callanach disconnected the phone call and stepped closer to the photograph to pick out the detail. He sighed as he realised he recognised the tan-coloured bungalow with the wrought-iron front gate, and the woman in her sixties, face slightly obscured as her grey hair flew sideways in the breeze.
‘Michael Swan’s widow,’ Salter whispered.
‘Taken when she had no idea she was being watched. The killer knew the address, knew who his wife was, who knows what else,’ Callanach said. ‘Pinned there as a reminder to the victim throughout his ordeal. I guess it’s not hard to imagine why he didn’t fight.’
‘He had children and grandchildren,’ Salter said. ‘The killer would have known that too, if they’d done any research. How could anyone do that? Not just kill, but literally deface a man.’
‘Mrs Swan had no idea she was being watched,’ Callanach repeated, peering closer at the photograph. ‘That’s what makes it so scary. The killer could have been there hours, or watching for days. Get it logged as evidence, then have a copy taken. I need you to go directly to Mrs Swan’s house. If she can tell us when it was taken, maybe we can understand how long this was going on.’ Salter’s phone rang. She answered the call and walked a few steps away to talk, as Callanach proceeded to the exit to strip off his suit.
As soon as his feet hit the pavement, Callanach’s mobile began to ring too.
‘Yes,’ Callanach snapped.
‘This is Lance Proudfoot, we spoke before. I’m from the online news blogging site?’
‘I thought we’d concluded our conversation, Mr Proudfoot. I’m busy, so …’
‘Do you have a comment about the latest body, Detective Inspector? We’ve got the photos already, so if you could just give me a line or two about how Police Scotland plans to investigate, or what reassurance you can give the public?’
‘How the hell did you get photos of Michael Swan’s body?’ Callanach snarled. ‘You release those and I’ll have you in a cell before you can reach your door.’
‘Not Michael Swan. The young woman in the dumpster. The photos of her were emailed to me embedded in a downloadable file this morning. Me and the rest of the popular press, unfortunately. It’s not exactly an exclusive. Did you not know? A huge part of the city has been closed off. The police are everywhere.’
‘Salter, what have you got?’ Callanach shouted over to her.
‘Caucasian female murder victim, early twenties, probable strangulation. Body left in a large bin. Must be what the pathologist was called to, sir,’ Salter responded, putting her own hand over her mobile mid-conversation to answer. ‘DI Turner is at the scene and heading it up. They want us back at the station. Superintendent’s called her own briefing.’
‘Right Mr Proudfoot, no comment, but I’m sending officers over to your offices to inspect your computer. I want those files. Back up what you need. You’ve got about ten minutes,’ Callanach said.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. At least give me something I can print before you destroy everything,’ Lance moaned.
‘Police Scotland have no comment at the present time,’ Callanach said. ‘Print that.’ He hung up and shouted enough details to enable uniformed officers to find Lance Proudfoot and seize his hard drive. ‘Get the car, Salter. We’ll stop at the scene on the way back to the station.’
Twenty minutes later they arrived as close as they could get to Valleyfield Street. The crime scene boundary