‘Why hasn’t Police Scotland released the details of how Michael Swan was killed yet?’ a man near the front asked. Callanach recognised him from an online search as Lance Proudfoot. He was balding, tall and sporting a T-shirt that proclaimed him an avid Rolling Stones fan.
‘We’re still liaising with Mr Swan’s family and there are some highly technical forensic issues. We hope to have a statement with you in the next forty-eight hours,’ Overbeck replied.
‘Was the police raid on a warehouse in Newington linked to the murders?’ a woman near the front asked. Callanach wondered how much more successful the investigation might be if all the journalists worked for the police instead of the media. They certainly knew more than he did about what was going on around the city at the moment.
‘Whilst I can’t give you any specific information about that, I can tell you that the raid you’re referring to was part of an ongoing investigation by a specialist team from Scotland Yard and nothing to do with any of the murders.’ That would be DCI Edgar’s hacker then, Callanach thought. That case didn’t seem to be progressing at any great pace either. He needed DC Tripp back. Callanach would have to talk to Edgar about when that was likely to be possible. ‘And now I’m afraid I’m required elsewhere,’ Overbeck went on. ‘Any other questions should be directed through the media liaison office and you all have the crime-line numbers to encourage the public to come forward with information. Please do remember to add them to your releases. Many thanks for your patience and your efforts to assist us.’
She stood up, pausing almost imperceptibly whilst the cameras caught her best side, then nodded to Callanach who followed her out, wondering why he’d been paraded through such a time-wasting farce.
‘Well done,’ she said, once they’d cleared the public area. ‘Always good to present a united front and let them see us working as a team.’
‘Talking of teams, we’re going to need more officers. Could you lift the restrictions on overtime? I suspect we’ll have to outsource some of the forensics to other areas. Ailsa Lambert’s team is flooded. We’ll get a bottleneck on return of crucial evidence if there aren’t more resources available.’
‘Submit requests in writing via email,’ Overbeck said, drifting away. ‘And I want a written update every twelve hours. Arrest someone, Callanach, or get on a plane back to Paris. And find a reason to delay releasing the details of Michael Swan’s murder, or there won’t be a hotel room in the city that’s not full of gutter press trying to turn Edinburgh into the horror capital of the world.’
Callanach returned to his desk. It was chaos. Not the physical wood and metal structure before him, but the random pieces of information he was pushing around. He grabbed a clean sheet of paper and a pen, and wrote the names of the four victims currently in limbo at the city mortuary. Death by strangulation, facial skinning, stabbing and crushing. The Meadows was the only location any of the killings had in common, but even that was different areas of the park. He added each victim’s age, job and address next to their name. Save for the use of related blades on Thorburn and Swan, there were no obvious links. It seemed to be a dead end. If forensics couldn’t bring them a lead through the national database then he’d have to find a different way.
Callanach used his mobile call log to dial Lance Proudfoot’s number.
‘Detective Inspector! Goodness me, I hadn’t expected you to call. Are you phoning to gloat about the seizure of my hard drive as evidence? Only I’m having a bad enough day as it is.’
‘Tell me about the email you received with the photos this morning,’ Callanach said.
Lance sighed. ‘The email came in early. Initially I assumed it was one of those viruses hidden inside junk mail, you know? Then a mate from a newspaper phoned to check if I’d been sent the same thing they had. One of their interns had opened it, completely contrary to instructions, but seventeen-year-olds – what can you do? Anyway, the photos were in a downloadable file, return address didn’t work. No sender details. They were in colour, looked like they’d been taken using a phone camera. Horrible. And they’d been sent to every press outlet you can name. Three photos of the girl’s body from different angles, all taken once she’d been put in the dumpster, one of the outside of the dumpster, one of the road sign. The lighting is blown out, the edges are dark, so I’d say they were taken using flash at night rather than first thing this morning.’
‘Do you know who was first on the scene?’ Callanach asked.
‘No idea. Wasn’t me and you can be damned sure it wasn’t a police officer either. Whichever journalist downloaded them first would have made sure they got the story before calling it in.’
‘Leeches,’ Callanach hissed as he scribbled notes.
‘Can I quote you on that? Only your delightful superintendent may think that’s not a good example of promoting the police/press supportive working relationship,’ Lance laughed.
‘Do you ever want to get your hard drive back?’ Callanach asked.
‘Come on, Inspector, I was joking. For what it’s worth, I agree with your assessment that sometimes my colleagues’ ethical code is not all it should be. However, I’m running a different angle. Seems to me there’s not much left to explore from the victim perspective. That horse has well and truly left the stable. I’m covering the graffiti angle, gauging public outcry. I’ve been photographing the sites across the city. Do you have a comment on the words left on the wall in High School Wynd, near the junction with Cowgate?’ Lance asked.
‘I’ve got more pressing things to worry about than graffiti, Mr Proudfoot. Call the city council if you want something done about that,’ Callanach said.
‘Really? Only I took your call to me as a sign of desperation.’ Callanach had no response to that, other than to remind himself why he usually avoided private conversations with journalists. The experience most often resembled wrestling a snake. Had Proudfoot not been made a part of it by virtue of the emailed photos, Callanach would never have made the call. ‘I was on my way to photograph the High School Wynd graffiti when your boss called that last press conference. I went there afterwards, and what I found is deeply confusing. Concerning even. And I think it might just turn out to be important. Meet me there? I want to see what you make of it,’ Lance said.
‘Just tell me what—’ but the dead line tone was already an indication of how useless finishing the sentence would be. Callanach looked at his watch. He could be there in a few minutes and wouldn’t lose more than half an hour, and although he didn’t want to admit it, he was curious. Against his better judgement, he went to find Lance Proudfoot.
Callanach hadn’t thought about the address before he’d left, but it made sense now. High School Wynd was the short stretch of road from which you entered the mortuary car park. Cowgate ran through a stretch of the old city, from Grassmarket to Holyrood, and housed those historically uncomfortable bedfellows – extraordinary wealth and extreme poverty. The wall there had become one of the many sites of an ever-expanding canvas of graffitied social commentary since the killings began.
As he approached, an ancient, battered motorcycle pulled up beside him and the driver dismounted. He tugged off a helmet that looked held together more by stickers than substance, and greeted Callanach with an unexpectedly friendly