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‘Not really. It didn’t save him in the end, did it?’ Maclure rubbed his temple. ‘Our statistics are pretty good. Most people don’t go through with the attempt, they just need to work out where they’re at. Of those who do try, most suicides aren’t successful, either because there’s a sudden will to live that kicks in and sabotages the attempt, or through simple lack of research. There are about seven hundred suicides in Scotland every year, more men than women, the biggest group being Stephen’s age category.’
‘How did you talk him down?’ Callanach asked.
‘There was someone he cared about, a young woman. I’m afraid I can’t remember her name now, but it’s in my notes if you need it. Often, in the heat of the moment, the details get a bit blurry for me. They’d been in a serious relationship, though recently split. I was persuading him to call her. I find that making a meaningful contact often changes a person’s mind about ending their life. He slipped on the railings before making the call, realised he didn’t want to die in that moment and I was able to help him back up.’
Callanach felt the room slide, seeing Ava slipping through his arms again, certain he was going to drop her, already feeling the dreadful loss of her before she’d gone. The potential for grief had hit him with overwhelming force.
‘Are you all right?’ Maclure asked him.
‘Yes, sorry. I was imagining how scary that must have been. For him and for you,’ Callanach replied.
‘We’re simply trained to do the very best we can. If we took responsibility for everyone we came into contact with … well, you wouldn’t last very long at this job. I was really pleased when he came down. Obviously, the police had to question him, but I gave a statement and spoke on his behalf, asked the police to consider not prosecuting for the knife. They said they’d refer the matter to get a decision quickly.’
‘Why did he do it?’ Callanach asked.
‘Stephen was bipolar. His prescribed drugs weren’t helping consistently, which is something many sufferers experience. All premature deaths are tragedies, but when they’re caused by a neurotransmitter problem in the brain, how do you come to terms with that as a family member? We can put men on the moon but medicine isn’t advanced enough to treat this. Such a waste.’ Maclure shook his head, lacing his fingers behind his hair and giving the ceiling a long look. ‘Sorry. You’re here for help, not to listen to me moaning.’
‘I think you’re entitled,’ Tripp said. ‘I can’t imagine how you do your job every day.’
‘Trying to make a difference, same as you,’ Maclure said. ‘I still see a better side of humanity than if I worked in a bank. What else can I tell you?’
‘What was your last contact with him?’ Callanach asked.
‘I saw him twice after the suicide attempt. The first time was two days afterwards. He came here to see me and thank me for what I did. I told him what we could offer, tried to persuade him to get counselling, but with bipolar disorder that feels like a drop in the ocean. To Stephen’s credit, he agreed, although I realised he was reluctant. The last time I spoke to him, he phoned to say he’d changed his mind and didn’t think the counselling would help. He cancelled the session.’
‘Are there any notes?’ Tripp asked.
‘Yup, I’ll get a copy for you. As he’s deceased, confidentiality ceases to apply. I couldn’t talk him into getting any more help. There’s a limit to how pushy we can be, or we push people away from us at the time when they need us most. It’s a fine line.’
Callanach bet it was. Trying to persuade people to open up to you, knowing it would initially at least be pouring salt on their wounds. Wanting to help people who wanted to be left alone.
‘Did Stephen talk to you about any other problems in his life? Anything external to the bipolar disorder? Debts, addictions, conflicts, for example?’ Callanach tried to make it sound casual, but there was no way of hiding the fact that they were digging.
‘None, although I didn’t have much time to explore that. He certainly didn’t reveal anything to me. He seemed like a genuinely nice man, to be honest. Likeable, thoughtful. He left his donor card at the roadside in case anyone could be helped after his death.’ Maclure smiled and Callanach was drawn to him.
Maclure had a gentleness about him that was all warmth and ease, which reminded him of Ava. The two of them would get on like a house on fire, Callanach thought. Maclure would be the perfect foil to her stresses, and Maclure would like Ava’s natural intelligence, passion and empathy. Neither was the least bit bothered by social structure or setting out to impress. They did their jobs only to serve. Ava would like him.
As soon as the thought crossed Callanach’s mind, another part of him objected. Ava meeting a man she might be drawn to would mean sharing her again, and Callanach had been looking to spend more time with her. While he’d been going out with Selina, it had been hard to invest in his friendship with Ava. Their evenings out watching old movies at the cinema, and eating and drinking at the city’s lesser-known treasures, had kept him sane while he’d been settling into life in Scotland. He wasn’t ready to let anyone else do those things with Ava yet. At least he could admit it to himself. More than that, Ava’s private life was none of his business. He had no idea why he’d been thinking about her in the context of finding her a partner.
Tripp was handing over an email address for Maclure to send the notes relating to Stephen Berry and offering thanks for his assistance. Callanach stood up and shook his hand, noting the lack of wedding ring, and wishing he could erase the image of Ava and Rune Maclure together.
Callanach and Tripp made their way to the door, leaving Maclure to get back to work. As they were climbing into the car, there was a tap at the window. Tripp opened up.
‘I meant to ask,’ Maclure said. ‘Would you let me know when the funeral is? I’m not sure how much social contact Stephen had. I’d like to pay my respects. He should have people there to say goodbye to him.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ Callanach replied. ‘I’ll make sure you’re notified, although it might not be for some time. There will have to be a fatal accident enquiry first.’
‘You’re not clear about what happened, then?’ Maclure asked.
‘Not yet. There are no witnesses and the forensics are difficult to interpret.’ Callanach chose the most vague phrase he could.
‘Poor Stephen. Still no peace for him. He was even mocked while he was contemplating suicide from the bridge. Can you believe some people? I worry about the human race.’
‘Sorry, he was mocked how and by whom?’ Callanach asked.
‘There was a man in the crowd, laughing, while Stephen was struggling to get himself safe. The police officers were nearer than me. I’m not sure who it was. I could hear but not see who was responsible.’
‘Thank you, Mr Maclure,’ Callanach said. ‘We’ll be in touch about the funeral details when we have information.’
They drove away in silence, contemplating how the landscape of Stephen’s death had shifted in the previous hour. The bipolar disorder provided a simple motive for suicide and the decision not to proceed with counselling might well have been confirmation that Stephen was still struggling.
‘Phone the pathologist when we get back to the station, Tripp,’ Callanach said. ‘She’ll need to get hold of Stephen Berry’s medical records to check the bipolar disorder and hopefully that’ll tell us what medication he was taking. And speak to the officers at the Queensferry Crossing incident. See if any of them remembers a man laughing and get a description. It’s probably nothing, but the procurator fiscal will want it covered if there’s to be an inquiry.’
Tripp’s phone rang. Callanach drove on, cursing the traffic lights as Tripp answered it.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Tripp muttered. ‘We’ll be back in quarter of an hour. Sure. I understand. Straight there.’ He ended the call.
‘What was that about?’ Callanach asked.
‘DCI Turner wants you back at the station as quickly as possible, sir. We’re not to stop anywhere, she says, and don’t talk to anyone else. Direct to her office. She sounded weird, to be honest.’
‘Weird, how?’ Callanach asked.
‘Quiet and polite. As if she were at a tea party, you know?’ Tripp said.
Or as if she’d spent too much time staring at her injuries from the previous night in the mirror and was trying to figure out why she’d taken such a massive risk, Callanach thought. Ava wasn’t in the best place right now.
Chapter Six (#ulink_f2b410d5-5d60-5b29-a96a-4a6436571876)
4 March (#ulink_f2b410d5-5d60-5b29-a96a-4a6436571876)
Ava was standing at her office window when Callanach and Tripp entered. Arms crossed, face pinched, she was as defensive as Callanach had ever seen her.
‘Thank you, DS Tripp, you can go now,’ she dismissed.
Tripp glanced at Callanach but said nothing, exiting quietly.
‘Ava, are you all right? I was worried about you,’ Callanach said, crossing the room to her, ready to give whatever support she needed.
Instead, she took a step away from him.
‘I had a call from Ailsa while you were out,’ she said.
‘Stephen Berry’s tox results?’ Callanach asked.
‘New case, actually. Her deputy performed the postmortem early this morning. What looked like a natural death turns out to have been a suffocation.’
‘Do you need me to get a squad to the scene?’ Callanach asked.
‘Scenes of Crime is already there with uniformed officers,’ Ava replied tersely. ‘They’re conducting preliminary interviews. I’m giving this one to Pax Graham.’
‘You’re putting him in charge of a murder investigation on his first day? I’m not sure he’s even up to speed with MIT procedures yet. If it’s handled wrongly, it could be fatal for the prosecution.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Ava said. ‘Where were you when I called you to meet me at the mortuary to see Stephen Berry’s body?’
‘I told you at the time, I was at my flat. I hadn’t unpacked. I still haven’t after last night …’
‘Actually, you said you were at the gym, so I’m curious that it turns out you were at a nursing home visiting a man called Bruce Jenson.’
‘Bruce Jenson?’ Callanach paused. There was no way Ava could know anything about Jenson. They’d never discussed him or what he’d done to his mother. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand what you’re asking me.’
‘Are you denying that you lied to me about the gym?’ She was breathing fast, her voice louder than the conversation warranted.
Ava was furious, Callanach realised, and it was about more than just being lied to.
‘Fine, I wasn’t at the gym. I had personal business that I didn’t want to discuss. No big deal. What’s going on, Ava?’
‘I’m not Ava right now,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘I’m DCI Turner. And once this conversation’s over, I’m going to have to make up a formal statement recording what we both said. Technically speaking, I should probably have another officer in here as a witness, but you saved my life last night, so I’m giving you this, but I won’t break procedure to any greater degree. Were you at the nursing home, yes or no?’
‘Yes,’ Callanach said.
Ava’s folded arms flopped momentarily to her sides as if defeated before she took control and landed them forcefully on her hips.
‘And you lied to me because?’
‘You needed me and I didn’t want you to think you were disturbing me,’ he said.
‘You lied to me for my own sake?’ Ava’s voice was getting louder.
‘I lied because I made the decision to get straight back on with work. I wasn’t doing anything I couldn’t walk away from. What exactly has happened that’s so …’
‘Bruce Jenson’s dead,’ Ava said abruptly, watching his face.
Callanach remained still.
‘He had advanced dementia and death was apparently inevitable, the doctor said, but not expected any time soon. He had perhaps a year, maybe more left. His doctor hadn’t seen him for a month and the nurses were happy with his condition, so they were surprised to find him deceased. In those circumstances, procedure is for there to be a postmortem and then …’
‘Wait,’ Callanach said. ‘Just … give me a moment.’
It was Callanach’s turn to walk to the window. He stared down at the rows of police cars parked below and at the brave pedestrians outside in the rain. Bruce Jenson was dead. He’d wished it on him every day since his mother had revealed the tragedy in her past, had so nearly lost his temper sufficiently to bring Jenson’s life to an end himself, and now that it had happened he felt nothing. No relief, no pleasure, no sense that justice had been done.
In a bitter twist, Jenson had left him one single, poisonous inheritance. Callanach had been left to answer for his presence in Jenson’s room just hours before the man had died. How absolutely fucking typical. Once fate had decided that you were an apt target, it was as persistent as chewing gum on the bottom of your shoe.
‘How did he die?’ Callanach asked quietly.
‘Looks as if a cushion was held over his mouth. We won’t have confirmation until the fibres in his mouth have been inspected under a microscope, but there are teeth marks against the inside of his upper lip, which suggests that pressure was applied, and there’s no other obvious causes of death. No stroke, no cardiac event.’
Clear-cut murder then, and with the same cushion he’d been holding just a little while before. The possibility that it was a coincidence seemed ridiculous and yet the cushion was the most obvious weapon in the room. One that didn’t require you to get your hands dirty and which offered a silent death.
For a second he wondered if he hadn’t, perhaps, gone further than his memory was allowing him to recall. If he hadn’t pressed the square of material and stuffing into the bastard’s face and held it there just long enough for all the oxygen in Jenson’s lungs to be depleted. He deserved it. No question about it. As far as Callanach was concerned, Jenson had deserved that and a whole lot more. But it hadn’t happened at his hand. Callanach turned to look Ava straight in the eyes.
‘I didn’t do that to him,’ he said.
‘Of course you didn’t, you bloody idiot. If I thought you did we’d be in an interview room with the tape running and I’d have handed the case over to a different team. So really, no bullshit: why did you lie to me? And what the hell were you doing there anyway?’
‘Just visiting,’ Callanach said.
‘Yeah, well unfortunately for you, when the – and I quote – really, really good-looking French policeman goes for a visit somewhere, he doesn’t exactly blend in. The nurse who allowed you access virtually gave the uniformed officers who took her statement your inner leg measurement.’
‘It was a completely innocent visit …’ he mumbled.
‘Social?’ Ava clarified.
‘Yes,’ Callanach said.
‘That’s what I assumed, only you used your police ID to gain access rather than signing the visitors’ book, so it looks like official police business. Only for the life of me, given that you’re in my command, I cannot think what case we have running that Mr Jenson is in any way involved in. Please say you can enlighten me.’
Callanach reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack of Gauloises cigarettes. Shaking one loose, he stuck it between his lips unlit, tasting France and his youth. Actually, lighting a cigarette was a line he hadn’t crossed in years, but there were times he wished he wasn’t quite so disciplined.
‘I’ve got to tell you that’s not quite the reassuring response I was hoping for,’ Ava said. ‘Oh, Luc, for God’s sake, you’re going to have to tell me everything. You were the last person save for medical staff with access to that room. Bruce Jenson has a son. He’s demanding answers and is entitled to them. At the moment, there are only a handful of people who know what’s going on, but that won’t last long. You’ll have to be formally interviewed, so if this was police business you’d better write up some notes pretty damned quickly.’
‘It wasn’t,’ he said quietly. ‘It was personal. I didn’t want to leave my name in the visitors’ book for his family to see.’
‘So you lied to me about having been there and you lied to the nurse about the nature of your visit.’
‘I guess,’ Callanach said.
‘The nurse also said that you broke a vase while you were there, that you cleaned up after yourself and put it in the bin. Will your fingerprints be on it?’
Callanach thought back. He’d put gloves on to pluck the hair from Jenson’s head, but not to clean up the broken pottery. There hadn’t been any reason to at the time.
‘There’ll be plenty of prints,’ he said. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Think very carefully about this next question. Did you touch Bruce Jenson at all? Is there any possibility that you could have left skin cells or fingerprints on any part of his body?’
Callanach sat down, recalling the way he’d taken Jenson’s chin in his hand to direct his attention towards the photograph of his parents. He nodded affirmation at Ava.
‘Anywhere near his mouth?’ Ava asked, her voice hoarse with emotion.
He nodded again.
‘Holy shit,’ Ava said. She tapped the desk and stared blankly at the wall. ‘Okay, it’s not that bad. No one’s going to believe you were involved in a murder. You just need to present your reasons for being there and explain the sequence of events. They don’t have any sort of motive for you to have hurt him and that’s the most compelling evidence in cases like this. It’s probably someone who has day-to-day contact with him.’
‘You think it was a staff member who killed him?’ Callanach asked.
‘That would normally be the first consideration,’ Ava said. ‘It’s hard work looking after dementia patients and carers have been known to break down, either from the stress of the job or from a desire to end the suffering quickly. We’ll be checking the family too, of course …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘There’s a but,’ Callanach commented.
