sat down. He obviously wasn’t going to be invited to sit. Nor was he prepared to be given a lecture on how to choose his friendships whilst standing to attention.
‘I’m surprised DI Turner finds herself incapable of making that plain to me in person,’ Callanach said.
‘I’m surprised you want her to suffer the humiliation of having to do so,’ Edgar said, straightening up. ‘She and I go back a long way. We’re extremely close. Intimate friends, you might say. You’ll appreciate she’s been able to confide in me about her need to distance herself from certain … aspects … of her work life.’
Callanach wasn’t in the mood for DCI Edgar’s little chat and he certainly didn’t have time for any more prevarication.
‘Meaning me?’ Callanach asked.
‘Ava thought you might get aggressive about it. Perhaps that’s why she hasn’t mentioned this herself. I don’t know if it’s a French thing, Detective Inspector, or an Interpol thing, but women here like to have their personal distance respected.’
The gloves were off then. Callanach stood back up, determined not to let the pain caused by the move show in his face.
‘And I don’t know if that was a racist thing or a jealousy thing, Chief Inspector, but I have nothing other than respect for DI Turner and she knows it. So it seems to me that perhaps you’re following your own agenda here, more than acting on her behalf.’
‘Careful now,’ Edgar said, leaning across the desk and into Callanach’s face. ‘You wouldn’t want me feeling the need to speak with your superior officer about insubordinate behaviour.’
‘Go ahead. DCI Begbie knows me well enough, even if I haven’t been here that long. I’m sure he has no more desire to have Scotland Yard’s away team here than I do,’ Callanach replied.
‘I’m sure you’re right, but Begbie’s not here. He’ll be lucky to get declared fit this side of Christmas. I think you’ll find that Superintendent Overbeck and I see eye to eye on most things. Certainly, she wouldn’t want one of her DIs claiming sexual harassment against another of her DIs. Can you imagine what a public relations nightmare that would be?’ Callanach laughed out loud. DCI Edgar waited until Callanach had finished, then walked to the door. ‘Laugh all you want, but a man with your past should be more prudent about his future.’ Edgar waited for his point to hit home, his gaze drifting down to Callanach’s hands which had involuntarily rolled themselves into fists at his sides. Edgar rewarded himself with a grin before exiting.
Callanach stared at the wall ahead, breathing hard. Ava would never make such an allegation. She’d know how much that would hurt him, from her more than anyone else given how much he’d confided in her about the false rape allegation. But then he wouldn’t have expected her to have shared the details with her new boyfriend, either. He wondered how that conversation had come about. Not in the office, he was sure. That was a late-night intimate discussion, conducted in low tones with no one else around to interrupt. He picked up a stapler and lobbed it at the far wall.
A uniformed officer walked in with a large, overly bright greetings card in one hand and a pen in the other.
‘Did you want to sign the chief’s get well soon card, sir?’
‘Out!’ Callanach shouted, slamming himself back down into his chair. ‘Fuck,’ he yelled, standing straight back up, the pain a firework shooting through his backside. He grabbed the painkillers he’d been preparing to take, threw them into his mouth and chewed them dry. The bitterness was good.
Of all the people Ava could have told about his past, why DCI Edgar? Callanach had never asked her to keep quiet about it, and the bare bones of the story had already reached some ears at the station, but it could have been left to fade into history. Was it possible that she really felt he was pursuing her? They’d seemed to have become friends, spent time together, sometimes with other people, occasionally alone. If Ava felt intimidated by him, how come he’d never sensed that from her?
Salter appeared holding a cup of tea.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘DCI wanted a cuppa. Is he coming back, do you know?’
‘Not into my office, he’s not,’ Callanach said. ‘I’ll take the tea.’
Salter handed it over carefully, taking a few quiet paces over to the wall and picking up pieces of broken stapler from the floor. ‘Er, did you maybe want some biscuits with that?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, slamming the cup down onto his desk, ‘but thank you,’ he managed. ‘Come on Salter, get someone else to carry on where you’ve left off with the CCTV. You’re coming back to the McDonald Road library with me. And phone Ailsa Lambert, see if she’s got some free time to meet us there. Tell her it’s urgent. I’m sick of waiting. Let’s see if we can’t figure out a bit more about our killer.’
‘All right, sir. Give me five minutes. I’ll drive,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t look to me as if you’ll be up to using the clutch.’
Callanach glared at his laptop screen. He was angry. Fed up with fighting a past he hadn’t asked for and that wouldn’t let go. Perhaps it was finally time to draw some lines under it all. Maybe that’s what it would take to move on. He had a couple of minutes before Salter would be ready. More than enough time to write the one email he’d thought he’d never have the heart to write.
‘Maman,’ he began, writing in French, speaking English in his head, forcing himself to move forwards and adopt the country of his birth as the place to build a future. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of emotion as he wrote. There had been too much of that. Too many months of grief and regret. His mother had slowly removed herself from his life as the months passed when he was awaiting trial in Lyon. Finally, with the trial date just days away, she had disappeared. His efforts to contact her had ended in changed mobile numbers and letters returned unopened. There had been no attempt by her to explain her reasons. Her absence alone was enough content for a novel. She had no faith in him. It had been too great a test even for a mother’s love. ‘Mum, It seems you’ve decided to have no more contact with me. I will leave you in peace. Luc.’ He clicked send, shut the laptop, and put on his jacket.
By the time Callanach and Salter reached the McDonald Road library to the north of Edinburgh city centre, Ailsa was outside waiting for them, eyes on her watch.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d be at work today,’ she said, greeting Callanach with a pat on the shoulder. ‘Is it sore?’
‘Haven’t noticed it,’ Callanach lied, looking up over the building’s exterior.
‘I do like a bit of creative stoicism,’ Ailsa smiled. ‘I’ll be down in the cellar seeing what sort of shape the crime scene is in. Meet me down there, and don’t be too long about it. My clients may not be able to complain, but I still don’t appreciate keeping them waiting.’
The library was a stunning old three-storey construction, with a round turret on the corner. ‘None of the windows were broken and no locks were forced. The ground level doors were alarmed. So how did the killer get in?’ Callanach asked Salter.
‘Maybe they hid,’ Salter said. ‘Waited until everyone else was out and then reappeared.’
They walked past the police officers still protecting the crime scene, ducked the crime scene tape, and entered. Callanach studied the layout with fresh eyes. Beyond the front door was a foyer with a staircase to the right leading up to community rooms. The door past the stairs led into a large studio area. Straight ahead was the central section of the library. Extraordinarily light, with architectural glass ceilings and tables for reading and working, the main body of the library had notices that proclaimed the watchful eyes of its CCTV system. Callanach called over one of the CSIs working onsite.
‘What’s