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  ‘I thought you’d do that,’ she’d replied, a shiver claiming her as she spoke. He’d moved around the fire, taking a knee at her side and pulling at her knickers with his still-gloved hands, knowing he couldn’t afford to transfer treacherous DNA to her skin.

  ‘Won’t you take your gloves off?’ she’d asked. That was the first moment he recalled feeling frustrated with her. He wasn’t proud of it, but he’d imagined it all happening a certain way, the atmosphere charged with nothing but the mournful onset of grief. It was supposed to have been beautiful.

  He’d instructed her, firmly, making clear that the time for idle flirtation was over, to take off her underwear and stay where she was.

  ‘This isn’t how I’d imagined it,’ she’d said. ‘I feel strange. Something’s not right. I need to go … dizzy, not good.’

  To his amazement, Lily had stood up. He’d thought her well beyond the point where she would be able to stand unaided but that was the Lily he’d spent months coming to respect. She’d wavered left, then right, hands out like a blindfolded child playing a party game, seeking an object to hold for balance. Guiding her back towards the sleeping bag in spite of her increasingly loud and annoying protests, he had briskly removed her underwear before lowering her to the floor. Her hands had fluttered uselessly, swatting him with feeble resignation as he held her down on the ground. The cold had been seeping into her by then, but still he’d needed to hold her until she could no longer fight the urge to drowse. Wrapping the sleeping bag around her body, arms and all, he’d held her still with his weight as she’d tried – and failed – to escape. It had been like wrestling a feather. When at last the cannabis oil did its job, Lily had moaned a little as she fell asleep, tears rolling golden reflections of firelight down her cheeks. He hadn’t touched them. They were too beautiful to destroy.

  Checking his watch, he realised he’d outstayed his welcome in the doorway opposite Cordelia’s house. Sheltering in a doorway for a quick smoke was understandable. Stay forty-five minutes and canny neighbours would assume burglar or stalker. Not like the limitless time he’d had with Lily. Two hours he’d sat on the hill top, watching her puffs of breath reduce in the freezing air, letting the fire dwindle and die, allowing Lily to dwindle and die. Her death rattle was the hiss of ice water on a hotplate. Her eyes had flickered, and for one sweet moment he had imagined himself kissing those mascara tinged lashes, a proper lover’s farewell. Saliva, the tiniest drop, would finish him though. The police might be fooled into believing this was an accidental death, but he wasn’t about to leave them the forensic equivalent of his mobile number. He had satisfied himself with taking her hand and gently removing the ring he’d made space for in his box.

  No one else would understand. They would think he’d killed for pleasure, assuming some sort of base sexual urge. The point was that Lily herself was incidental. A means to an end. Just as Cordelia was. If he’d been explaining it to that sweet little Irish actor Sean O’Cahill, he would have said they were all just props. Their corpses were a small part of a greater work, where grief was the main attraction.

  He looked at his watch. Work beckoned. What was that saying about the devil and idle hands? He smiled, stole one last glimpse at Cordelia’s magazine-cover home, and finalised his plans to remove her from it forever.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘I’m going to throw up,’ Sean said, every inch the melodramatic actor, as he raised his chin for his boyfriend Bradley to adjust his collar, flattening it, then lifting it again.

  ‘I’m not sure which looks better. I think down. An upturned collar can say tosser if you’re not careful about it,’ Bradley said. ‘And you’re not to be sick. Nothing destroys hope like the odour of vomit on a man’s breath.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Sean said. ‘I’m sorry. You should be getting back to work. I was just so nervous, I needed you.’

  ‘Look, you got the call back. You nailed the first audition. They obviously loved you. There’s no reason to believe this won’t go just as well.’ Bradley stepped forward, clutching Sean’s hands hard as he kissed him. ‘It’s your break. I can feel it. If I’m wrong, you can take it out on me later.’ He winked.

  ‘How do you manage to make everything about sex?’ Sean laughed. ‘Right, I’m going in. Don’t wish me luck.’

  Bradley watched him swish through the theatre doors and disappear. He checked his watch. Thanks to an early start, he could still afford to grab some lunch. The company he worked for didn’t care how many minutes you took for lunch as long as you got results, and Bradley did. His risk projections were a thing of beauty, not that anyone else understood exactly what he did.

  Ten minutes later he walked through the door of Café Nom de Plume on Broughton Street. One of his favourite places, and a haven for Edinburgh’s LGBT community, its facade was stylish and welcoming, the staff were fun, and the food was fabulous. More importantly, this was where he’d first met Sean. Bradley had been sitting with a group of co-workers relaxing after a long afternoon of meetings. Sean had been with a gaggle of actors who’d just received a stinking review of an experimental piece they’d performed the previous night. Before long, the two groups had become one and Bradley had found himself staring into Sean’s eyes across a table crammed with cups and crumbs. Sean had been a regular back then, although he rarely went in these days, preferring the gym during the day and wine-bars at night, alternating low calorie food with alcohol. Bradley had fallen in love with the sweet tables and traditional feel, often sitting happily alone and quiet, contemplating life.

  Ordering an espresso, Brad took the table in the window, noting that he’d arrived later than usual and wondering if he’d missed his new friend. Christian – they weren’t on surname terms yet – had recently moved to Edinburgh and found the café courtesy of a helpful internet chatroom. Bradley assured himself that he wasn’t on the lookout for anyone new, but he was aware of his soft spot for a cute face and a sad story. Christian had presented both, and over the last few weeks they’d taken to sharing a coffee at lunchtimes before disappearing back into their own lives.

  A tap on the shoulder roused him from his thoughts.

  ‘Brad, how are you?’ Christian asked. ‘Sorry I’m late. I’m still trying to finish my thesis. Apparently, I’m having an off day. The joys of being a mature student. Have you ordered?’

  ‘I’ve got coffee coming,’ Bradley replied. ‘Don’t worry, I was late too.’

  ‘Really? Everything okay?’ Christian asked, pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot he’d brought to the table.

  ‘Nothing exciting,’ Bradley said, feeling himself shrink with the tiny lie, more an omission really. He hadn’t talked about Sean much. The day they’d met, Christian had been sitting at a table looking so forlorn that Bradley had felt compelled to ask if he was all right. Two hours later and they’d shared more than either of them could ever have anticipated. Christian was reaching the end of a difficult relationship with a fiancée who was unable to come to terms with Christian expressing a desire to see how a male partnership might feel. Discovering and then acting on your desire to try out a same-sex relationship could be traumatic, Bradley knew, but especially when you were still in a straight relationship that no longer felt right. Many of his friends had been through the same painful process, and since then he’d spent many hours counselling Christian through it. Christian’s only request was total anonymity, which was fair enough given that he was still living with his fiancée. Bradley had mentioned Sean in passing when they first got to know one another but these days he felt less and less inclined to discuss him. The guilt Bradley had felt when considering the motives for that disinclination was easily outweighed by the growing enjoyment of sharing his lunch hours with Christian, and so they had fallen into a pattern. They talked about work, politics, music, about their sexuality, but not about their partners.

  ‘So, I’ve set myself a date,’ Christian said. ‘I know I have to leave her before the end of December. I think
if I don’t see the new year in being true to the person I am, I’ll carry this heartache over to next year.’

  ‘You sure you’re ready?’ Bradley asked as his espresso arrived.

  ‘I know I’m ready not to live half a life anymore, and that’s what matters. If she’d been able to accept me as bisexual then maybe it would have worked, but she’s so adamant it’s a phase – I’m halfway through my twenties, who the hell starts a phase now – and I know she’s never going to compromise. It’s the only fair thing to do, for both our sakes.’

  ‘So you still haven’t …?’ Bradley asked in a whisper.

  ‘No. I wanted to go out Saturday night and try a club, but it would have meant going behind my fiancée’s back and I can’t do that. I need to be single first. You think it’ll be weird? I’ve spent my whole adult life only touching women. I can’t imagine what it’ll be like running my hand over muscles like my own. Hey, sorry, I should stop – this was more than you were expecting over a quick coffee, wasn’t it?’

  Bradley closed his mouth, aware that he’d been sitting with parted lips as he pictured the scene.

  ‘The first moves are the hardest, but they’re also the most exciting. Listen, I know we agreed to keep it here but take my mobile number.’ Bradley took hold of Christian’s hand, turned it palm up and wrote his mobile number, thinking how big Christian’s hands were, strong but soft, trying not to wonder how they would feel running over his own body. ‘Call me any time if you need to talk. Any questions, even if they seem stupid to you. I wish I’d had a friend to go to when I first came out. It would have made it so much easier. Let me help, if I can.’

  ‘You know I can’t ask you to do that. It wouldn’t be fair on Sean for you to be getting calls from someone he doesn’t know. This means so much to me already, I don’t want to jeopardise it,’ Christian said.

  ‘Text me before you call. If I can, I’ll phone you back. You shouldn’t go through this alone.’ He held Christian’s hand briefly, squeezing it before standing up. ‘Now I really do have to go. There are some numbers that need crunching.’ Bradley cringed at his own dull cliché.

  ‘I’ll just finish my tea,’ Christian said, standing up and reaching his arms towards Bradley’s shoulders, hugging him hard. ‘Thanks, Brad. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Bradley left, too aware of the rising tension in his mind and of a related rising in his groin. Christian’s body was firm and wiry. He was taller than Bradley and that felt good. He tried to squash the thought before it was fully formed, but too late. It was nice to be held by someone bigger than him, stronger than him. Sean always seem so fragile and vulnerable. Christian was more alpha male, had the body of predator rather than prey. Not that he was comparing them. He was happy with Sean, he reminded himself. More than happy. They fit. They worked.

  His mobile phone rang.

  ‘Put something fizzy in the fridge,’ Sean said. ‘I got it! I am now a full-time member of a professional theatre group. I have the first script in my pocket. I will receive a wage, and I can stop doing crappy unpaid auditions every other day! Yes, I know, you told me so.’

  ‘I never doubted it,’ Bradley said, smiling. ‘Clever you.’

  ‘Right, love you, see you tonight. I have to get off the line and text every person I’ve ever met. This is going to be the most exciting year of my life. Of our lives. I can just feel it,’ Sean said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It wasn’t until Tuesday morning that Ava finally got a call from Chief Inspector Dimitri. She waited for the complaint about DS Lively, prepared to defend him to an extent but only out of squad loyalty. The reality was that the Detective Sergeant had been given enough chances to get a grip on his insubordination. Sooner or later he was going to have to face the consequences.

  ‘DCI Turner, sorry to bother you. I know you’ve a lot on your plate, only I gather you were at Louis Jones’ property on the night of the car crash,’ Dimitri said.

  ‘I was,’ Ava replied.

  ‘That’s no problem at all. It’s just that as I’m heading up the car crash investigation I was wondering if there was something I should know? Maybe we could pool resources.’

  ‘I didn’t find anything helpful, I’m afraid,’ Ava said. ‘Apologies if I’ve crossed over into your territory.’

  ‘Don’t give that another thought. It’s just that I had a report from an SPCA officer who’d been called in to rescue some caged birds. I already had Jones’ details from the DVLA and sent some officers over to check out the address,’ Dimitri said.

  ‘It only ended up on my desk because of an administrative directive. We’ll leave it in your hands now. Is there any news on the driver?’ Ava asked.

  ‘No, and frankly I’m not expecting any. If Jones was the driver, he seems the sort of chancer to have fled the scene. The car wasn’t taxed or insured. My theory is that the other tyre tracks belonged to a friend who picked him up.’

  ‘Yes, but the state of his premises, the way he left his birds. Do you not find that odd?’ Ava mused.

  ‘It’s certainly something we’re bearing in mind, although men like Louis Jones seem to attract trouble, so I don’t think we’ll have a shortlist of suspects for the burglary any time soon.’ Dimitri laughed.

  ‘I hear you. Jones is all yours from now on, Chief Inspector. Apologies that my squad stepped on your toes.’

  Ava hung up, taking the fifty-pound note from the desk drawer where she’d stashed it overnight, then logging into the police database and typing in the note’s serial number. It took a few minutes, but the result was blank. The money, or this note anyway, was not on any criminal evidence files. She was unsurprised. The bundles of money had looked well handled. If it was dirty cash, it had been laundered. It had to have been, for the Chief to have felt comfortable using it.

  She checked her watch and turned on the television. Callanach was due to give a press conference about the Lily Eustis case, appealing for witnesses in an attempt to find the person or people with whom she had shared her final evening. Police Scotland was keeping its escalating concern about the suspicious nature of Lily’s death under wraps for now, but they needed the public’s help if the investigation was to gain ground. There was a pause as the Eustis family settled themselves at the table, then Callanach began to speak.

  ‘We are asking for the public’s co-operation in relation to Lily’s death …’ Callanach recapped the facts as Ava tuned out. Lily’s mother and father were so pale they might have been projections. Her sister was at the edge of the shot, staring off into the distance, swaying slightly. Ava hoped someone in the room was keeping an eye on her. The poor girl didn’t look well. Callanach had finished speaking and was handing over to Lily’s father to read out a prepared statement. Ava had already read the draft so she switched her attention back to Luc. She’d expected him to be angry after setting up the meeting with his mother but she hadn’t been prepared for his coldness. Being the boss was a mixed blessing. A few months ago if he’d behaved like that she’d have had it out with him there and then. Now she had to restrain herself. He looked tough, she thought, as if he was walking into a fight. His mouth was pinched, his cheek bones standing out against his dark hair. His eyes were such a deep shade of brown they were almost black. On screen they were completely arresting. She wanted to talk to him about the Chief, about the money she’d found in Glynis Begbie’s loft, but sharing this particular problem wasn’t fair. Sooner or later a decision would have to be made about reporting the money, but both the Chief’s reputation and his widow’s financial stability were at stake. Then there was the matter of Louis Jones’ disappearance. Find Jones and maybe she would get some answers, albeit possibly not the answers she really wanted. She called DC Tripp in.

  ‘I need landline phone records for Louis Jones at the address we attended this weekend,’ she said. ‘Use a different reference than the road traffic accident crime number would you? I’ve promised CI Dimitri we won’t tread on his toes.’
/>   ‘Looking for anything in particular, ma’am?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘Not sure. Put together a file on the burglary of his premises as a reason to be investigating. Also, do we have any street contacts in Jones’ trade? I need to know where he hung out when he wasn’t at work, who his close friends were. The usual stuff.’

  ‘DS Lively is your best bet for that. I’ll ask him. At the moment everyone’s waiting to see what feedback we get from the Lily Eustis press conference. What do you think, murder or a night out gone wrong?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Ava said. ‘Either way, it’s a life lost that shouldn’t have been. I only hope Lily didn’t die scared. That’s no way to spend your final moments. I’d take pain over fear any day.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Lily’s sister, Mina, had asked her parents to drop her at the university library after the press conference, and they hadn’t argued. Mina had a notebook and pen with her, which was as much of a pretence as she could muster that she was going to the library to study. Home had become a prison of grief. Her mother spoke only in bursts of two or three words, and her father had developed a cough that seemed to never let up. She texted Christian from the library entrance and he arrived a minute later, carrying books under his arm and looking concerned.

  ‘I saw it on the television,’ Christian said, hugging her. ‘How are you holding up?’

  ‘I’m losing my mind,’ Mina said. ‘Can we go somewhere else? If I hear another ticking clock or person whispering, I think I might start screaming.’

  ‘Come on,’ Christian said, taking his scarf and wrapping it around her neck. ‘Let’s get a drink. F. Scott Fitzgerald can wait.’ He put an arm around her and bundled her through the doors. ‘I’m flat-sitting for a friend this weekend. Let’s go there.’