Perfect Prey. Helen FieldsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Four

      Callanach sat with an expressionless video editor, and tried to avoid the pile of newspapers that some helpful person had left on his desk. What he needed to do was sift through the footage from four different cameras and see if anything recorded might resemble a lead. Thankfully the timelines were such that the job, initially at least, was a limited one.

      The first two tapes were from static cameras, no operators. They both covered the front areas of the crowd, and the place where Sim Thorburn had been standing was a distant blur. The remaining footage was more difficult to navigate. One camera operator had been moving around on the stage, intermittently filming the band and looking out at the crowd. The second camera operator had been on a cherry picker crane to give more dynamic angles. It was painfully slow to sit through, but finally the first glimpse of the thankfully tall Niek De Vries emerged amidst the masses.

      ‘Stop it there,’ Callanach said, leaning forward and peering hard at the screen. ‘That area, can you make the section larger?’

      The editor pressed a few keys and leaned back, hands behind his head.

      ‘Is that it?’ Callanach asked. ‘It’s too blurry.’

      ‘Yeah, you know that stuff in films where they can suddenly zoom in and it all goes super-sharp and you can see inside people’s pockets and read what’s written on a note? That’s all bollocks,’ the editor said. ‘There’s one picture, it consists of a certain number of dots. You can see closer but then it gets less sharp. If I had a pound for every time I’ve had to explain that.’

      ‘Zoom back out then, left a bit,’ Callanach said. ‘That’s Sim,’ he said. ‘Play it from there.’

      As the screen came to life, Callanach could see Sim bouncing up and down, in and out of the line of sight. It was sketchy, but unmistakably the victim. He was bare-chested, like many of the men in the crowd, having presumably shed his T-shirt in the heat of the sun and the crowd. Sim was singing along, one arm in the air pumping in time to the music. He looked relaxed and happy. Behind him and slightly to the right stood Merel De Vries.

      ‘He has absolutely no idea what’s coming,’ Callanach said to himself. The camera began to shift to the right, and Sim’s face edged towards the far side of the screen. ‘No,’ Callanach shouted. ‘It’s just about to happen. Freeze the frame or something.’ The editor tapped the space bar. Callanach searched the picture but found nothing new. ‘Let it play,’ he said. Another tap and away slid Sim’s face, about to shift fully out of frame as he seemed to bump into the body of someone passing in front of him. ‘Stop! Right there. That’s it.’

      Callanach’s mind filled in the blanks. The subtle shift of a body through the crowd, slipping the knife out of a pocket, pulling off the sheath, sliding the razor-sharp blade along Sim’s naked stomach as they passed, ready with a cloth to clean up and avoid bloodying anyone else. Slipping quietly away before the victim had hit the floor. They would have moved in a zigzag through the crowd. Taking a straight course through the masses, directly out of the area, would have been too obvious.

      ‘Play it back again,’ Callanach ordered. On a second view, it was clearer that Sim’s head hadn’t even turned. There had been no distraction, no conversation, no recognition. Had there not been the movement of a few blurred pixels, dark in colour, vague in shape, passing just in front of the lower half of Sim’s face before he’d fallen, it might have been murder by ghost. ‘You’re going to tell me we can’t improve that section of the picture, aren’t you?’ The editor simply raised one eyebrow. ‘I need the best quality print-off you can get of all the frames when his face and that blur are in sight.’

      Tripp entered, holding a document that he was reading as he walked.

      ‘Forensics, sir. Just came through by email. Nothing on it.’

      ‘What do you mean nothing?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘Only what you already found out at the autopsy. Victim had no drugs in his system, trace amounts of alcohol. Healthy, no previous injuries except what looks like a childhood broken leg. He was clean. Cause of death as you’d expect,’ Tripp said.

      ‘Any new information since the press conference?’ Callanach asked.

      Tripp looked edgy. ‘You’ve not heard, sir? You turned your mobile off again, then, did you?’ Callanach’s hand went to his pocket and came out again clutching a black screen. ‘Someone started a media site, people have been uploading every bit of festival footage from their phones. There are thousands of hours to view. Other than that, no useful leads. Then there’s the public outcry. I think DCI Begbie may have barricaded himself into his office. Media relations have been trying to get hold of you. Some journalist wants an interview.’

      ‘Do you think it will help?’

      ‘Not my call, sir. But I think one of the papers dubbed you Police Scotland’s answer to Brad Pitt, so maybe you won’t want to …’ Tripp’s voice faded out.

      ‘That’ll be all, thank you Tripp. Is the DCI available?’

      ‘He said only for people with good news,’ was Tripp’s parting reply.

      ‘Seems like we’re all going to have a disappointing day then,’ Callanach muttered.

      He walked into Begbie’s office to find the Chief handing a bundle of files to a plain-clothes officer he hadn’t seen before.

      Begbie pointed to a seat which Callanach decided not to bother taking.

      ‘No idea how long we’ll be here, I’m afraid,’ the plain-clothes officer continued, ignoring Callanach’s presence. ‘Obviously we’ll be working with your regional squad. We may also need a few of your men for on-the-ground inquiries.’

      ‘I’m afraid that as of yesterday all my lot are taken,’ Begbie growled, eyes closed. ‘Unless Callanach here has some unexpected news for me.’ Callanach stared out of the window. ‘Well then, you can have what office space you need, all the facilities, local knowledge to your heart’s content. Manpower is your problem.’

      The officer made a non-committal noise, which Begbie ignored as he flicked the switch on the small kettle he kept in his room, presumably to minimise the need to walk the few yards along the corridor to make tea. Callanach took the opportunity to study the newcomer. The accent was recognisable as upper-class English, and the corresponding attitude was clear from the tone of his voice plus the slight upward angle at which he held his head.

      ‘Right, I’ll be getting along then. We’ll review our requirements and revisit the manpower issue at a later date, DCI Begbie.’ He left without a thank you, not quite bothering to ensure the door was shut. Callanach finished the job for him.

      ‘Anything I should know about, sir?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘Not today,’ Begbie muttered. ‘Got a suspect yet?’

      ‘Dark hair. Short, slight build, but that’s a guess as the crowd wasn’t disturbed by the murderer passing through. Could be male or female. My best description would be something along the lines of Professional Grade Murderer.’

      ‘Thank you Detective Inspector, be sure never to repeat those words in front of another living being. DI Turner is currently in her office trying to organise an investigation into a man she has, much like yourself, already named inappropriately. You may have a Professional Grade Murderer on your hands; Turner has The Crusher. Almost certainly male, heavy, strong, brutal and a raving psychopath if the autopsy details are anything to go by.’

      ‘Two in one night? Isn’t that unusual for this area?’

      ‘Unusual? It’s a disaster of monumental proportions, is what it is! Do you know what the headlines said this morning?’ Callanach still hadn’t braved the papers. ‘No? Well,