Perfect Remains: A gripping thriller that will leave you breathless
Perfect Remains: A gripping thriller that will leave you breathless
Helen Fields
‘Must read!’ Closer‘I love, love, LOVE Perfect Remains!’ Reader review‘A superb debut!’ Reader reviewOn a remote Highland mountain, the body of Elaine Buxton is burning. All that will be left to identify the respected lawyer are her teeth and a fragment of clothing.In the concealed back room of a house in Edinburgh, the real Elaine Buxton screams into the darkness…Detective Inspector Luc Callanach has barely set foot in his new office when Elaine’s missing persons case is escalated to a murder investigation. Having left behind a promising career at Interpol, he’s eager to prove himself to his new team. But Edinburgh, he discovers, is a long way from Lyon, and Elaine’s killer has covered his tracks with meticulous care.It’s not long before another successful woman is abducted from her doorstep, and Callanach finds himself in a race against the clock. Or so he believes … The real fate of the women will prove more twisted than he could have ever imagined.Fans of Angela Marson, Mark Billingham and M. J. Aldridge will be gripped by this chilling journey into the mind of a troubled killer.
Copyright (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017
Copyright © Helen Fields 2017
Cover photographs © Arcangel Images / Shutterstock
Cover design © HarperCollins 2017
Helen Fields asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008181550
Ebook Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780008181567
Version: 2018-05-14
Dedication (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
For David, Gabriel, Solomon and Evangeline,
who let me write in a time machine
where just five more minutes in my world
is always an hour or two in yours.
Contents
Cover (#u250b825c-685e-54d2-9fbd-6f2ebbe80562)
Title Page (#uf8876f2c-7b60-5965-b110-70a22f1b7f52)
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on for a sneak peek of Perfect Prey
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
He laid out the body with almost fatherly care, stretching each limb wide, allowing air to circulate freely around her skin. She was ashen but peaceful, her eyelashes bold against the greyness of her face, lips colourless. He preferred it to the way she’d looked when they’d first met. The nakedness was unattractive, splayed as she was, but it was necessary. There should be no part of her left. No aspect of her past, no link to the life she was leaving. This was, in many ways, a cleansing. Very precisely, he aimed his foot above the middle of her left humerus, letting his whole weight bear down on her arm, feeling the crackle and shatter of it vibrate through the bones in his own leg. Only when satisfied that the pyre was perfectly prepared did he take the small silk pouch from his trouser pocket. Tipping the white gems into his hand, he rolled them between deft fingers and palm, enjoying the contrasting smoothness and sharpness, dropping them like pennies down a wishing well into her mouth, saving just one. It seemed a shame to burn such immaculate work but no flesh could be spared. He had soaked the body in accelerant overnight, marinating her, he’d joked, just in case someone stumbled in earlier than expected, not that he was so amateurish that it would happen.
As a last touch before leaving the stone cabin, he allowed a fragment of bloodied silk scarf to drift to the floor. Planting a heavy rock over it, he ground it into the earth. The grate of a struck match, the screech of ancient rusty hinges, the woof of flames consuming oxygen and it was done. He carried a metal baseball bat a reasonable distance away and covered it with rocks. He’d polished it free of fingerprints but, invisible to the naked eye and awaiting the black light that would illuminate it, a single smudge of blood remained on the handle. A few feet further and he relinquished the final tooth, sticky threads of gum tissue left dangling, then kicked a token sheet of dust over it. That would do.
There was a walk, not so very far but perilous in the dark, which made it slow. The air temperature was below freezing even in the foothills. His breath misted the sharp focus of the stars above him. It was a fine resting place for her, he thought. She was lucky. Few people left the world from such a viewpoint. Soon enough, the Cairngorms were disappearing behind him in the mist. When the first light hit them, they would turn purple-grey against the sky, barren and rocky, almost a moonscape. He watched in his mirror as the vast formations dipped into no more than shallow hills. This was his last visit here, he thought. A final farewell. It had proved to be the perfect location.
Edinburgh was still more than an hour away and there was rain forecast, not that it would stop the burning. By the time the first drop fell, the heat would be so intense that only a flood could halt the destruction. His priority was to get home as quickly as was prudent. There was so much left to do.
The woman had given in more easily than he’d imagined. If it had been him, he’d have fought to the last, would have focused every ounce of anger and bile on resisting. She had pleaded, begged and in the end cried feebly and howled. Life was cheap, he thought, because the general populace failed to appreciate its value. He understood. He constantly pushed himself to the limits of his capability, strove to learn, to surpass. He burned with a thirst for knowledge like others craved money, making it hard to find an equal. That was why he’d been forced to kill. Without her sacrifice, he would forever have been surrounded by women unable to satisfy his intellect.
He listened to a language CD as he drove. He liked to learn a new language each year. This time it was Spanish. Easier than many, he admitted to himself guiltily, but then he had an exhausting amount of other matters on his mind. He couldn’t be expected to pick up anything more complex whilst doing so much research and travelling.
‘It’s not as if I’ve had any free time.’ A rabbit dashed out from the verge. He slammed on his brakes, less from a desire to avoid it than with the shock of the movement in his peripheral vision. ‘Damn it!’ He was distracted and he’d been talking to himself again. He only did that when he was overtired. And stressed. He’d stayed up late arguing. Whoever thought it was an easy task persuading an intelligent woman to do what was best for her, was a fool. It was a challenge, even for a man of his faculties. The brighter the woman, the harder it was. But rewarding in the end.
He pulled over at the outskirts of Edinburgh and drank passably warm coffee from a flask. He couldn’t risk going into a cafe. In spite of the lack of interest he was likely to generate – no one wanted to stare at a middle-aged, saggy-bellied man with an unsightly bald patch – it would be stupid to have his likeness caught on CCTV returning to the city along this route.
The Spanish voice droned in the background until he hit the off switch. It was such a big day, why shouldn’t he take a break for once? A lady was waiting at home, needing substantial care and attention. She wouldn’t be able to talk clearly for a while, in fact she would probably need speech therapy. Luckily for her, he was a gifted tutor in many fields. It would be his pleasure and privilege to assist.
Chapter Two (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
Detective Inspector Luc Callanach wondered how long it would take for the jibes to stop, and they hadn’t even started yet. It was his second day with Police Scotland’s Major Investigations Team in Edinburgh and he’d found himself in a depressingly grey, ageing building that couldn’t have looked less like a hub of cutting-edge criminal investigation. Yesterday had been an easy introduction, consisting only of briefings and meetings with superiors too aware of political correctness to dare crack any gags about his accent or nationality. Those who ranked below him wouldn’t be so obliging. It seemed unlikely that Police Scotland had ever had to integrate a half-French half-Scots detective before.
Callanach was scheduled to give a meet and greet speech, explain how he intended to operate, and what his expectations were of the men and women in his command. It would be bad enough when they saw him – archetypally European with unruly dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin and an aquiline nose. Once he opened his mouth, it would only get worse. He glanced at his watch and knew they’d be sharpening their collective wits. Keeping them waiting wasn’t going to improve things, not that he particularly cared what they thought of him but he was all for an easy life where he could get it.
‘Quiet. Let’s get started,’ he said, writing his name on a board and ignoring the incredulous looks. ‘I’ve only recently moved from France and it will take some time for us to adjust to one another’s accents, so speak clearly and slowly.’
There was silence until what sounded like, ‘You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding,’ came from the far end of the room, where too many bodies were crowded together to identify the speaker. It was followed immediately by a shushing noise that was distinctly female in origin. Callanach rubbed his forehead and reined in the desire to check his watch as he prepared to tolerate the inevitable questions.
‘Excuse me, Detective Inspector, but is Callanach not a Scottish name? It’s just that we weren’t expecting anyone quite so … European.’
‘I was born in Scotland and raised bilingual. That’s as much as any of you needs to know.’
‘Bi-what? Is that even legal here?’ a blonde woman called out, to the enjoyment of her fellow officers. Callanach watched her watching the others, waiting for their response and saw that she was trying to impress, to fit in with the boys. He waited blank-faced and bored for the laughter to subside.
‘I expect regular case updates. Lines of command will be tightly managed. Investigations falter when one person fails to pass on their knowledge to others. Higher rank is no excuse for you to blame those beneath you and inexperience is no defence for ineptitude. Come to me to discuss either progress or problems. If you want to complain, phone your mother. We have three live cases at the moment and you’ve been allocated tasks on those. Questions?’
‘Is it right that you were an Interpol agent, sir?’ a detective constable asked. Callanach guessed he was no more than twenty-five, all curiosity and enthusiasm, as he had been at that age. It seemed a lifetime ago.
‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tripp,’ he replied.
‘Well, Tripp, do you know the difference between assisting an international murder investigation with Interpol and conducting one in Scotland?’
‘No, sir,’ Tripp answered, eyes shifting left and right, as if terrified that the question was the start of some unexpected test.
‘Absolutely nothing. There’s a corpse, grieving relatives, more questions than answers, and pressure from the top to get it sorted in no time and at minimal cost. Even under the constraints of budgeted policing, I won’t forgive sloppiness. The stakes are too high to let your dissatisfaction at the current overtime rate affect the effort you’re willing to put in.’ He took a moment to stare round the room, meeting every pair of eyes full on, making his point. ‘Tripp,’ he said, when he’d finished, ‘grab another constable and come to my office.’
Callanach exited the room without farewells or niceties. No doubt Tripp was already getting it in the neck for being singled out, the team was bemoaning their newly allocated detective inspector and bitching about Police Scotland’s failure to promote from within. Policing was the same all over the world. Only the coffee really changed from place to place. Here, he was unsurprised to find, it was bloody awful.
His office could best be described as functional. It would take promotion to a higher rank before he transcended into actual comfort. Still, it was quiet and light with two telephones, as if somehow he could split himself in half and take two calls at once. On the floor were just two boxes of personal possessions awaiting transfer into drawers and onto shelves. Not that there was anything vital in them. He’d come to Scotland for a clean start. The country of his birth had seemed the logical place to put down new roots, not to mention one of the few places he could apply for a police position as a passport holder.
Tripp knocked on his door, a young woman behind him.
‘Ready for us, sir?’ Tripp asked.
Callanach beckoned them in. ‘And you are?’
‘Detective Constable Salter. Nice to meet you, sir,’ she said, looking down at her shoes part way through the introduction. Her awkwardness was irritating in its predictability. Callanach suffered from the least likely affliction of being good looking to the point of distraction, with a face that could – and had – stopped traffic. Few people understood that it was more burden than blessing these days.
‘Salter, take me through procedures from initial crime report, ordering forensics and into trial preparation. Tripp, I want comprehensive notes on forms, filing, the works. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir, not a problem.’ Tripp seemed delighted to be of use. All Salter managed was a downcast mumble which Callanach took as agreement.
‘Would you give us the room please, constables?’ a voice cut in behind them. Standing in the doorway was a female officer in dress uniform. Salter and Tripp scattered as she entered and kicked the door shut behind her.
‘I’m DI Turner, Ava as we’re the same rank.’ She gave a wide grin, suffering none of Salter’s inability to look him in the eyes. Callanach’s fellow detective inspector was around five foot five and slim. Her chestnut, shoulder-length hair was curly although an attempt had been made to restrain it in a ponytail. She wasn’t beautiful, not in modern advertising terms, but handsome would have been an insult. Her features were fine, grey eyes widely spaced.
‘Callanach,’ he responded. ‘By the look on your face, I’d say you’ve been party to something I haven’t. Did you want to share it or am I supposed to guess?’
Ava Turner ignored the dismissive tone and answered unabashed. ‘Well, I did hear one of the sergeants asking why they’d been sent an underwear model instead of a proper policeman.’
‘I get the picture,’ he said.
‘I’m guessing you’re used to it. If it helps, the fact that you’re French will be more acceptable to the majority of them than I am.’
‘English?’ he asked, as he shifted the position of a filing cabinet.
‘Pure Scottish, but my parents sent me to an English boarding school from the age of seven, hence the accent. That makes me about as welcome as the plague. Don’t worry about it. If they actually liked you at this stage, you’d be doomed to fail. Presumably you’ve arrived with a suitably thick skin. Give me a shout if you have any problems, you’ll find my numbers on the contact sheet in your desk. I’d better go and change. I’m just back from a community awards ceremony and I can’t stand being in uniform. Your team are a good bunch, just don’t take too much shit from them.’
‘I have no intention of taking any shit from anyone,’ he replied, picking up one of the phones and checking for a dial tone. When he looked up again, he was speaking to an empty space and an open doorway. Callanach dropped into the chair behind his desk. He took out his mobile, programmed in a few of the more important numbers from the contact sheet and was just considering emptying the first of his boxes when Tripp bundled in.
‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but we’ve just had a call from an officer at Braemar. They’ve found a body and are asking to speak with someone about it.’
‘And Braemar is in which area of the city?’
‘It’s not in the city, it’s in the Cairngorm Mountains, sir.’
‘For God’s sake, Tripp, stop saying sir at the end of every sentence and explain to me how that could possibly be an Edinburgh case.’
‘They suspect it’s the body of a woman reported missing from the city a couple of weeks ago, a lawyer called Elaine Buxton. They’ve found a scrap of clothing that matches a scarf she was wearing when last seen.’
‘That’s all? No other link?’
‘Everything else has been burned, sir, I mean, sorry. Braemar thought we might want to be involved early on.’
‘All right, Constable. Pull together everything there is on Elaine Buxton then get Braemar on the phone. I want detailed information on my desk in fifteen minutes. If that is Edinburgh’s missing person then we’re already running two weeks behind her killer.’
Chapter Three (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
Callanach put down the phone feeling weary and decided it was down to the effort of decoding the Scottish accent. He barely remembered his father and, although his mother had insisted he learn to speak English as well as her mother-tongue French, he hadn’t been prepared for full immersion. The sergeant from Braemar managed to mix the singsong cadence with a regular dose of colloquialisms. Callanach suspected it might have been largely for his benefit and, a couple of sentences in, had stopped bothering to ask what any of it meant. He made an idle note of the word ‘haver’. Tripp would have to double as interpreter. In the meantime, Callanach had agreed to consult on a case that should technically speaking have been out of his jurisdiction. That wouldn’t endear him to anyone, additional money and manpower being expended where it could be avoided, but it certainly sounded as if the body in the mountains was Edinburgh’s missing woman.
He saw Salter going past his office and stuck his head out of the door.
‘Which of the current cases is nearest to resolution?’ he shouted after her.
‘Brownlow murder, sir. Culprit’s been apprehended, we’re just prepping the files for the Procurator Fiscal. Preliminary court hearing is next week.’
‘Right. I want you, Tripp and two others from the Brownlow team in the briefing room in ten minutes. Organise it. And how far away are the Cairngorms?’ The look Salter gave him was all the response he needed. An overnight bag was required.
The briefing was tense. The squad he’d shifted from the Brownlow case obviously wasn’t thrilled at the two-hour drive they had coming, nor starting a new batch of paperwork while they were still finishing another. Detective Constables Tripp, Barnes and Salter were led by Detective Sergeant Lively. The detective sergeant was studying him as if he’d just crawled out of a cesspit. Callanach ignored him and gave the fastest explanation he could for what they were doing, then handed over to the officer sent to update them on the missing person investigation.
‘Elaine Margaret Buxton, thirty-nine years of age, divorced, no children, worked as a commercial lawyer at one of the biggest law firms in the city. She went missing sixteen days ago. The last confirmed sighting was on a Friday night as she left the gym to return home. Her mother reported her missing the following evening after she’d failed to turn up for lunch and couldn’t be raised on either her home phone or mobile. Her car was in her garage, no clothes or cases gone, passport still there. It was out of character for her not to have checked her emails on the Saturday morning. Her keys were found in a communal hallway. She’s described as incredibly organised, borderline workaholic, hadn’t taken so much as a day sick in the previous two years.’
‘Any boyfriend or obvious suspects?’ DC Barnes asked.
‘The ex-husband Ryan Buxton is working abroad with a full alibi. There’s no known boyfriend. Everyone we’ve spoken to has confirmed that she was completely obsessed with the law. She was either at the office, at home or an exercise class. We had no leads, until this.’
‘Why are the Braemar police so convinced this is your missing person?’ asked Callanach.
‘The last person to see Miss Buxton had a photo of her on their mobile. She’d stopped by the gym bar to have a drink at a friend’s birthday celebration. We circulated the photo and listed the clothes in detail. That’s how they came up with the match.’
‘Has anyone contacted her family yet?’ Tripp asked.
Callanach took that one himself. ‘No, and mouths had better stay shut until we’ve seen the body and crime scene for ourselves. DNA evidence is required before we make a positive link.’
‘This might be our missing person but it’s not our homicide. What’re we doing chasing up country when we haven’t got so much as a confirmed identification?’ asked DS Lively. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t got our own cases to be getting on with and there’s some detective inspectors on that patch who could work this case as well as any former Interpol bigshot.’
‘If that is Elaine Buxton, she was abducted from Edinburgh, meaning there’s a reasonable chance she was murdered here too. I’m not prepared to lose the opportunity of inspecting the crime scene because you can’t be bothered to make the drive. As for any outstanding work on the Brownlow case – learn to multitask.’ Callanach snatched his notes from the table. ‘We have some distance to cover, so get moving.’
Back in his office, Callanach threw a toothbrush, raincoat and boots into a bag. He considered leaving DS Lively behind instead of putting up with his sour face for the next two days, then thought again. Better to deal with the man than let him win. His squad needed to know from the outset that he wouldn’t stand laziness or insubordination. It didn’t matter what they thought. For the next six months they would criticise whatever decisions he made, right or wrong, until they found a more interesting target.
Chapter Four (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
They met with local police at the rural satellite station in Braemar and were transported into the mountains in a four-wheel drive. Some off-roading was required to get near the crime scene and the weather was closing in. It took another hour to get there. The temperature had dropped dramatically by the time Callanach saw the lights and tents of the investigative team. The only blessing, courtesy of the location, was that there was no sign of the press.
‘Who found it?’ he asked the driver.
‘A couple of hikers saw the flames from a distant peak but had to walk fifteen minutes before they got mobile reception to phone it in. By the time the fire service had located the bothy it was nearly burned out. Not much left to see, I’m afraid.’ Callanach took out a camera. He always took his own photos at crime scenes. Later, the images would cover his office wall.
The bothy, more refuge than accommodation, was a stone hut left unlocked for hikers caught in storms or mid trek, consisting of a single room, its rear wall set into the rock face. Callanach guessed the original building dated back a couple of hundred years. Now the roof was completely gone, fallen in once the fire had taken hold, making the forensic investigation painstaking. Even the huge stones of the wall base had shifted in the intense heat. Callanach surveyed the horizon. This wasn’t a place you could stumble across. Whoever had brought the woman here had chosen carefully, made sure it was nowhere near regular trekking routes, and had been inside before.
‘Where is the body?’ he asked.
‘They’ve collected the bones already, but their positions are marked inside,’ the driver told him.
‘Just bones? That’s all that remains?’
‘Afraid so. The soft tissue was completely incinerated. We’ve no precise idea how long the fire was burning but it was a matter of hours, for sure.’
They walked to the doorway of the hut, now ablaze with portable floodlights, and watched as two forensics officers trod gingerly through the dusty debris. It was a grim place to die. A hand on Callanach’s shoulder stopped his imagination from filling in the details.
‘DI Callanach? I’m Jonty Spurr, one of Aberdeenshire’s pathologists. Not much left here for you, I’m afraid.’
Callanach shook his head. ‘I was told you had located an item of clothing. How did that survive when everything else is ashes?’
‘It’s not a complete item, just a scrap of a scarf, but the pattern was sufficiently remarkable that one of the constables recognised it as the same as your missing person’s. It got trapped under a rock and the lack of oxygen protected it. It’s already on its way to the lab for DNA testing. Looks as if there’s some blood on it.’
Callanach frowned. ‘That’s all you’ve got? Surely there must be something more.’
‘These are the cards we were dealt, Detective Inspector. Fire is a crime scene’s worst enemy. The accelerant can usually be identified fairly quickly. Unfortunately, it’s a peat floor in this part of the Cairngorms which quite literally added more fuel to the flames. Without it, I’m sure it wouldn’t have burned so long or so hot. The bones are badly damaged.’
‘What about tyre marks? There must have been tracks.’
‘You’d hope so, but the fire trucks were called in first and tore up the ground. They had no idea what was inside. We’ll get the dogs out tomorrow and do a fine-comb check of the area but it’ll do no good tonight, not enough light left.’
Callanach took out his camera again and began collecting images of the grey and black charcoal mess of floor.
‘Did she die here?’
‘I can’t say for sure, and with only bones left I may not be able to pinpoint a cause of death, unless the skull gives me something. Many of the bones are broken, the jaw is in pieces. It seems to me though that this was about disposing of the body. Your murderer didn’t want anything left, was probably hoping she’d be unidentifiable,’ the pathologist remarked, pulling off rubber gloves and stretching his neck.
‘You believe she was killed elsewhere and transported here?’
‘You’re the detective. That part’s up to you. If you’re staying overnight, you can come to the morgue in the morning, see what we’ve got.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Callanach replied, looking around for Tripp. He found him stealing a sip of coffee from Sergeant Lively’s flask. ‘Tripp, interview the hikers, mark their precise position on a map and the time they first saw the fire. I want to hear their call to the emergency services and you’ll need to go to the spot where they were standing to photograph the view they had across to here,’
Sergeant Lively interrupted. ‘Statements will have been taken already so I don’t see what good that’ll do.’
The man’s too-long-in-the-job attitude was tiresome to deal with, but far from unusual. Callanach fought the desire to reprimand him and concentrated instead on the matters at hand.
‘The number of hours this fire was burning will help us determine the time the murderer left the scene. The height, and perhaps even the colour of the flames when the hikers saw them, might help establish that, enabling us to question local people about unusual vehicles within a specific time frame.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Lively mumbled, not bothering to hide his lack of respect.
‘Where are we staying tonight, sir?’ Tripp asked, stamping his feet and shoving his hands ever deeper in his pockets. For all his usual enthusiasm, Tripp looked distinctly uncomfortable in the great outdoors and the freezing cold.
‘Ask the local officers what’s around. There must be accommodation reasonably nearby. Tell Salter she’s to attend the morgue with me in the morning and I want Barnes at the scene until it’s completely documented. Feedback from each one of you, every two hours.’
‘What if that’s not Elaine Buxton? It’ll have been a complete waste of our time.’
Callanach glared at Lively. ‘Whoever’s corpse that is, Sergeant, they were almost certainly murdered and if we can contribute to the investigation then only an idiot would regard it as a waste. So unless you have something professional to contribute, from now on you can keep your personal opinions to yourself.’
Chapter Five (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
The landline rang. King studied the number before picking up. It was a local code.
‘Dr King,’ he snapped.
‘Hello, this is Sheila Klein from Human Resources. I’ve been asked to ring and see when we can expect you back. University policy is that we need a doctor’s note for medical leave beyond three consecutive days.’
Reginald King sighed. He hated the petty rules and regulations that tied him into his banal public existence. The woman on the phone couldn’t possibly comprehend that there were aspects of his life demanding more attention than his underpaid, under-appreciated and underwhelming job.
‘I’m aware of the terms of my employment contract.’
‘So, any idea when we might see you or have confirmation from your doctor?’ Sheila asked, her voice trailing off towards the end of the sentence.
King took a key from his pocket as she whined. ‘A few more days,’ he said. ‘Maybe a week. The virus has gone to my chest and set off my asthma.’
‘Gosh, that sounds awful. You know we have an open-door policy. Do call if you think you’ll need more leave. I’m sure the department head will be sympathetic.’
The Head of School in the Department of Philosophy would not be sympathetic, King thought. She would be as ignorant as ever, and the ignorant always failed to appreciate him. Just because he was an administrator rather than an academic, because his qualifications came from a university she chose not to recognise, because he hadn’t climbed the ranks through socialising and networking, she was not interested in him. Well, the Department of Philosophy could pay his wages while he had some time to himself. Professor Natasha Forge, the youngest Head of School of any department at the University of Edinburgh, would no doubt fail to even register his absence.
King unplugged the phone. Twelve steps down into the cellar he went, switching on the basement light and sliding a wooden panel in the wall to reveal a keyhole. Unlocking the hidden door and stepping inside, he rose twelve steps back up, parallel to the first staircase but concealed behind a layer of plaster, brick and sound proofing. At the back of his house was a secret space, windowless, silent, timeless. It was a place of beauty. He congratulated himself on how well he had designed it with pastel colours to soothe, with gently piped classical music, and art prints adorning the walls. Unless you surveyed the house inside and out, you would never know the back section existed. It was his island. He recited John Donne’s lines as he took a key to the last door. The great poet was right. He could not be entire, if alone. That was why he had gifted one fortunate person with the chance to accompany him on his journey. As he opened the door, the woman on the bed began to scream.
Elaine Buxton, recently presumed dead, the bones attributed to her corpse already laid out on an autopsy table, strands of DNA in code form swirling through cyber space so that her death could be formally recorded, cried out until her voice was hoarse.
‘Your gums are healing nicely,’ King said. He spoke softly to her. It was a point of pride that he didn’t lose his temper, no matter how much she screamed. Not so with the other woman. When he’d taken her, she’d scratched, bitten and kicked him so hard his groin had been agony for a week. She’d required no delicate handling. She had been beneath him.
‘Pleath, ’et me go,’ Elaine mouthed, the tears starting again. That irritated him, as he knew it would any man, but it was to be expected for a while. Until she learned to appreciate him.
‘In a week your mouth will have recovered enough to fit dentures, then we’ll commence speech therapy. It won’t be instantaneous but you’re a bright woman. You need another shot of antibiotics and more steroids. Please don’t fight me, I’m only trying to speed the healing process.’
Elaine began to shudder although the motion made no impact on the metal ankle and wrist cuffs with short chains, binding her to the bed. King took out two syringes. He was respectful when he touched her, would never cause unnecessary pain. She didn’t understand that yet, obviously believing that at any moment she might receive the same treatment as her decoy. It was a shame he’d had to kill the woman in front of Elaine, but it had all been part of the education process. She needed to know that he was capable of being strict. Every pupil had to be shown stick and offered carrot. Knowing that one’s teacher would not tolerate a failure to comply was an excellent motivator.
He stroked Elaine’s arm with his pale, silky hand. She shivered as their flesh made contact but did not tell him to stop. Perhaps, he thought, she was learning already. That was why he’d chosen her. Months of watching, waiting, consuming her days and nights from the shadows. Studying her. Real study with commitment, not the poor excuse for it that universities accepted these days, had borne fruit. She was perfect. Adaptable. Fast. No husband or children to distract her. He’d seen her pick up a set of legal papers at six in the evening and work all night, only caffeine for company, springing into court the following morning as if she’d slept ten hours. Then she’d go to the gym and work the tension from her body. There was no excess. She was driven, like him. Constantly improving.
That was why her choice of body double had been so ironic. King couldn’t have found a more dynamic opposite. All he’d needed was a woman of roughly the same age, height and build. The fact that she was a prostitute, stick thin (presumably from years of drug abuse) and barely able to string together a coherent sentence, had made it all the easier to dispose of her. He could have been kinder, but she wouldn’t listen when he’d tried to explain the service she was performing, giving him a life partner who was his perfect match.
He’d never even learned her name. As it was, she would forever be the missing Elaine Buxton. And Elaine Buxton, erased from the living world, belonged wholly and exclusively to him.
‘I could rename you,’ he said. ‘It might be an important part of the adjustment process. Compile a shortlist in your head of say three or four. You can explain why you selected each of them, then I shall choose the one I find the most pleasing. It’ll be a good way for us to move forward together.’
‘You’re crathy,’ she whispered as he withdrew the needle from her arm.
‘You shouldn’t use such base terms. But you’re upset and I’ll be lenient for a while.’
‘Wha’ ’id you do with the girl?’
‘You needn’t worry about her. At the end, her sacrifice made up for her wasted life.’
Elaine was staring at the area where he’d carefully laid out a vast sheet of plastic for the girl’s body. King had used an old car, hired from a sufficiently disreputable dealership that wouldn’t want any contact with the police, and kept it in a garage away from his home. One night he’d driven to Glasgow, picked up the girl who was soliciting in her usual spot (he’d been there several times to select the right one) and driven round a few streets to find a quiet place for her to earn her money. He’d found that concept amusing, even as he’d pressed the chloroform-soaked rag over her face. Earning money. That was all young women thought they had to do for a few pounds these days, believing that men existed to pay for them, that they simply had to don a short skirt and paint their mouths red. It was pitiful. And she’d wanted to charge him thirty pounds to put her filthy tongue inside his trousers. He was ridding the world of a scourge. He may well have stopped the spread of a dreadful disease by bundling her unconscious body under a tarpaulin and driving her away from her next customer.
It had taken immense physical effort to cart her into the hidden room. Down one set of stairs and up another had seemed like a genius plan when he’d conceived it. The reality was more cumbersome. Several times he’d banged her head hard on the steps, not that it mattered. He’d kept her body wrapped in plastic, but allowed her to breathe. Asphyxiation wasn’t the plan.
Elaine hadn’t liked it when he’d brought the girl in. Perhaps the tiniest hint of jealousy behind the melodramatic hyperventilation and wide-eyed head shaking, he’d thought. How could she ever have believed he would bring such a filthy, low creature into their lives?
King had returned the woman to consciousness long enough to obtain details of past fractures. Previous injuries could tell tales. The thickening of bones long after they’d healed could reveal an unhelpful story, even if all the DNA had been destroyed. She’d been remarkably forthcoming. He’d just had to promise he’d let her live if she provided the information he wanted.
In the event, there wasn’t much to be concerned about. A finger broken in a car door and a dislocated shoulder that wouldn’t show up. By far the more important thing was to ensure that the girl’s left upper arm was fragmented where Elaine’s had been fractured after she came off a bicycle as a teenager. If that bone was left intact and the pathologist was thorough, then all of King’s hard work would have been for nothing.
Once he had all he needed, King had told Elaine to watch and not look away. When he’d put on the protective glasses the prostitute had only looked curious. When he’d snapped on rubber gloves and a face mask she’d begun to plead. Elaine, for once, had grown silent. When he’d picked up the baseball bat, well, that was a different story. He had no memory of Elaine’s reaction for those few minutes. He’d experienced what he assumed was tunnel vision, for the first time in his life. It had been a breathtaking episode. Everything but the screaming, whimpering, dribbling, blubbering pile of living flesh before him had faded out. There had been no peripheral vision to distract him. He couldn’t hear anything beyond her feral cries. It was the most intensely concentrated sensation he had ever felt.
He’d awoken, and it was an awakening, standing before her, bat clutched in his hands, to find his pulse racing as if he’d run a marathon. It had been quite the adrenaline rush. For a while there was silence, then gradually Elaine’s intermittent sob-screams had broken through. The girl’s face was a mess, as he’d intended. He’d needed to bash every one of her teeth out of their sockets and damage the jaw beyond x-ray comparison for the identity exchange to work. He hadn’t foreseen that he’d get so carried away, he felt rising shame at the guilty pleasure he’d taken, seeing his handiwork in the bruises on her neck and breasts, guessing there were marks on her stomach and legs too, but unwilling to lift her undoubtedly infested clothing to see. He’d lost control – nothing to be proud of – but didn’t he deserve to vent? Better to let it out with her than Elaine. He had no desire to diminish his prize.
King shook himself out of the memory and stared at the woman whose identity the prostitute had taken in death.
‘How are we doing with those tapes? I’m sure you’ve been glad to have an activity to occupy you. I know you already speak French so I thought Russian might be a more exciting challenge. When you’re talking properly again, I’ll test you and we can make some real progress.’
He flicked a switch on the sound system and a voice began speaking words that Elaine had no inclination to listen to, or repeat. With a baby-soft kiss on her forehead, King placed a protein drink at her side and left.
Chapter Six (#ulink_f4600d4f-2019-5ba5-90c0-39cd5ced73e6)
The autopsy table looked more comfortable than the bed he’d slept in. That was before it was occupied by the remnants of what was presumed to be Elaine Buxton’s skeleton. It had been a bad night. Callanach would have self-medicated with a decent bottle of red, but the only wine on offer had a label with all the appeal of a bargain-bucket binge drinker’s delight. Braemar was a slightly touristy but pleasant village lacking much choice in accommodation and the better options had been fully booked. In the absence of good wine, he’d settled for a dilapidated TV with crackling reception, soup he’d admired only because he’d previously thought it impossible to cook it so badly, and half decent coffee.
Jonty Spurr, the pathologist, was quiet as he worked. Callanach appreciated that. He’d witnessed too many autopsies to be disturbed by the body. What he found more disquieting was the forced cheer some pathologists had about them. Too talkative, too determined to lift the atmosphere. Spurr was slow, not annoyingly so, but unhurried and probably unflappable under even the worst pressure.
‘The victim was an adult female, aged between thirty and forty, I’d say, approximately five foot six.’
Callanach glanced at DC Salter. She was young but not new to the job and showed no sign of being troubled by what she saw.
‘Has the accelerant been identified yet?’ she asked.
‘We’ll need to do more tests on the bones for that. The fire department might have picked something up at the scene.’ Spurr chose a bone fragment and held it up for Callanach to inspect more closely. ‘The heat and length of time the fire was burning destroyed any chance of getting DNA from the bone marrow. The skull, jaw and upper chest sustained damage not caused by the fire. You can see a pattern of fractures indicating repeated use of a heavy, blunt weapon. Must have taken quite some force.’
‘Was that the cause of death?’ Callanach asked.
‘I’d put my money on those injuries occurring before death. The resulting trauma to the brain may well have been what killed her. With no soft tissue left, I’m not going to do much better than that. Given the planning put into disposing of the body, there’d have been no other practical reason to disfigure the face after death.’
‘Bastard,’ Salter said.
‘Indeed,’ Spurr replied. ‘We’re cross-checking the teeth against Elaine Buxton’s dental records. Some have fillings or caps, so it should be easy enough.’
‘How soon will we have that?’ Callanach was keen to leave. Morgues made him claustrophobic in spite of the bright light and fierce air conditioning. It felt like a prison cell and he’d had enough of those.
‘Maybe as early as tomorrow. Will you still be here?’
Callanach wasn’t even going to consider another night in the same accommodation.
‘No, in Edinburgh. We’re going back to the crime scene to get a daylight view then we’ll set off. You’ll call when you have more information?’
Spurr nodded, stripped off a glove and offered Callanach a hand. He disliked the dry, powdery feel of it against his own, as if death was contagious.
‘Is there any news from the crime scene this morning?’ he asked Salter once they were on the road.
‘No. I tried to speak to DC Tripp but mobile reception was poor. He and DS Lively were off to speak with the hikers first thing, but they should be back at the crime scene by the time we get there.’
‘She wasn’t murdered there,’ Callanach said.
‘Surely it’s hard to tell at this stage,’ the young constable commented quietly.
‘Why bother taking her so far to kill her? It makes no sense. It may be the perfect site to dispose of a body, but it’s not a comfortable or convenient place for playing out his fantasy about her death. A great deal of time passed between her disappearance and the corpse turning up, time the murderer spent elsewhere with the victim. Whoever abducted her had this place in mind for weeks, if not months.’
An hour later the bothy was back in sight. Forensic investigators were shouting to one another, the excitement plain on their faces. Callanach was out of the car before Salter could put on the hand brake.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked a passing officer.
‘The dogs tracked a weapon some distance away, buried under a pile of stones.’ Callanach watched the back slapping among the handlers.
There would be no fingerprints, he thought. A man who found such a perfect place to destroy a body didn’t leave prints.
‘Good news, right, sir?’ came Tripp’s voice from behind him.
‘Tell me what you’ve got,’ Callanach replied. Tripp wiped the smile off his face and looked down at his notebook.
‘The hikers repeated what they’d said in their statements. Oliver Deacon and Tom Shelley, both in their early twenties, had been hiking for about three hours, reached the midway point in their route and saw the blaze from’ – he looked around, identified a peak and pointed into the distance – ‘over there. They had binoculars and took photos with their phones, not that they show anything except a distant orange dot. I’ve drawn a map of their route.’
Callanach nodded. ‘We’ll head back to Edinburgh tonight,’ he said. ‘If I authorise any more overtime, I’ll have no job to get back to.’
Two hours later, they were fighting the city traffic.
‘Something wrong, sir?’ Tripp ventured after dropping Salter home.
‘I think so,’ Callanach replied. ‘I just don’t know what yet.’
‘We’ll be taking over the case, will we, if it proves to be Elaine Buxton’s body?’
‘As soon as I’ve cleared it with the Detective Chief Inspector. Take me straight to the station.’
The Major Investigations Team offices were all but deserted. Callanach liked being alone. He could concentrate, undisturbed by slamming doors, the hiss and gurgle of drinks machines and the constant undertone of voices. Quiet was uncomplicated. And it delayed returning to his flat. Somehow the act of unlocking that door would make his transition to working and living in Scotland real. He longed for France, for the culture that ran in his blood. Having one Scottish parent and being fluent in the language was no substitute for the country that had been his home for all but the first four years of his life. Even the cloud under which he’d left hadn’t tainted his memories of Lyon.
He opened a box and began dumping the contents into drawers.
‘So was your trip to the Cairngorms worth the bollocking it’s going to get you?’ came a voice from the doorway. Startled, he dropped a file, getting a laugh from his fellow detective inspector. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t meant to scare you. Apparently Interpol agents are easily caught unawares.’
Callanach retrieved the file from the floor, frowning as he reordered the paperwork.
‘DI Turner, I’d assumed I was alone.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly one in the morning.’
‘I practise my best paperwork avoidance at night. No one here to chase me for it. That and the fact that I’ve done so many night shifts, my brain has long since ceased to differentiate between dark and light,’ she said. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I thought I might as well unpack before I’m dismissed,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘I’ve got some single malt in my office. We could toast your welcome and goodbye in one sitting.’ Callanach pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and breathed in slowly, aware that he was gritting his teeth as he tried to find the least offensive form of words he could. ‘Don’t worry,’ Ava said. ‘You’ve had a long couple of days. Some other time.’
‘I just don’t believe that socialising at work is sensible. Maintaining professional boundaries is important.’
‘Not a problem.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve hit the ground running. Probably best to leave the unpacking ’til morning.’
He ran a hand through his hair and stretched his neck. ‘Look, you’re right, I do need a drink.’
‘No, I think you were right. One in the morning is no time to be here. I’m going home. You should too, judging by the look of you. Goodnight.’ She let his door swing softly shut as he swore under his breath. He could have handled that better. It was time to face his apartment, accept that life had moved on and that he had to move with it.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_c49e43a4-0c58-58ac-952f-a8330bd3fcee)
Edinburgh had been the closest Callanach could get to Lyon, in Scotland. It had the feel of a town, in spite of its size and busy economy, and a history its inhabitants celebrated. The city was easy to love with its sympathetic blend of old and new architecture and a population that seemed to have embraced different races and cultures whilst maintaining its own heritage. If they could only control the wind chill factor, he thought, it would be ideal. Callanach had rented a flat in Albany Street. A hundred years ago, it would have been a grand old terraced house, set over four floors, home to one of Edinburgh’s elite families. These days, the inhabitants were busy professionals who would come and go through the central hallway, marking the nearness of their lives with only a raise of eyebrows or curt greeting. He found it wasteful, how little communication passed between neighbours. It was why dead bodies were noticed only by their unbearable odour and how domestic violence could be perpetrated on the same victim repeatedly without intervention. Good neighbours enabled good policing.
He poured a large glass of red wine and picked up a book. Reading himself to sleep had been a habit as far back as he could remember. It was the only thing that distracted him from work. But tonight concentration was difficult. With every page, the image of the bleak Cairngorm Mountains reappeared, forbidding and harsh. Winter was approaching. The Braemar bartender had told them the town would be full of skiers and snowboarders at the first flakes. It was a couple of weeks off yet, but December would bring snow to the peaks. The crowds of summer hikers were long gone, high winds and rain deterring all but the hardiest. The killer’s timing, then, was either planned to perfection or lucky beyond the very best of odds.
Callanach woke early, realising he had no food, craving the tiny cafe on the street corner near his old apartment where he could eat freshly baked croissants and read a newspaper in French. Instead, he hurried to the only place close by and open, a health food store across Broughton Street, where he was surprised by the friendly reception, and picked up dried fruit, yoghurt and rye bread.
He plugged in his computer as he ate, wondering what his private emails would bring. They’d been stacking up for a week and he was tempted to simply delete the lot before reading.
There were administrative emails from Interpol dealing with his departure, requesting a forwarding address for documentation, nothing important. Then there were updates about local events in Lyon he’d usually have attended – a wine festival, sports rally, the opening of a new restaurant – and he pressed delete with a sense of resignation. Much of it was the usual e-junk but then he spotted it, hidden between a wine-club subscription offer and a newsletter from his last gym. A bounce-back notice had come from his mother’s email address. She had apparently moved beyond steadfastly ignoring his communications and taken action by changing her email completely, as she had already done with her mobile phone number. His letters were returned unopened, his landline calls were screened. Callanach threw the remainder of his breakfast in the bin and slammed his laptop closed, immediately regretting how he’d let it affect him. Getting angry wouldn’t change a thing. He was where he was. What mattered now was Elaine Buxton. Nothing else. He had to make the new start work for him. Offending DI Turner the previous evening was a less than impressive start, and an error it would be tactically sensible to rectify sooner rather than later. With the office still to be organised, he changed from his sweats into a shirt and trousers then left for the station.
Tripp was waiting outside his office when he arrived, looking eager and rested. That was the benefit of being in your twenties, immune to too little sleep and careless of stress. For a couple of seconds Callanach was tempted to send him back to Braemar. Uncharitable, he thought. At least DS Lively hadn’t been waiting for him.
‘DS Lively was wanting to talk to you, sir.’ Callanach rolled his eyes. ‘And I thought,’ Tripp continued, ‘given what we learned in Braemar, you might want to visit Elaine Buxton’s flat today, so I’ve organised that for lunchtime, and her ex-husband’s phone number is on your desk.’ Tripp had been busy. Callanach mentally rebuked himself for wanting to send Tripp back to Braemar. The young detective constable was sweetly unselfconscious of appearing too keen. That was a rarely seen attribute in any police officer.
‘Thank you. Where is the detective sergeant?’
‘In the briefing room. Shall I fetch him?’
‘No, we’ll go to him. Coffee en route.’
Approaching the briefing room, Callanach could hear the exact conversation he’d suspected would be taking place. The door had been left open, sensitivity not a concern, and Lively’s voice boomed out.
‘How the hell did he end up walking straight into a detective inspector post? That’s what I’d like to know. It’s not as if there weren’t plenty of other candidates, people who know the city and understand the people. Rumour has it, some bastard pulled more strings than make a fishing net to get him in here. He wasn’t through the door more than ten minutes before dragging us off our patch into someone else’s investigation.’
‘Leave it out, Sergeant, he was just doing what he thought was right for the victim,’ a female voice spoke up. It took Callanach a moment to identify it as DC Salter’s. Tripp tried valiantly to get a few steps ahead and stop the discussion but Callanach put an arm out to prevent him.
‘Let it run, Tripp.’
‘But, sir,’ Tripp started before Lively began again.
‘Go on then, Salter, tell us what you think of him. Some sort of genius, is he, coming out of Interpol and all? Begs the question why he moved here. Maybe the detective inspector couldn’t cut it in the big league and thought this would be a soft option?’
Callanach booted the door fully open and slammed his coffee down on the desk.
‘You asked to speak with me, Detective Sergeant. Is there an update?’ Callanach stared at Lively, ignoring the rest of the crowd.
‘They found blood on the baseball bat and some soft tissue on a tooth nearby. DNA from both is a match for Elaine Buxton. Her case has been officially upgraded from missing person to murder. The pathologist’s report will be through later today. And the Chief wants to talk to you.’
‘Set up a board, Salter. Maps, photos, forensics, everything we have,’ Callanach called as he walked towards the door.
‘It’s still not our case yet, Inspector,’ Lively shouted.
‘It’s about to be my case. If you don’t want it to be yours then there’s a large empty desk in my office where you can leave your letter of resignation,’ Callanach snapped.
Lively stood up. Callanach knew he should leave it there and let tempers cool, but the conversation he’d overheard in the corridor was still worming its way through his veins.
‘You want rid of me, do you, pal? I bet you do, ’cos I heard what you did. Shall I tell you what we do to men like you in Scotland? You fuckin’ froggies might think it’s all right to …’ Lively had stepped forward and punctuated his last few words with a finger poke to Callanach’s shoulder. He didn’t get any further. Callanach shoved him backwards so hard that Lively went flying into the arms of his fellow officers who broke his fall and probably saved him a fractured coccyx. Lively hid his embarrassment with a laugh that made its way through the group as a strained echo.
‘You wanna watch that temper of yours, Detective Inspector,’ Lively said, his mouth a hard smirk across his face. ‘It’ll get you in trouble. Of course, you’re used to that …’
Callanach stepped further towards Lively and his support group, his fists itching to punch the smug grin, biting down so hard he could taste blood in his mouth.
‘Sir, DCI Begbie’ll be waiting.’ Tripp’s voice was soft and unsure but it broke the tension in the room. The fight had already gone out of Lively. He’d made his point and would no doubt continue making it to his audience at the pub after their shift ended. Tripp picked up Callanach’s coffee and files, holding the door open for him.
The length and speed of Callanach’s strides made it necessary for Tripp to all but jog alongside him.
‘DS Lively isn’t good with new people. And he was really friendly with the old DI. I shouldn’t pay too much attention,’ Tripp blustered.
‘If I need your help or your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Now go back to Salter and get those boards up. I want this investigation in order, no more distractions.’
His appointment with Detective Chief Inspector Begbie was predictably draining. The Chief was approaching retirement age and of an old school type. Dealing with his superiors had never been an issue for Callanach at Interpol. They’d trusted his judgment, and seen him rise through the ranks. Here, as he’d just been reminded, he still had to prove himself. It wasn’t that he minded being spoken to like a wayward child, more that he was embarrassed at having to defend his position when it was predominantly gut instinct that Buxton had been killed in Edinburgh. It sounded so trite. Finally the DCI had given in on a limited basis. Callanach was allowed to visit the victim’s flat, talk to witnesses and put together a sufficiently compelling picture to show that he should head the investigation. It wasn’t much, Callanach thought grudgingly, but it was a start.
Elaine Buxton’s apartment was as immaculate as the address was desirable, in the much sought after Albyn Place, overlooking Queen Street Gardens. The decor was tasteful, only the light covering of dust betraying the owner’s disappearance. It was the apartment of a life lived elsewhere, of someone so consummately professional that her standards never slipped. The only room showing signs of life was her study, where two books remained off their shelf on the desk, both doorstop sized and on the subject of contract law. He’d have to review whatever cases she’d been working on when she’d disappeared, but it didn’t seem plausible that so dry an area of law could give birth to such a violent crime.
He sat in her large leather chair and leaned back. It wasn’t comfortable. The headrest wasn’t worn. This wasn’t a woman who used her study to contemplate life. As Callanach sat forward to open the drawers, the cushion shifted slightly beneath him. Yes, that was it. Her constant position, head bent towards book or brief. Always working, concentrating. The interiors of the drawers were as orderly as the surface. A Montblanc fountain pen was in its case, highlighters remained in their plastic container and painkillers, open and half used, were tucked back into their packet. A black glass paperweight, smooth and tactile, held down a neat pile of bills and correspondence. Callanach reached out to touch it, imagining Elaine doing the same as she read or made telephone calls, feeling the cold stillness beneath his palm. It was plain and simple, and it did its job perfectly. Much like the woman herself. Elaine Buxton liked order and routine. What was missing, Callanach thought, was a sense of self. There was not one photo on display. Likewise any plants. No living thing that might require care or attention. Healthy homemade meals were labelled and stacked in the freezer, each in a handy single-person-sized portion. The whole place seemed devoid of human touch.
Callanach retraced his steps and went back into her bedroom. The bed was bare, the sheets stripped by the forensics team looking for signs of sexual activity and DNA. None but hers had been found. There was minimal makeup in her drawers, only two bottles of perfume in her en-suite cupboard. He opened her wardrobe and found two rows of shoes, split between work and exercise. It was ironic how someone who valued order and neatness so highly could have ended their life in such chaos and trauma. At what point had she realised something was wrong? As soon as she’d left the gym, perhaps. Had someone been following her or was he waiting for her at home? Buxton was fit and healthy. She’d have put up a fight if she hadn’t been taken completely by surprise. There was no sign of a struggle, though.
Finally, among neatly folded sweaters, Callanach saw the one thing that had been missing. A ragged teddy bear peeked down from the top shelf, much loved, by the look of it, too precious to put away with the other childish things. Something to look at every morning and evening as she dressed and undressed. A fragment of warmth in an otherwise formal home. He closed the cupboard door against the bear’s forlorn, waiting stare. It wouldn’t help him find her killer and it didn’t progress matters to dwell upon the human loss. Only science, logic and research solved cases. Elaine’s house offered nothing further. Callanach locked up and was glad to leave the silence and stillness behind.
Calls to her ex-husband Ryan proved unrewarding. He’d been out of contact with her for more than a year. Following the autopsy report, police officers notified Elaine’s mother of her death that afternoon. Callanach was pleased it wasn’t his job on that occasion. No amount of training or experience made delivering death notifications any easier. The press was given the information shortly afterwards, with a renewed request for information. Callanach chased up the friend whose birthday celebration Elaine had attended at the gym and found she’d been more of an acquaintance in reality. They’d shared a Pilates class, worked out together each Wednesday and Friday but didn’t socialise anywhere else. Elaine hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend, she’d told Callanach, not that they chatted about that sort of thing. It was in keeping with the way she lived. Work colleagues all said the same. So, surely, Callanach mused, she’d have noticed someone taking an interest in her, watching her, following her. She was a lawyer. She’d have known there were court orders available to protect her. Was her murderer so restrained that he’d never once revealed himself?
Elaine’s diary and correspondence had been seized as evidence. Callanach took the paperwork home, expecting little more than meetings and reminders in to-do-list form. It had already been inspected by the missing persons team and no useful information had been identified. The diary was A4-sized, with a sheet for each day, the notations proficiently brief.
Three weeks prior to her abduction was this: Senior partner review. Resolution statistics good. Increase in billable hours required. Buxton was an achiever but not someone with a hard head for business then, failing to squeeze her clients hard enough for money. The oddity of a likeable lawyer. Callanach flicked through the remaining pages, finding only a well-organised professional who structured her day carefully and filled her time to the maximum.
The pages of the diary gave nothing away that Callanach didn’t already know but tucked inside the back cover was a card from what was presumably an old friend, announcing the birth of a baby girl and updating Elaine as to recent news. A house move, a career break while she enjoyed some parenting time, a joke about a mutual acquaintance. Nothing that indicated the friend had seen Elaine for months, if not years. The return address was London. Behind the card was a half-drafted letter in reply. It began with the expected congratulations, comments about the baby photos and questions about the house move. Then the tone changed.
I’m so sorry I missed the baby shower and it doesn’t look as if I’ll make it to the christening either. Work is a bit pressing at the moment. You always did tell me I take life too seriously – I’m starting to think you were right! I’ll do my best to get down to London for a visit soon. Perhaps I’ll amaze you and book a holiday like you suggested. I haven’t been away since the divorce. Maybe I’ll even meet someone new (you’re bound to like him more than you did Ryan). Time to get my head out of the books.
Callanach closed his eyes. There was no good murder, no fair or reasonable circumstances under which a life could be stolen, but Elaine Buxton had been cruelly robbed. How had she felt when the thought crystallised in her mind that she was being abducted? Did the irony of that unfinished letter occur to her, with its dreams of holidays and meeting a new man, or was the panic too all encompassing? Had she finally found her voice and fought for her life? Callanach put the papers down. One hand wandered into a pocket as he paced his small sitting room, and there, as if it was a stowaway, he found Elaine Buxton’s paperweight. He took it out, brushed a stray strand of cotton from its unblemished surface, tried to recall the precise moment he’d taken it and how he’d justified it to himself at the time, but the memory was a cloud. Slowly, quietly, almost as if he were being watched, he slid the heavy glass under his pillow.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_077e78af-735f-5abd-b82a-c4416a5d9afc)
King seethed at Elaine’s lack of cooperation. It was usually beneath him to be reduced to obscenities but, if he were forced to use a common phrase, he might say she was being a fucking bitch. He’d tried to fit her new dentures but she’d cried when he’d pushed them into her mouth, moaning at the pain from her gums, saying they were still too sore. The disgusting creature had shaken her head to and fro like a rabid dog, trying to avoid the procedure. He’d known he would have to tolerate her saliva and had gloved-up in readiness. Her head throwing, though, had sent streams of mucus from her snivelling nose across his face. He could have vomited with repulsion.
She had to respect her new situation. If she wouldn’t learn willingly then she would be taught. Discipline would do her no harm. The protein shakes he made her weren’t appreciated either. Half a dozen times he’d had to hold her nose and tip it into her mouth. She’d soon stopped thinking she could starve herself. King took an old, wooden ruler from a drawer in his study, picked up his laptop as an afterthought and retraced his steps down the official and up the unofficial staircases. A tiny nick at the edge of the panel hiding the keyhole would have to be polished out. It wouldn’t do to get sloppy. Not when everything else had gone according to plan.
Elaine frowned when he entered. Like a stroppy teenager, he thought. But it wouldn’t last long. If he could just help her progress through this stage, she would see sense. He walked to her bedside without speaking. There was no point engaging with her. It would only create another scene. This help he was giving her, this tough love, was best dealt swiftly and silently. King checked that the chains and cuffs binding her hands were tight enough that she couldn’t thrash and cause too much additional damage. She closed her eyes tightly and her mouth even more so, assuming, no doubt, that he meant to try again with the dentures. Her behaviour proved she needed more than just coaxing to comply. This was, he decided, an inevitability of neither his choosing nor his making. It was all her fault.
It wasn’t until he pulled her ankle chains tighter causing her legs to part wider, that she began screeching. However, he was delighted to note that no amount of hysteria made a millimetre of difference to her bindings. He was clever to have thought so carefully about the restraints he would need for his guest suite. King giggled shrilly. Elaine stopped shrieking and stared at him as if he’d grown a second head.
‘Guest suite,’ he muttered aloud.
In a second, she was bawling like a toddler again. Don’t talk to her, he counselled himself. Silence until the lesson has been given. That was when she began to beg. He’d known she would.
‘Pleath, pleath don’ rape me. Pu’ in the denture. I’ll be good.’ King rotated his head slowly from shoulder to shoulder, working out the tension her pathetic whining had caused. He looked coolly into her eyes. He could reassure her, he supposed. After all, he had no intention of raping her. He wasn’t an animal. Only foul lowlifes who couldn’t get it anywhere else were reduced to rape. Then again, if the prospect scared her sufficiently to induce compliance, why shouldn’t he use the threat as part of his portfolio to help subdue her?
‘Not subdue,’ he whispered. ‘Educate. Damn!’ he shouted. Why was he talking to himself? She’d thrown him off balance with the rape comment. He had to concentrate. King picked up the ruler and hit the bare sole of her left foot, hard. The smacking sound it made was like clean, white light. In his head he counted and made it to four before the screaming began, the myriad of nerve endings taking their time to communicate with her brain. Now he would allow himself to speak.
‘That took longer than I’d anticipated,’ King said. ‘This is what the Germans call Sohlenstreich, quite literally a striking of the soles. An ancient and well-practised form of correction used in cultures across the world. My father taught me about it at quite a young age. He was a gifted educator.’ He snapped the ruler across her other foot. This time Elaine knew what was coming and emitted the scream, if anything, slightly before wood contacted skin. ‘Effective because it’s extremely painful, but leaves few marks or lasting injury. I shall be careful not to break any of the bones in your foot, although sometimes there are accidents.’ He slapped her left foot with the ruler again.
‘As for raping you, get your mind out of the gutter. I am not so needy as to require such base rewards.’ The level of her screaming was becoming intolerable.
‘If you do not stifle that noise,’ he said, punctuating each word with a strike on one foot then the other, ‘I shall not stop!’ Eleven blows in quick succession. More than he’d intended to deal her. She was starting to pull herself together though, eyes wide, watching him, weeping rather than yelling. Her whole body was shaking. It was shock, but she’d come round. The human body was more resilient than the mind.
‘I’m going to ask you some questions to check that you are progressing. If you answer correctly this will end and we can be friends again. Will you let me fit the dentures without fighting me?’ Elaine nodded furiously. ‘Good. And will you drink your protein shakes without fuss?’ More nodding. ‘What was the German word for this form of correction?’ Silence. He raised the ruler into the air.
‘No, no, I’m trying to remember, I’m trying,’ she whispered, her throat coarse. Even without the dentures she was working harder to speak clearly, playing the diligent pupil.
‘You weren’t paying attention, were you, Elaine?’ He slapped the ruler against her right sole, quite lightly he thought, but still she let loose another assault upon his ears. He supposed the pain was increasing with the bruising.
‘Come along, think about it …’
‘I don’t know, I can’t think. Don’t hurt me any more,’ she sobbed.
‘Sohlenstreich,’ he shouted, hitting her left foot hard. ‘Sohlenstreich, say it with me.’ There were more blows, he’d lost count by then but the miracle had happened. She was chanting the word with him, over and over, with each blow to her feet. There was no more crying. Elaine had learned. He felt a burst of joy, close to exultation. The knowledge that he had triumphed, that he’d been right about this all along, was as powerful as he could ever have imagined. He felt a thrumming inside. The first step was complete. He had changed her, brought her closer to perfection, brought her closer to him.
He threw the ruler down and went to her side. ‘Good girl,’ he crooned into her ear, stroking back hair from the mess of tears and sweat that covered her forehead. ‘You’re my sweet girl, aren’t you? That wasn’t so hard. Obedience will be rewarded but you must behave yourself. Understand that I only want what’s best. Let’s move on.’ He decided on leniency, released the cuffs around her ankles and tenderly laid her legs back together on the bed. She drew them into her chest and bit her bottom lip. ‘Look at you, trying so hard to be quiet for me. I’ll put some painkillers into your next drink. They’ll help you sleep.’ He loosened the chains on her arms enough that she could relax.
‘There’s one more thing I want to show you. I think you’ll be pleased.’
Picking up his laptop, he pulled a chair next to her head and sat down so they could see the screen together. He opened a file and brought up a video clip. There was some crackle at the beginning, the picture dark and grainy, but soon the ambient hum died down to reveal a large video screen, a mass of heads marking the bottom of the view.
‘What?’ she whispered. King smiled. The pain in her feet was forgotten already. This would be priceless.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’
A church organ struck up the tune of ‘Abide With Me’ and the screen came to life. King watched Elaine’s face as her mother took a seat at the front, dark glasses shielding her, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. The camera panned slowly round, showing rows of people sombrely dressed, most with their heads bowed, no one talking. Elaine choked a sob back in her throat.
‘I don’t understand,’ she stuttered.
‘Let’s not play dumb,’ King replied, taking her left hand in his and rubbing its back with his thumb. ‘This is your memorial service. The police won’t release your body yet, of course. Who knows how long they’ll hang on to that bag of bones? But this is your grand exit. Your fifteen minutes of fame.’
‘I don’t want to watch any more,’ she said, looking away.
‘But I require you to. I really must insist.’
She didn’t look away again. Elaine Buxton was a fast learner. That was why he’d chosen her.
Her family sat in the front pews. King knew each by name and recited details about them so Elaine could appreciate the depth of his research into her life. It was a tremendous compliment that he’d dedicated so much of his precious time to her. Her cousin, Maureen, did a reading followed by another hymn. After that came a eulogy, delivered beautifully by a man King didn’t know. The man spoke about her when she was younger, a person King didn’t recognise from the description, a tale of a disastrous skiing trip, a girl who worked hard but played harder, private jokes that the world would otherwise never have been party to. Now, it seemed, her life was public property. It had irritated him as he’d filmed. Too many had gathered and the church was full, necessitating the outside screen. The police had been there in droves.
‘A bit flowery, I thought,’ King commented at the end.
‘Michael,’ Elaine said, as if calling from sleep. King pinched her hand roughly.
‘Who was he?’
‘My friend from law school,’ Elaine answered. ‘We lost touch. He moved to New York.’ He glared as tears filled her eyes. She really was insufferable.
‘You should be grateful. How many people get to see and hear the things I brought you? You were respected, loved, admired and you got to hear it all without dying. I liberated you!’
‘Let me go,’ Elaine begged in a hushed voice. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I’ll pretend I have concussion. I don’t think you’re a bad person, just, well, confused.’
King was breathing hard. He could feel hot colour rising in his cheeks. The sound of his own grinding teeth echoed within his skull, and then he could smell her. Unwashed, festering on that mattress. She’d been there twenty days already, and hadn’t even bothered requesting use of the bathing facilities. He’d provided a shower stall in the corner of the room for exactly that purpose, and would happily have supervised had she been suitably placid. All she had to do was ask. Putrid cunt. She’d tricked him, hadn’t learned a thing. He hated being duped. His judgment had been flawed. Badly flawed. Perhaps she wasn’t the right one, after all.
King brought a hand up from beneath the laptop brutal and fast, smashing plastic and metal into Elaine’s face as she reeled back in horror.
‘Confused, you dumb whore? I’m not the one who’s confused. You’re dead! Don’t you get it? Everyone thinks you’re gone. They have your blood, your clothes, a body and your teeth. They have consigned you to history. Do you know what that means, miss smarter-than-me fucking lawyer?’ He grabbed the neck of her t-shirt and pushed his face into hers. ‘It means you’re mine. You belong to me and that’s the way it’s going to be. So you’ll do what you’re told, when you’re told and learn to like it. No one’s coming to save you. Their grief will fade and they’ll forget. Nobody’s searching for you any more.’ He shoved her onto the pillow, straightening his own clothes, knowing he had to calm down.
‘You’re right,’ she hissed from the bed. ‘They’re not looking for me. But they are looking for you. You’ll never find a moment’s peace, never stop looking over your shoulder. One day they’ll be waiting at your door when you get home and that’ll be …’
He smashed his arm across her mouth, whipping her head round and sending blood flying from her mouth. He felt soothed immediately. It was what she’d wanted. Oblivion. But he wouldn’t be forced into killing her. He still had important plans. Only perhaps he’d have to improvise a little. King left her twisted body as it was and exited. She could wake up and consider her fate alone.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_657942cf-a8e3-5816-989b-79a029f94cf0)
The lack of progress was driving Callanach crazy. He’d attended Elaine Buxton’s memorial service and watched the vast crowd outside weeping for a woman most of them didn’t know personally but who’d been stolen from their city. He knew what the collective was thinking. That it could have been them. That it could have been their wife, sister, daughter or mother. Such crimes left scars on the landscape of a community as vivid as the scorched earth that was once a mountain bothy. The crowd had come not only to mourn, but to jointly experience that unspoken truth. Thank God it was not me. And there was nothing wrong with that, Callanach thought, the clinging on to life. That was what policing was about, after all. Protecting, valuing, cushioning a too short, too fragile existence.
In the fortnight since then, the hours had started to drag. His phone rang less and less often. Public appeals for information had proved fruitless. The police had trawled Elaine’s computer files, diary, emails, current and past cases. Nothing had raised a red flag. She’d avoided social media, tended to call friends rather than texting, had never gone near an internet dating site. The usual lines of enquiry were dead-ending. Callanach had even found the time not only to tip the contents of his boxes into drawers, but to organise them into some semblance of order.
‘Is it a bad time?’ Ava Turner asked, putting her head round his office door.
‘I’m not exactly busy, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ he replied. He’d seen her a handful of times in the last couple of weeks, but never in circumstances when he could apologise for his behaviour. Now too much time had passed and he felt ridiculous referring back to her offer of a drink and his negative reaction.
‘I need a couple of spare bodies to chase up a development on a case. Can I borrow some help from your team for the week?’ She parked herself in a chair opposite him.
‘Absolutely,’ Callanach replied. ‘It would be good for them to get working on something else.’
‘No breakthroughs?’ she asked. ‘That’s tough.’
‘It’s wrong,’ Callanach muttered. ‘For a murderer to be so meticulous in their planning, to have thought so far ahead. It’s completely at odds with the chaos or fanaticism it takes to kill.’
Ava sat forward, transforming from colleague to detective as she considered it. ‘That’s because you’re looking for a well-organised murderer. You’ve stopped thinking about him or her as a person. Whoever did this couldn’t employ those sorts of skills from thin air. You’re looking for someone who’s meticulous in their whole life, probably obsessively so, who’s never missed an appointment or favourite radio show, who reviews their time expenditure each month on different activities, who diarises when they last changed their sheets. Look for the person first. You’ll meet the killer later.’ Ava got up. ‘So I can take two from your team?’
‘As long as one of them is DS Lively,’ he said.
‘Not a bloody chance,’ she answered.
‘Do you have an hour or so available for a drink this evening?’ Callanach asked as she headed out of his office. Ava stepped back inside to answer.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘If it’s about last time …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s been a difficult transition moving here.’
‘The station is awash with rumours about your move from Interpol. There’s always gossip when an outsider takes rank instead of promoting internally. I understand you want to settle into the job before starting to socialise and that’s perfectly sensible,’ Ava said.
‘Actually that’s not …’
DC Barnes walked in, which Ava took as either a cue or an excuse to leave, Callanach wasn’t sure which. Barnes’ face was alight with a mixture of concern and adrenaline. ‘We think we’ve got another one, sir. A woman’s been missing since last night. Her assistant called it in.’
‘What’s the link with Elaine Buxton?’ Callanach asked.
‘The woman left work as usual but there’s no sign of her entering her home. Similar age to Elaine, single, no children. Totally out of character for her to go off the grid. Missing person report’s available in the briefing room and we’re bringing in the assistant for more information. We’ve got units at the woman’s home and are making the usual enquiries with colleagues.’
The briefing room was buzzing. Callanach took a seat at the back as he prepared to listen to what information had been gathered, notebook ready on his lap. Ava Turner opened the door and looked in quizzically. He beckoned her in.
‘I was coming to collect my extra bodies,’ she whispered. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Another woman is missing,’ he said.
‘Mind if I stay and listen?’ she asked. He shook his head and she took the seat next to his.
Jayne Magee’s face appeared on the screen. There was a slightly suppressed intake of breath from everyone watching. Callanach didn’t know why it was so shocking, only that the surprise came from what was around her neck in the photo. The sergeant who’d taken the missing person report began to speak.
‘This is the Reverend Jayne Magee, thirty-six years of age, Caucasian, Scottish national. Her administrative assistant, Ann Burt, called in her disappearance when Jayne failed to arrive for a meeting this morning at the Cathedral Church of St Mary in Palmerston Place, part of the Scottish Episcopal Church. What rang alarm bells is that she appears not to have been home last night. Her assistant says Jayne had no plans. The Reverend had told Ann she was looking forward to a quiet night in with a curry. Her only vice, apparently. When she failed to attend the meeting this morning and couldn’t be reached by phone, the assistant went to her house. She has a key and let herself in. There was no sign of Jayne. No bag or coat and in the fridge the curry they’d talked about was sitting untouched. Ann had emailed her at seven yesterday evening, passing on a query and got no response. Usually, the last thing the Reverend does every night is to check emails and respond to them. Ann Burt said she was curious about it last night but assumed something had come up, either illness or an unexpected visitor, and didn’t pursue it with a phone call.’
‘Where’s her home?’ Lively shouted from the far side of the room.
The sergeant shifted images and the screen flashed up a map of the city. The cathedral was marked with a blue cross and a red dot denoted what Callanach presumed was the home.
‘She lives in a detached house in Ravelston Park, across the river from the cathedral and roughly north-west. She always walks to and from work, even in the worst weather, and we’re told she was on foot yesterday.’
‘So, she left St Mary’s at?’ Callanach asked.
‘Around seven p.m. She’d been there for choral evensong, stayed to chat with a few people then gone home. There’s no sign of a break-in or a struggle, nothing missing that the assistant can identify.’
‘I see the similarities,’ Callanach said, ‘but do you not have anything more tangible that connects this to Elaine Buxton?’
‘Only this.’ A new photo filled the screen. As one, the people in the room leaned forward to make out what they were looking at amidst the green tangle in the picture. ‘Here, at the very bottom, is where Jayne Magee’s mobile phone was found. Just inside her front garden, at the roots of a bush. Whether she dropped it or someone else discarded it, we don’t know. It’s been sent off for prints and data.’
‘She could have been trying to make a call, perhaps worried that she was being followed, was disturbed and dropped it,’ Salter suggested.
‘Or whoever took Magee didn’t want us tracing the signal and getting a location,’ Ava muttered. ‘I’ll manage without your lot,’ she whispered to Callanach. ‘Looks like you’ve got work to do now.’ She left.
That wasn’t much to go on as far as linking the cases went. If it was the same person who’d taken Elaine, the one thing they knew was that Jayne Magee might not have much time left. Callanach rose to his feet, running a hand through his mop of hair as he walked to the front. It took all of two seconds for the noise level to reach a point where he couldn’t be heard.
‘Arrêtez,’ he snapped, reverting to French in his frustration. ‘Stop. There is no time.’
Someone tried a derisive oohing at Callanach’s loss of temper, only to be met by DS Lively cutting in.
‘We’ve work to do and the inspector’s trying to organise things. So if whoever that was can’t get a grip, then get out of the goddamn room,’ Lively yelled.
Callanach stared at him a moment, then opened his notebook to go through the list he’d compiled during the briefing, wondering if Lively had suffered some sort of character changing concussion. No doubt it wouldn’t last long.
‘CCTV footage, see if we can catch any part of her journey home. Neighbours, anyone who might have seen her near her home last night. Presumably the forensics team is already there?’ There was a nod from the officer who’d given the briefing. ‘Find the last person she talked to before she left the church. Ask what sort of mood she was in, what they discussed, what she was wearing. I want diaries, computer, make the mobile a priority. Tripp, you and Salter find anything that might connect her with Elaine Buxton. I want a full background on them both, from childhood to date. Understand?’ There were nods all round. The piss-taking was conspicuous in its absence, which showed Callanach that everyone thought what he was thinking. The clock was ticking. ‘Good. Now get back to work.’ The team filed out swiftly, buzzing with the combination of adrenaline and pressure. The next twenty-four hours would be crucial.
Lively managed to be in Callanach’s office before him. ‘I’d like to interview the witnesses at the church,’ he said. He was red faced and breathing hard, all evidence of his former cocky bloodymindedness evaporated.
‘Any particular reason?’ Callanach asked.
Lively nodded and stared at the floor. ‘It’s that, er, it’s where I go. To church, I mean. I know the Reverend Magee. Not personally, we’ve not spoken or anything, but I’ve seen her at services. She’s a good person and if this is the same man who abducted Elaine Buxton then I’d like to be able to handle the people at the church myself. Sir.’ He didn’t look at Callanach while he waited for a response. The humiliating addition of the respectful form of address was all Callanach needed to comprehend just how strongly Lively felt.
He wanted to say no, to punish his detective sergeant for the earlier thinly veiled threats and nastiness. But at least by having Lively centred on the church, the man would be out of his way. And there was the fact that Callanach had gone too far in shoving him, not that a man with Lively’s ego was going to make a complaint, but it was better to have a rival beholden than aggravated. Reason triumphed over anger.
‘It makes sense, as long as this isn’t too personal. I need you to be focused,’ Callanach decided.
‘I’ll be fine. I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves,’ Lively muttered.
It was beyond irony, Callanach thought, for Lively to have threatened to reveal whatever muck he’d heard about the forced departure from Interpol, only to ask for his own private life to be respected.
‘Take a constable with you and get started straight away. We’re already too many hours behind this bastard,’ was all Callanach said.
Jayne Magee was about as unlikely a target as anyone could imagine. There was no suggestion that Elaine Buxton was a regular at any church at all, so religion wasn’t the link. The pathologist hadn’t been able to estimate Elaine’s time of death, meaning they had no established pattern to follow, only the knowledge that she’d been missing sixteen days before her body was found. This time, the abductor might keep Jayne alive for weeks or she could be dead already. The killer had become a male in Callanach’s mind. There was no evidence, nothing solid, only years of past cases and what was screamingly obvious. Maybe it was more than one person, he considered, but Ava was right about looking at personality first. He couldn’t see such an obsessive character working well as a team player.
Callanach met with Jayne Magee’s assistant, Ann Burt, that afternoon. She dropped a dripping umbrella into Callanach’s bin then removed and folded her headscarf before sitting down. Callanach instinctively tidied his desk as she settled in. Stick thin, shrill and at the far end of her sixties, he guessed, Ann Burt told it like it was. She reminded him of his grandmother, distant though those memories were.
‘So I’m talking to the detective inspector, am I?’ she began. ‘You’re the third person I’ve repeated myself to today. Would you like to tell me what’s going on?’
‘It’s just routine, Mrs Burt. We’re covering all the angles.’
‘I may be old but I’ve not lost my faculties. I’ve had a call to say that there are three police officers at St Mary’s and a whole team at Jayne’s house. You’re thinking the worst, no doubt.’
‘There’s no trace of her at present and no one has contacted us to say they know where she is, so it’s all just standard investigative procedure.’
‘And the name Elaine Buxton hasn’t come up, is that right?’ Callanach didn’t say a word. The standard procedure line was one thing. Lying was another. ‘I thought as much,’ she went on. ‘You should know that the Reverend Magee has the heart of a lion. She’s a match for anyone. Don’t you go writing her off just yet.’ The words were brave but her eyes were too bright. Callanach made a few unnecessary notes while she regained her composure.
‘We don’t know who did this but experience tells us that in every case, a quick start is essential. We’re hoping the Reverend will turn up, that it was some personal crisis, perhaps simply that she needed time alone. But if that’s not the case then we have to consider all the possibilities,’ he said.
‘She led a prayer vigil for Miss Buxton shortly after she went missing. Hundreds came, we lit candles, prayed, had a minute of silence. Of course, we had no idea then what had happened to the poor girl.’ This time when the tears started Callanach didn’t pretend he hadn’t seen them.
‘We’re going to do everything we can. You’ve brought us her diary and computer, which will help. Tell me more about the sort of person she is,’ Callanach prompted.
‘She’s lovely, genuinely lovely. Not showy or loud, just warm. She has a wicked sense of humour, too. I never expected that from a lady in her position. Just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge. She’s very approachable, always has time for people. But bright, my goodness. Jayne studied at Oxford University, a master’s degree. Always has her nose in a book.’
‘And Jayne never said that anything was worrying her? Someone paying her too much attention, maybe?’
‘Never,’ Ann replied. ‘If that girl ever had an unkind thought about anyone, she didn’t express it in my presence.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘You’ll find her, won’t you, Inspector? Before anything …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘I’ll do everything in my power to find her,’ he said. Ann Burt patted his hand, a contact he tolerated for a second before pulling away and standing up to see her out.
By the end of the afternoon they were no further forward. The lab had confirmed that the only fingerprints on the phone belonged to Jayne Magee. Interviews of the immediate neighbours were tributes to the kind-hearted woman living next door and reports of how shocked they were that she was missing. Callanach gave in. He took Jayne Magee’s file and went home, collecting a take-out curry on the way. If that was the missing reverend’s only vice, then it was a good choice.
Back in Albany Street he ate dinner watching television. The evening news brought Ava Turner’s face before him, appealing for witnesses about a newborn baby who’d been left on a park bench and died tragically from exposure before he could be found. Ava looked like he felt. Callanach hadn’t been aware of the case she was investigating, but any incident involving a child was hard to handle.
Without thinking about it, he dialled her number. When the voicemail message clicked in, he considered hanging up then gave himself a mental kick. It was time to find allies.
‘Ava, it’s Callanach. I appreciate you’re tired and busy, but I could do with a second opinion on the case and I’m afraid you’re top of the list. Actually, yours is the only name on the list. So let me apologise and start again, tomorrow night perhaps, if we’re both free? Let me know.’
Too caffeine-buzzed to sleep, he opened Jayne Magee’s daily diary. It was shaping up to be a long night.
Chapter Ten (#ulink_fdc118ac-ec3d-59ef-80b7-82ede1762cd1)
The head of the Department of Philosophy had called King in to her office not five minutes after he’d returned to work. She might at least have let him clear his backlog. After three weeks away, the accumulation was frustrating. Could no one have covered his duties while he was away? He may not really have been sick, but his colleagues didn’t know that, did they? Not one call to offer sympathy or concern. And this morning the other administrative staff hadn’t even asked him about it. This was the way it had always been, no reason to expect anything better at this point. Was it intimidation or jealousy, he wondered, as he deliberately delayed by making tea, keeping Natasha, or Professor Forge as she insisted he call her, waiting just a few minutes more.
By the time King opened her door, she was taking a telephone call and raised her forefinger as if he was a wayward student, keeping him still and silent while she finished her business. Natasha was wearing a dark green suit that emphasised her hazel eyes and ash blonde hair. King hated the way she made him feel. Even though he couldn’t bear to be in her company these days, there was no escaping her beauty. He admired her long, slender neck, with skin that would have flattered a woman in her early twenties. Forge’s thirty-sixth birthday had come and gone yet she was remarkably untouched by the signs of ageing. But King wouldn’t let her affect him like she used to – he had a new world waiting at home that she could never conceive. Like some great Vernean adventure, he would travel into his secret inner domain, moulding it until his utopia was complete. He pictured Natasha there – she could insist he call her Professor to her face, but in his head he called her other names, some she wouldn’t like at all – and felt a desire so strong wash over him that the mug in his hand began to shake. Finally she hung up.
‘Sit down, please, Dr King. It’s good that you’re back at work. I’d like you to arrange a speaker for the next evening lecture. It’s only two weeks away so we’re behind with the arrangements. Can you organise it in that time frame?’ She raised her eyebrows at him. There had been a time when he’d loved that expression, her pensiveness. He’d been wrong. It was irritating. He hadn’t noticed then how it created tiny frown wrinkles across her brow, or her patronising habit of tipping her head to the side as she waited for a response.
‘Easily,’ was his reply.
She breathed in as if about to say something more, changed her mind and flipped her diary shut.
‘All right. The speaker should address one of our listed titles for the term and we’ll need an outline of their lecture seven days beforehand, so time’s tight.’
‘I know the format,’ he said, enjoying her tension. She had her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Little did she know how appropriate it was, he thought. If she could only see what he’d done; all that he’d become. The tailored suits and high heels, her immaculate hair kept short and businesslike, wouldn’t be so intimidating on his home territory.
‘Right, you’ll have a lot to catch up on from your leave, so that’ll be all.’ She turned her face to the computer monitor. He had been dismissed. All she’d ever done was dismiss him. King had once put forward a paper he’d spent months researching and writing, offering it for inclusion in the department’s journal, only to have it rejected out of hand. Three times he’d applied for academic posts in the department. Twice he’d been discounted at the first stage. The third time, he’d been selected for interview. He remembered his elation upon receiving the notification letter with something close to shame. He’d worked hour after hour, consuming every volume on philosophy he could find, studying teaching plans, the history of the department, everything and anything that would impress the board. He was finally going to receive the recognition he was owed. He wouldn’t let himself down.
On the day of his interview, he’d been calming his nerves in the gents’ toilets, splashing cold water on his face. That was when he’d heard those imbeciles giggling together, thinking they couldn’t be overheard in the ladies’ next door.
‘What are they doing interviewing him? He gives me the creeps and he’s horrible to the students, won’t give them the time of day. Can you imagine him teaching? I’m not staying here if he’s on the faculty, doing his typing, organising his diary. He’ll probably make us all address him as sir,’ the ugly bleached-blonde receptionist had said. He’d always loathed her. She embodied the worst of young women, concerned only with their grooming and social lives, handing themselves out to the lowest bidder, couldn’t write a sentence without a spelling mistake.
‘He’ll probably make us curtsy when we go in his room,’ said another. This was an older voice. Deirdre, King thought. That was worse. She’d always been polite to his face, friendly, even. How quickly women betrayed. Throwing a paper towel in the bin he told himself to stop listening, knowing it was stupid, damaging his confidence before the most important thirty minutes of his life and a chance at the academic career he’d always desired. But he’d stayed. It was the human condition: the need to know the worst, the destructive desire to see how it feels when you hit rock bottom. He’d inched closer to the wall to hear better. The voices were hushed and he’d held his breath to catch the words.
‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ two-faced Deirdre had hissed. ‘Natasha didn’t even want to interview him but Human Resources told her she should. They didn’t want a challenge to the fairness of their long-listing process. His CV is quite impressive.’
‘How do you know so much?’ Bleached-blonde had sounded amazed. ‘Oh my God, I never hear this stuff.’
‘I had to type up the notes of her session with HR. Professor Forge called me in especially to tell me I wasn’t to say anything to anyone, so don’t you go blabbing. I think he makes her skin crawl like he does everyone’s. She’s not giving him the job, that’s for sure.’
‘Bloody right,’ the yellow-haired whore had replied.
King hadn’t moved, not until they’d finished tarting themselves up and he’d heard the ladies’ door swing shut behind them, giggling viciously as they’d trotted up the corridor. When their grotesque laughter had finally faded, he’d let rage take him, slamming a fist into the mirror that was reflecting his reddened face and swelling tears. A second time, then a third, he punched the shattered glass, no pain transferring from hand to brain because everything was black and buzzing and he wasn’t sure what he was doing there, why he’d come, only that he had to get out, get out, get out!
He’d grabbed a toilet roll and wrapped the paper around his hand until the bleeding was hidden, shoved the fist into his pocket, wiped the sweat and other unthinkable liquids from his face, and marched down the corridor. He’d forced his pace to slow, held his head high, put his dignity back on like a helmet and left the building. He couldn’t remember the drive home, nor unlocking his door and throwing all his notes, all that work, into the bin. He didn’t remember cleaning and binding the fist that really required hospital treatment but that still, in spite of all the abuse it had taken, he could not feel. Nor could he recall falling asleep on his bedroom floor, flat on his back, arms over his face as if blocking out the world that had insulted him so badly, the same room where his mother had spent hours patiently teaching him and his sister algebra, French, chemistry, anything and everything. A whole history in this house. He’d wanted his parents to be proud of him then. Had been sure that even in death, this new career path would make them proud of him now. But he’d been tricked. Lied to. Made a fool. What he did remember, with startling clarity, was waking up and knowing he was better than all of them. He would show them how superior he was, humble every one of them with his brilliance. He would not run, wouldn’t be forced out, would never let them know the humiliation he’d suffered. Reginald King was a man born for recognition, adoration even, and he would not quit until he had conquered.
He smiled at the memory. What a moment that had been, a pivotal instant in his life. Still, there was work to do before he could progress further. Work that paid for him to live. He couldn’t afford to slack. There were mouths to feed. He filed a faked doctor’s letter with Human Resources, citing chronic gastroenteritis as his illness then fired off a few emails searching for a speaker. He was particularly keen to secure the attendance of a representative from Professionals Against Abortion. That would get right under Natasha’s skin, women’s rights being her regular ride of a high horse. It seemed unlikely that they’d be overwhelmed with invitations to speak at such a prestigious institution as the University of Edinburgh. He would follow up his email with a phone call to them in a couple of days.
The rest of the afternoon was spent clearing his desk of trivia before a trip to the supermarket on his way home. There were certain women’s supplies that needed buying. Not a chore he looked forward to, but a necessity. He went through the self-service checkout to avoid a nosy employee thinking too hard about the contents of his basket, treated himself to a good bottle of white wine – he might even share a glass with the ladies if they were behaving themselves – and set off to prepare dinner for them. It would be an interesting evening, he thought. Time for them all to get to know each other better.
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_480df778-e550-519a-926d-bd19836867b8)
At Ava’s suggestion they were meeting at a pub in York Place, just around the corner from Callanach’s apartment. She’d refused to give him the name of it, telling him he’d know it when he saw it.
She was right. Callanach spotted the Conan Doyle at the top of the road and knew immediately he was in the right place. Ava had promised to take him somewhere none of the rest of the squad would go, gossip was a price neither wanted to pay for a quick drink. It was warm and welcoming, eschewing the pretentiousness of trendy wine bars in favour of cosy chairs and a relaxed atmosphere. DI Turner was already there, checking emails on her phone and hugging a glass.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Callanach asked.
She smiled. ‘No, sit down and let me get you a drink. I started early, didn’t expect to find a parking space so easily.’
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
Ava held up the glass mug and he caught the scent of apples and spice in its steam. ‘Mulled cider,’ she said. ‘I can never resist it. I’m guessing I can’t tempt you to join me?’
‘Glass of red, I think,’ he said. While she went to the bar, he held her glass in his hands, enjoying the heat of it as he inspected the place. A large painting of Sherlock Holmes’ creator hung above the stairs from the doorway. Callanach wondered what the writer’s personal demons had been, to have conceived such an eccentric hero.
‘You’re a fan?’ Ava asked as she handed over a large Cabernet Shiraz.
‘When I was young, I consumed his work. It all fed subconsciously into my decision to become a police detective, I suppose. You?’
‘I should read, I know, but by the end of the day I’m so drained that concentrating on a book feels like more work. I love the cinema. I go all the time, often to the midnight showings, sit on my own, eat popcorn. It helps me switch off.’
Callanach raised his glass and Ava met it with hers. They sat in silence and sipped until a barman appeared, placing menus casually on their table.
‘You said you wanted to talk about your case,’ Ava said. ‘Anything specific?’
‘Not really. I keep wondering why we’re not making progress, if it’s my fault. Maybe the move to Scotland has distracted me. If I’d found Elaine Buxton’s killer, Jayne Magee would be safely at home tonight.’
‘You don’t know for sure that the same person took them both,’ she said.
‘There are too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. I studied their profiles today. Excelled at school, both graduated with a first-class degree, each highly regarded in their own profession, hard-working, dedicated. And both disappeared from their home without a trace.’
Ava put her drink down. ‘You must have overseen cases at Interpol where there was no break for ages then something happened and one piece of the puzzle landed so you could see the whole picture. You aren’t responsible for a lack of progress if there’s nothing to find yet.’
‘Isn’t it our job to seek out the answers rather than waiting for solutions to come to us?’ Ava seemed content not to answer. Callanach realised the pomposity of his response to what had been a simple attempt at comfort, and opted for changing the subject. ‘Why did you become a police officer?’
‘My great aunt was poisoned when I was five, my inheritance stolen and I vowed to find the killer,’ she said.
‘Je suis désolé, I’m so sorry, I had no idea …’ Callanach spluttered.
Ava began to laugh, tried to control it then the giggles got the better of her.
‘I can’t believe you fell for that,’ she choked, the laughter starting again and Callanach sat with raised eyebrows as he waited for her to stop. ‘Policing felt like a good match for the person I was in my early twenties. And I probably wanted to make it clear to my parents that I had no desire to get married and have endless dinner parties until I popped out a couple of grandchildren for them. If I had my time again, I’m not sure I’d choose the same path. What about you? It was a dramatic move to leave Interpol and join a city police force. I’m guessing we’re not quite as glamorous as your French colleagues.’
‘Glamour is overrated,’ he said, finishing his drink. ‘I’m hungry. How’s the food here?’
‘The steak is excellent,’ Ava said. ‘As is the baked brie, which is what I’m having.’
Callanach couldn’t help but smile. It was an unfamiliar sensation. But Ava Turner was so open and upfront that it was completely disarming. They ordered and made small talk until the food arrived.
‘Come on then, everyone has a reason. Why the police?’ Ava asked as she dipped baguette in melted cheese.
Callanach instantly regretted having asked Ava such a personal question. He should have foreseen having to respond in kind. His pause was long enough that Ava had fully gauged his reticence before he met her eyes again.
‘You don’t have to answer. It’s not a trick. And tell me if I’m misreading this or being dense, but this is the way it usually works. You ask me a question, I ask you one. We bump into each other at work, we get to know each other better so there’s more trust. When we have a bad day, we smile at one another, remind ourselves that it’s all par for the course.’
‘I know how it works,’ Callanach said. It came out more brusquely than he’d intended and he regretted it immediately. This wasn’t how he’d wanted the evening to go. He readied himself to say sorry.
‘Don’t,’ Ava said. ‘Don’t apologise again. People are who they are. As far as I’m concerned, forcing a square peg into a round hole is a waste of energy. But you’ll have to find a better means of communication than this. Your squad doesn’t have to like you, but they do have to respect you. So here’s the thing. If you don’t say please or thank you to your detectives, they’ll still do what they’re told but they won’t feel a sense of pleasure in working their hardest for you. If you snap at everyone all the time, you’ll drag your team down. And if you don’t let anyone get to know you, whether it’s me or anyone else, then you’ve got no reason to be here because there’ll be no loyalty and no community. And that’s all you have in the police. It’s what grounds you and supports you. It’s the only thing that makes the job tolerable at the end of the day. Feel free to stop me when you want to explain that you already know all of this.’
Ava stood up, picked up her bag and strode away. Callanach realised she’d left her jacket, grabbed it and turned to call after her. He searched the small passageway of steps leading down to the exit but she had already disappeared. Letting out a stream of expletives he returned to the table, threw the jacket back onto her chair and put his head in his hands. He never used to be this person. On top of everything he’d lost – his home, his career, even his mother – he’d become someone he no longer liked. Perhaps Scotland was a mistake, perhaps he was wrong thinking he could take up policing in a new country and that it would be the way it was before. If he was going to run, he should have run much further and never looked back. Slipping on his jacket, he stood up to leave as a glass of wine was thrust into his hand. He stared at Ava.
‘Going somewhere?’ she asked.
‘I assumed you’d …’ he stuttered, trying to stop the words before he looked even more foolish than he already did.
‘That I’d what? Oh my God, you thought I’d left?’ Ava laughed, a big belly laugh that contained not the slightest hint of malice or mean spiritedness. Callanach glanced at the large glass of red in his hand and wished furiously for a time machine to start the evening again. ‘You can go if you like, but I’m off duty and I have no intention of ruining my evening by flouncing off anywhere. I went to the bar, as you can see. Thought I’d give you a moment to decide if you wanted to join in the conversation or just carry on sitting there like a lemon.’
‘Un citron?’ Callanach’s translation skills weren’t bad but that phrase made no sense at all.
Ava laughed again, more softly this time. Callanach gave up, took a long sip of wine and forced himself to sit back and at least pretend to relax. Perhaps that was what was required to start a new life. Perhaps the best he could do was pretend that he could still act normally around people. Maybe in time he’d get more convincing at it. He took a breath and forced himself to share the sort of confidences he once wouldn’t have thought twice about.
‘We lived in Scotland until my father died. I was four years old. After that my mother found it hard to cope, so we moved to France near her family. She had to work long hours to support us and I learned to fend for myself. I got tough very quickly, always fast with a smart mouth, getting in trouble, fighting with the local boys. To them I wasn’t properly French, didn’t fit in. I suppose I turned myself into the sort of arrogant jerk everyone assumed I was when they saw me. By university I was bedding any woman I wanted, partying constantly. My mother called them my dark years. I almost never went home, was egotistic and unlikeable. Then I met someone and it changed everything. For six months I managed to behave like a decent human being, my grades improved, I was content.’
‘You split up?’ Ava asked.
‘We had a petty row. I went out, got drunk and she found me later that night in her best friend’s bed. She left and did not return. I never saw her or spoke to her again.’
‘And that changed you forever into the much improved human you are today?’ Ava teased.
‘Unfortunately not. I was making extra cash modelling so I threw myself into that world, avoiding the university crowd. It was exploitative, drug-fuelled and toxic. Everyone was out for themselves. I spent my weekends travelling with a bunch of crazy thrill-seekers. If we weren’t drunk or high, we were skiing, scuba diving, sailing or skydiving.’
‘Sounds awful.’ Ava raised her eyebrows.
‘Everything was excessive which meant, after a while, that it all became commonplace. It’s one of the many things I regret – not being sober enough to appreciate how lucky I was. Then the bubble burst. I got arrested for drunk driving. The police officer was female. I was horribly rude about her looks when she was booking me in at the police station and she slapped my face, hard.’ He rubbed one hand across his cheek at the memory. ‘The officer changed her mind about arresting me. Instead, she put me in a car and drove me two hundred miles back to my mother where she made me stand and listen, sober by then, to the words I’d said to her. For the first time in years, I was truly ashamed. My mother cried with embarrassment. I was at a crossroads, and that police officer sent me the right way. Had it been anyone else who’d arrested me, I would not be here now.’
‘She’s the reason you joined up?’ Ava asked.
‘She was a part of it,’ he said. ‘It was simplistic, but at the time it made sense. I served in the French police force until I was thirty, then transferred to Interpol where I’ve been for the last five years.’
‘So what made you leave?’ Ava asked. Her phone buzzed and she paused to read a text, frowning fiercely and muttering under her breath.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Another baby has been left in the same park, still alive and on its way to the hospital but the paramedics don’t expect it to survive. How can it be happening again? I’m sorry, Luc, I’ve got to go. I feel bad for leaving mid-conversation.’
‘Don’t,’ he replied, ‘at least I found somewhere that cooks steak properly.’
She smiled. ‘Nice to know what your priorities are.’ Ava put a companionable hand on his shoulder as she walked past him. He jerked away instantaneously, hoped she hadn’t felt it but saw the question in her face. ‘See you tomorrow, Luc. You take care.’
Ava left him staring at the books, globes and brass lamps adorning the walls. It was as good a place as any to drink wine and not think. He ordered another large glass of red and watched life go by until time was called.
The next day began too early. It was the first night he’d slept properly in weeks and the awakening beep of his phone was unwelcome. It was Tripp.
‘Not sure if it’s relevant, but I’ve been going through Jayne Magee’s neighbours’ statements. One of them saw a man at about the time we think she was taken, going round the corner at the end of the street pulling a large wheelie suitcase. I know it’s unlikely but …’
‘I’ll be half an hour,’ Callanach said.
He was there in twenty minutes, uncharacteristically dishevelled, shirt unironed, socks not even distantly related. Tripp stared as Callanach walked in clutching a steaming cup of coffee without noticing that a substantial amount of it was dripping down his jacket.
‘Morning, sir. Everything all right?’
‘Show me the statement and cross-reference it with a map.’
Tripp rummaged through a box of files then laid out documents on Callanach’s desk. ‘Jayne Magee’s house is here.’ He pointed at a red mark on a large scale map of the street. ‘And here,’ he pointed again, ‘about two hundred yards away, is where the neighbour saw the male. Mrs Yale who saw him was walking her dog, coming back into Ravelston Park as the male was exiting onto Ravelston Dykes. She didn’t see where he went after that. You think it’s our man?’
Callanach was silent. He started scrabbling through desk drawers.
‘Er … need any help, sir?’
‘No, I have it.’ Callanach held up a tape measure. ‘Lie down on the floor, on your side, tuck your legs and head in as tightly as you can.’
Tripp looked towards the doorway, mouth open, jiggling from one foot to the other.
‘Pour l’amour de Dieu, Tripp, I’m going to measure you, not kill you. Lie down.’
Tripp assumed the position and held still while Callanach stuck tape to the floor in a rough rectangle.
‘Move your feet in a bit,’ Callanach said. ‘And your elbows. Surely you can make yourself more compact than that!’
‘I can’t, if I move one limb another sticks out.’
‘C’est des conneries!’ Callanach muttered, throwing the measuring tape to the floor. ‘How tall is Jayne Magee?’
‘Five foot three,’ Tripp answered, giving up and rolling onto his back, arms outstretched as Callanach made for the door.
‘Salter!’ Callanach yelled towards the briefing room.
Footsteps approached at a pace and she burst through the door.
‘What, sir?’
‘Tripp will explain. We need to measure you.’ He threw the tape at them as he logged on to his computer. ‘Make yourself small, we must assume she was bound.’
They finished contorting, taping and measuring just as Callanach found what he’d been looking for on the internet. ‘The largest wheelie case available is thirty-four inches long. Is it feasible?’
‘Depends on the depth,’ Tripp said as Salter recovered. ‘But I’d say it’s possible.’
‘Salter, go to the shops,’ Callanach handed her a wad of notes, ‘and bring back a thirty-four-inch case, the deepest you can find, strong wheels. Tripp, we’re going to Ravelston Park.’
They got out of the squad car at the corner where the witness had spotted the male.
‘Two street lights, both the opposite side of the pavement from where he was walking,’ Callanach commented. ‘Many trees and high bushes. There would have been little light from the surrounding houses, they’re all situated well back from the road.’
‘He must have been turning west though, or he’d have crossed over before the corner,’ Tripp said. ‘So he either parked his car within walking distance from her house or he lives close by.’
‘He wouldn’t risk having witnesses to his route home,’ Callanach said. ‘There could easily have been more than one dog walker. The key to this is the vehicle. Have uniformed officers carry out door-to-doors within a quarter-mile radius, checking if anyone saw a man with a case getting into a car, van or truck. We should see if the witness walking the dog can tell us any more.’
Mrs Yale could be heard before she was seen, yelling at her husband to let Callanach and Tripp in, as she controlled an Airedale Terrier who appeared more hungry than friendly. She was large, in her late seventies and obviously excited by the attention.
‘Don’t mind Archie,’ she fluttered. ‘Sit yourselves down. Michael will fetch us tea, won’t you, dear?’ Her husband shuffled dutifully away.
‘Mrs Yale,’ Callanach began.
‘Isabel,’ she said. ‘Would you like biscuits with your tea?’
‘No, thank you. You saw a man leaving the road with a case. Can you describe him again?’ Callanach asked.
‘There wasn’t much to see, I’m afraid. It was dark and cold. He was wearing a long coat, grey or black, a woolly hat and a scarf right up over his mouth. He was all shadows, my darlin’.’
‘You noticed a case?’ he prompted
‘Yes, a big thing. I hate the sound those wheels make.’
‘Can you describe it in more detail?’ Tripp asked, taking a tea cup from the tray.
‘It was soft, like a giant rucksack rather than one of those hard ones. Heavy too, by the look of him pulling it. It was black, with lots of zips. Didn’t see any labels, I’m afraid.’
‘You seem to remember more about the case than the man, if you don’t mind my saying,’ Tripp commented.
‘That’s because I was closer to it. I was bending down as the man came past me, bagging Archie’s doings. My first thought was what shiny shoes the man had. You don’t see many gentlemen that bother these days. Black lace-ups. Not really the best thing in this weather.’
‘Anything else, Mrs Yale? Anything at all?’ Callanach said.
‘I hadn’t realised I’d seen anything of note.’ She fussed over biscuit crumbs. ‘But there was a faint smell about him. I don’t suppose many would recognise it nowadays, but I’m sure it was mothballs.’
‘Mothballs?’ Callanach asked Tripp, not recognising the word.
‘You hang them in closets to stop moths from eating your clothes. Not very common any more.’
‘L’antimite. You’re sure?’ Callanach double-checked with Mrs Yale as she fed crumbs to the ravenous Archie.
‘It was the smell of my childhood, Mother swore by them. We couldn’t afford new clothes during the war, dearie, so we jolly well looked after those we had.’
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_3cefc786-1985-5c7a-98b3-1552631fafb2)
Dr King was nervous. It was ridiculous. He was in his own home. He’d brought these women here through sheer force of will for a higher purpose and he was about to have his first proper conversation with the woman he would mentor into their new life together. She might even bring the still-rebellious Elaine into the fold.
Jayne would be free of the drugs by now. She’d need food, drink and an explanation. With her extraordinary faith, perhaps she would be more circumspect about how she’d been delivered into his hands. If there was a God, then maybe Jayne had been chosen for him. He put the tray down and unlocked the door. Inside, occupying two beds, were the women who would change his life.
He’d only planned to take one, researching both to find the most suitable. Always have a backup, that was the thing. Jayne Magee had been his. He’d not anticipated taking them both, not until Elaine had proved so unruly. The reverend would be more docile and able to adapt. He’d felt it when he’d placed her on the bed, taking care not to hurt her whilst restraining her wrists and ankles. Human nature dictated that a prisoner would always struggle hardest when they first woke up. Jayne would rise above it though, he was sure.
On entering the room, he was assaulted by the most repulsive odour. He gagged, doubling over, tray crashing to the floor, splattering him with melon flavoured protein smoothie. His clothes were ruined.
‘I dressed especially smartly to meet you,’ he shouted. ‘Which one of you has done that? Which one … let me see!’ He marched over, glutinous pink liquid aglow from the colour raging in his cheeks as it dripped down his face. He ripped Elaine’s covers back. He had expected, actually wanted, it to have been Elaine but she was in her usual cretinous state, rocking to and fro with her eyes jammed shut.
It was Jayne then. He pulled her blanket away more gingerly and the stench was unbearable. He ran to a cupboard, grabbed an electric fan and dragged it to her bed. For a moment he questioned his choice to have the room windowless, but it had been the only way. He snapped on gloves from under the sink and began the clean-up operation. She was awake and he knew it, although her head was rolled away from him and she wasn’t speaking. Better that they didn’t communicate until this was over. He had to forgive her. After all, she didn’t yet know who he was, what his plans were. He could be anybody, any lunatic planning to do unspeakable things to her. It would be better when she discovered the truth and could put his actions into context. King finished up, showered, made a fresh tray of food and went back to introduce himself properly.
The Reverend Jayne Magee’s face was still turned away so he pulled up a chair.
‘Jayne, I’m Dr King, Reginald, but perhaps we should remain on formal terms until we’ve progressed. I won’t hurt you, I want you to know that straight away.’
Jayne was chanting beneath her breath.
‘What’s that you’re saying? I can’t hear.’ He leaned over her, trying to see her lips but she strained her face further away. It took him some minutes before he recognised the words. Jayne was reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
‘That’s what we’re here to debate. The existence and nature of God. It’s one of the reasons I chose you. I read the thesis you wrote during your time at Oxford and I think you’ll find I have some interesting responses for you.’ Still she wouldn’t respond, even after he’d displayed his genuine interest in her. It was becoming tiresome. ‘Turn your head, please. It’s terribly bad manners not to look at someone who’s speaking to you.’ Nothing.
King had no wish to chastise Jayne so soon after her arrival. It would put her off completely. Having previously thought that Elaine had rendered herself expendable, he realised she might have a new use, one that could speed things along much faster.
‘Jayne, you comprehend the fragile quality of human life and how little time we have to spare. I wish to begin a conversation with you’ – the muttered prayer continued – ‘so I shall make you responsible for your companion’s fate. I’m obliged to maintain discipline, Reverend, and I have many ways of doing so.’
He unlocked the cupboard above the sink, took a needle from the medical kit and walked over to Elaine. She’d been listening, pretending to be in her own world, but listening all the same and she knew something was about to happen. She screamed when he picked up her hand.
‘It’s a sterilised needle, so there’s really no need for all this fuss. There won’t be any lasting damage.’ He stuck it slowly beneath the nail of her middle finger, pushing down firmly as she struggled, wondering how it was possible to scream and gurgle at the same time. It was as if she was drowning in the pain.
‘Stop it!’ Jayne screeched. ‘Just stop, please.’
‘You’re talking to me now, are you?’ he asked, not withdrawing the needle from Elaine’s nail, not until he’d really made his point.
‘Yes, I’ll talk, I will,’ she shouted.
‘What do you think, Elaine? Have you had enough?’ Elaine spluttered a yes, nodding wildly at him, imploring Jayne to help.
King allowed himself one more jab into Elaine’s nail bed, gratified by a final shriek to ensure compliance, then withdrew the needle.
‘Do you remember what happened?’ he asked Jayne. She shook her head.
‘My lips are sore,’ she said, ‘and my neck aches.’
‘Chloroform is a bit hard on the skin, I’m afraid, and then I had to sedate you with ketamine while I went to work in case you became distressed and injured yourself. It’s a wonderful drug. It altered your conscious state but allowed me to issue you directions which you were able to follow. You may find you have strange dreams for a few days. And you’ll be dehydrated.’ He collected the tray. ‘Here, drink this.’ She jerked her head away as he held the cup. ‘You need to drink and I’m not so primitive as to want to drug you constantly. The whole point of you being here is for us to engage with one another. I don’t want to have to be any more persuasive today. It’s hardly fair on Elaine.’
Elaine started to squeal and thrash on the bed. Jayne took the straw between her lips, sipping cautiously.
‘That’s better,’ King congratulated her.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ Jayne asked. It was said remarkably plainly in the circumstances, he thought admiringly.
‘I’m an educated man, Jayne, not an animal. I am forging a better life for myself and for you.’ He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Though to be honest, I’m not sure how long it’ll be before Elaine has outstayed her welcome. She’s not working out the way I’d hoped.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Jayne asked. King stared into her eyes, wondering what she was thinking. Was she hopeful of release, curious about him, too scared to understand her position yet? She seemed full of exciting possibilities. A paragon of potential. She reminded him vaguely of his sister. Not that Eleanor had lived to see adulthood, but if she had, she might have been a lot like the reverend. Their parents had always said Ellie was destined to be a leader with her extraordinary academic ability, not to mention her flair for music. She had been almost perfect. Sometimes annoyingly so.
‘I’m doing it for us. For a future where we can learn together, appreciate one another, stretch our minds in glorious ways.’
‘What if I don’t want to?’ Jayne asked. King thought about it. She wasn’t being defiant, he decided, or difficult. It was a genuine question and it deserved a genuine answer.
‘You will want to,’ he said. ‘Eventually. I’m here to guide you.’
‘This is wrong,’ she said. ‘Please, think about what you’re doing.’
‘Jayne, don’t,’ he counselled her. ‘Elaine tried, God knows she begged for days, and it won’t work. There’s a plan, you see. Sometimes a human has to aspire to a life greater than the one they’re born to. I am more than the sum of my parts, as are you. The physical being is unimportant. Elaine’s finger will heal, pain is transient. It’s a conduit for progression, enlightenment.’
‘I see,’ Jayne said simply. He waited for more, but that was it. He’d won. For today he should be content with that much.
He was exhausted, drained by disciplining Elaine and all the cleaning. Locking the door on his way out, he heard a whisper, considered going back in, but decided not to. They would need time to get to know one another. It wasn’t until he reached the bottom of the stairs that his tired brain finally unscrambled the words he’d heard.
‘We’re going to die here,’ Jayne had said, in that plain way of hers.
Reginald King thought that smoked salmon and mushroom risotto would make an excellent choice for supper.
Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_f0d5b22e-f282-5896-b4d5-130b75391154)
DC Salter fitted neatly into the extra-large wheelie case, once Tripp had secured her arms with gaffer tape. There was no hard evidence that Reverend Magee had been inside the case or that the man pulling it was her abductor, but there it was, in glorious high definition, inside Callanach’s head and he just knew that was how it had played out. Isabel Yale’s shoe comment fit exactly with what Ava had intuited about the abductor’s obsessiveness. What sort of person made sure their shoes were gleaming before a kidnapping?
Lively knocked the door once and walked in. ‘We’ve finished our enquiries at St Mary’s. Only thing that came out of it was a group opposed to women vicars. Seems Jayne Magee had received some nasty letters, a bit of abuse, threats. She didn’t report it to the police but we found the notes in her desk. They’re being examined.’
‘It doesn’t fit with Elaine Buxton’s killing,’ Callanach noted. ‘Collate all the outstanding missing persons reports for women in this age bracket from the last twelve months. And I want the forensic report on the mobile phone. It should have been on my desk yesterday. Also, call the police at Braemar. Ask them to go back up to the bothy and look for parallel marks leading to the hut that could have been made by a wheelie case. It’s a long shot but still worth investigating.’
Callanach left Tripp cutting Salter free of the gaffer tape, and made his way down the corridor to the kitchenette. The coffee machine was broken, not that he was mourning its loss. When he turned around, Ava was behind him brandishing an empty cup.
‘I’ll wash, you dry,’ she ordered, grabbing a second dirty mug off the draining board and running hot water into the sink.
A uniformed officer appeared just as the kettle boiled, puffed out from the short flight of stairs from the ground floor, and thrust a large cardboard box onto the table in the corner before retreating without a word.
‘Biddlecombe,’ Ava called after her. ‘What is that?’
‘Delivery for Major Investigations, ma’am. No name on it. From some posh florist. Must be from a satisfied customer.’
‘Our customers are either dead or psychopathic, depending on your viewpoint, Biddlecombe. They don’t send flowers,’ Ava yelled, picking up the box and eyeing it suspiciously. ‘Should I open it or throw it out of the window?’ she grinned at Callanach.
‘Is it ticking?’ he asked. Ava held it to her ear dramatically and shook her head. ‘Phone down to the front desk and tell Biddlecombe to come back up here and open it for you. She needs the exercise if nothing else.’ Ava was already ripping open the parcel. ‘Nothing like a well-adhered-to security policy,’ he noted, peering over Ava’s shoulder into the box.
Inside was a bouquet of stunning long-stemmed white roses. He reached across and pulled a card from a tiny golden envelope. ‘“Detective Inspector, The thorn makes the bloom all the more precious. Yours.”’
‘Is that it?’ Ava asked.
Callanach checked the back of the card, the envelope and the box again.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Have you arrested anyone for crimes involving dreadful poetry or being overwhelmingly sickly recently? Because it seems you’ve caught someone’s eye.’
‘How do you know they’re not for you?’ she asked. ‘My admirers usually just ask for a photo of me in uniform to put up in their prison cell, in lieu of a dartboard, I guess.’
‘Can’t be for me. Don’t Celtic women just hit men over the head with a club and haul them back to their cave?’ Callanach asked.
‘Oh aye,’ Ava mocked. ‘And then only if the man’ll make good eating. Otherwise we dinnae bother.’ She grabbed the flowers, thrust them into an empty desk bin that she filled with water, and left them on the table. ‘Well, if they’re for me, someone doesn’t know I get hay fever, so no points for research.’
‘Shouldn’t you report the delivery, at least?’ Callanach asked. ‘These things can get out of hand …’
‘Because I don’t have anything better to do with my time, and a bunch of flowers is a priority right now?’ She laughed. ‘I’m opposed to undertaking any activity that doesn’t help clear the mountain of paperwork from my desk, DI Callanach.’
‘It’s your funeral,’ he replied. ‘Any joy with your babies?’
Ava flipped straight back into work mode. ‘No. They’re unrelated except for a blanket each was wrapped in. Just white towelling, but identical. There must be two very distressed or confused women out there. What about you?’
‘Some movement, only a little, but it’s progress.’
‘Forensics on Jayne Magee’s mobile.’ Tripp thrust the paper through the doorway. ‘Lab said sorry they’re late, they were working on DI Turner’s baby case.’
Callanach flicked through the paperwork. ‘Et voilà,’ he muttered, pouring the remaining coffee into the sink and running his finger along a couple of sentences that were heavy on the scientific language. He read the paragraph twice before calling Tripp back. ‘The laboratory confirms the presence of chloroform on Jayne Magee’s mobile. He’d have been wearing gloves. That means it’s definitely a kidnapping and it fits with the theory that she was disabled before being packed in the case.’
‘Yes, sir. And one of the uniforms working the door-to-doors in Ravelston Park just radioed in about a statement he’s taken from a man who regularly cycles home along that route. Give me five minutes and I’ll get you the details.’
Callanach went back to his office and phoned Jonty Spurr. The pathologist sounded gruff and hassled, the phone obviously on speaker as he continued working while they talked.
‘Do you have time to talk?’ Callanach asked.
‘Four dead teenagers in one car. They’d taken ecstasy and were racing. Never ceases to amaze me how people can be so careless with their lives.’ Callanach said nothing because there was nothing to say. ‘So come on then, what do you need?’ Spurr asked.
‘I have an abducted woman who, I believe, was taken by Elaine Buxton’s killer. She was subdued with chloroform when he took her. Is there any method for tracing chemicals from Elaine Buxton’s remains?’
‘Not from the bones or the environment, no. Normally it would be easy if we had organs to screen but the only soft tissue cells we have are from the tooth found near the baseball bat. I’m not promising anything but I’ll run a tox screen. The results will depend on how recently she’d inhaled the chemical and in what amount.’ Callanach could hear the metallic rattle of tools being picked up and put down.
‘One more thing. How long before the effects of the chloroform would wear off after she was first abducted?’
‘Number of variables with chloroform, such as size and weight of the victim and quantity of the dose. Assuming he didn’t overdose her and she survived, it’s minutes rather than an hour, maybe fifteen if he was being careful not to harm her. It can cause burns to the skin, as well as liver and kidney damage if too much is used. You can’t use it safely for long-term sedation.’
‘Where would someone get chloroform?’ Callanach was pushing his luck and he knew it.
‘That’s two things and you have a pathologist of your own in Edinburgh. The answer is the internet but probably sent from abroad. It’s a commodity in certain eastern European countries, otherwise it’s a common industrial agent. Difficult to pinpoint sources, I’m afraid, but it’s easy to get hold of if you’re determined.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I will repay the courtesy.’
‘Holding you to it,’ Spurr replied before the line cut off abruptly.
Tripp was standing outside his door waiting for the call to end. Callanach shouted at him.
‘I’m not your headmaster, Tripp. You don’t have to wait in the corridor. What have you got?’
‘Uniform says there’s no detailed description, but Liam Granger was cycling home from work down Orchard Road South, just off Ravelston Dykes and went past a man who he noticed because he was talking to himself in quite an animated way. Granger took a second look and saw the wheelie case. Didn’t notice his face or clothing. It was too dark for anything other than an outline. The cyclist assumed he was either mentally ill or drunk.’
Callanach strode over to the map on his wall clutching a red pen. He traced a line from Jayne Magee’s house into Orchard Road South.
‘He must have parked around this area here.’ Callanach pointed. ‘That walk would have taken five minutes pulling a heavy case. If he only had a quarter of an hour until she regained consciousness, he couldn’t have risked parking too far away.’
‘It’s a densely populated area, cars parked along that road all times of the day. We’ve knocked every door. No joy with anyone noticing unusual vehicles,’ Tripp added.
‘Send uniformed officers to knock doors in the vicinity of Elaine Buxton’s home. See if anyone noticed a man with a large wheelie case at about the time she got home. This is something he practised. He knew how to fold the body so it would fit, had the chloroform ready. And would you retrieve the photos of Elaine Buxton’s home?’
The photos were on Callanach’s desk five minutes later as Detective Constable Salter found a vehicle to drive them to Albyn Place.
‘Any news on DI Turner’s baby case?’ Callanach asked.
‘No, sir,’ Salter answered.
‘What’s on at the cinema at the moment?’ he asked. Salter blushed. ‘I just need something to take my mind off this case,’ he said, praying she hadn’t misinterpreted his question as an invitation.
‘I don’t know. My boyfriend downloads everything these days.’ Callanach offered up silent thanks for the mention of her partner. ‘You don’t seem the cinema type, if you don’t mind my saying,’ she noted.
‘What is it you think I do at weekends, then, Salter?’
‘Eat out at nice restaurants, drink wine, read newspapers, go to dinner parties. That sort of thing? I should probably fetch the car, sir.’ She fled and Callanach realised he’d put her on the spot. Still, her answers told him a lot about how he was perceived. Part of it was the stereotype attached to his nationality, he supposed, and too close to the truth of his old life for comfort. Not so for the past year. He’d closed every door, with only the ghosts of parties past for company.
Elaine Buxton’s apartment came into view with a ‘For Sale’ notice displayed prominently in front of it. Callanach guessed Elaine’s mother could neither afford to keep it nor wanted any reminder of the place from which her daughter had been taken.
‘Drive around the back,’ he directed Salter. He identified Elaine’s garage and studied the crime scene photos. He’d visited her home to get a sense of who she was, but hadn’t been inside the garage. Using keys taken from the evidence room, he clicked the automatic door and went inside. ‘The keys were found inside the hallway that leads to her apartment, correct?’ Salter checked the log and nodded. ‘Suggesting she’d dropped them there, that whoever took her was waiting for her inside but no one let him in or saw him there. No sign of a struggle, no noise, no trace evidence. It’s too clean. I think he took her from the garage, opened the door to the hallway and deliberately threw the keys into the corridor.’
‘Garage would have been locked though, according to her mother. The victim was very security conscious,’ Salter said.
‘There are bushes outside. He would have known her routine. Simple is best. He arrives here before her, it’s dark, he stands in the shadows behind the shrubbery, waits for her to activate the automatic garage door, bends down low and creeps in behind the car.’
‘He’d need to have been sure she was alone,’ Salter commented.
‘She didn’t bring men back here. He’d have known her well enough to be confident about that. By the time she’d stopped the car and the garage door was back down, he was waiting with the chloroform.’
‘You’re saying she couldn’t have avoided it, no matter what precautions she took. That’s not very reassuring for the rest of us. Why throw the keys into the corridor?’
‘To deflect attention from the side path which is how he got out of the garage, through the back door, presumably pulling a large wheelie case behind him. Come.’
He led Salter to a side door, leading directly from the garage onto a mud and gravel path back to the street. She went to walk out until he held up an arm to stop her.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Call it in to forensics. I want a team here looking for parallel impressions, gravel stuck deep into the mud in lines. The weight of her body would have made a substantial imprint through the wheels.’
The cinema question had been more than just small talk. He looked up what was on when he got home that evening and texted Ava.
‘Couple of hours paperwork on my desk,’ she replied. ‘If you’re still awake at half eleven, how about the late showing of Ice Cold in Alex at the cinema behind the Conan Doyle?’
He had no idea what the film was. It hadn’t come up in the reviews for the latest releases. As it turned out, the reason for that was because it was made in 1958. He found Ava with her legs propped up on the empty chair in front of her, dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and clutching the biggest box of popcorn Callanach had ever seen, eyes glued to the opening titles.
‘They re-run old films,’ she whispered to him. ‘So much better than watching on TV. And no bloody HD, super colour, surround sound nonsense. This is film the way it was supposed to be. Story first, everything else second.’ She offered the popcorn and he shook his head.
‘You’re really going to eat all of that?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely. And if you don’t have some, you’re missing the point.’
‘How’s your case going?’ Callanach took a piece of popcorn and played with it between his fingers.
‘Ssssh!’ was all the response he got and he forced his attention towards the screen. Detective Inspector Ava Turner was already immersed in a North African desert in World War II.
An hour and a half later, John Mills and Sylvia Syms had given Oscar-worthy performances, and Callanach didn’t move his eyes from the rolling credits until Ava stood up and coughed pointedly.
‘Now you can talk,’ she said. They went to a late night pub on Leith Street that also served reasonable coffee and sat in a corner, trying to ignore the couple next to them who were arguing loudly about wedding plans. ‘Your opinion?’ Ava asked, manoeuvring a tray onto the sticky table. On it was the coffee Callanach had requested and a brandy he hadn’t.
‘I think they should run away and get married in Vegas if it’s causing that much stress.’
‘Of the movie?’ Ava said, holding out the brandy glass. He raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s Friday night, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ she said. ‘I, for one, need a drink and drinking alone isn’t the Scottish way. Come on, admit it. The film was cinematic perfection.’
‘It was not what I expected,’ he said. ‘I mean that in a good way.’
‘Here’s to that,’ she said, taking a gulp. Her grey eyes appeared bluer in the glow of orange neon lighting. She looked every inch alive, as if just waiting for the next moment, the next challenge. For a second, Callanach wished he could climb into her skin and remember what that was like. ‘You’re going to ruin it by talking shop, aren’t you?’
‘Am I so very predictable after such a short time?’ he asked.
‘It’s your safety net,’ she said.
‘What’s yours?’ he asked, instantly regretting prying into her personal life again. Ava didn’t even blink.
‘I play act at being confident, sharp and funny,’ she said.
‘Why would you need to do that?’ Callanach asked, appreciating the brandy more than he’d expected.
‘Because then no one will see how terrified and out of my depth I feel most of the time,’ she smiled. ‘Maybe discussing work would be best.’ She drained the glass of brandy and replaced it with her coffee cup. ‘Why would two unrelated women leave their babies to die in the same park? I can’t think of a good reason, aside from there being a baby-stealing psychopath roaming the city, but then the mothers would have appeared.’
‘If this isn’t a copycat, and that seems almost impossible in the circumstances, then the two mothers have met, agreed to do this together. They are making a point,’ Callanach said.
‘Which would be?’ Ava asked.
‘The public disposal of the children,’ Callanach said. ‘So maybe they never wanted them in the first place?’
‘You’re thinking rape victims,’ she murmured.
‘Perhaps,’ Callanach said, ‘but there are other possibilities to consider. Often women who are trafficked whilst pregnant have their babies taken from them forcibly. That might explain the lack of complaint from the mothers.’
‘It might, but there’d be no point the traffickers leaving the bodies to be found. It just puts the DNA on file. It’s something to think about. Why is it easier to see other people’s cases so much more clearly than your own?’
‘Distance and perspective,’ Callanach said. ‘I, on the other hand, have a faceless kidnapper turned murderer who plans everything to perfection, suggesting an elevated ability to control his emotions and behaviour, but who talks to himself in public, presumably without even realising it.’
‘Internal debate and subconscious reassurance,’ Ava said. ‘He’s lonely, has no one to talk to or to validate his behaviour. There’s a theory that we need people to challenge us as much as to praise us, so that we can justify and reason. People lacking that create a second voice, an out loud voice.’
‘Do you think that’s why he took Elaine and Jayne?’ Callanach asked.
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ Ava replied.
‘Why not?’ Callanach shifted his chair closer to Ava and away from the previously arguing couple who’d progressed to making up, and were engaging in louder than necessary kissing.
‘If he wants them for company, why kill them?’ Ava asked.
‘He’s only killed one of them, so far,’ Callanach said, ‘but if you’re right about the motive for the abduction then there’s a chance Jayne Magee is still alive, no?’
They were interrupted by a scuffle at the door. A cursing, drunken twenty-something burst through followed by a couple of mates equally worse for wear, all staggering towards the loved-up couple on the next table.
Callanach glanced at the barmaid who was looking around for help.
‘What the fuck, Suze? I still love ya. Tell me you’re no’ gonna marry this wee piece o’ shite?’
‘Aw, Gary, really?’ the girl answered, looking bored rather than perturbed. ‘I’ve told you, and my dad’s told you. You need to keep away from me. It’s over.’
‘I know you still love me. Ye said you’d always love me. And he’s an insurance salesman. What sort of pissy job is that?’
Callanach raised his eyebrows at Ava who huffed and finished her drink.
‘You should leave now, pal,’ the insurance salesman-cum-fiancé declared, although he sounded more self-assured than he looked.
‘I’ll go when my girlfriend tells me to go. You’ll keep your gob shut, if you know what’s good for you. Come on, Suze, we need to talk outside.’
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Helen Fields
‘Must read!’ Closer‘I love, love, LOVE Perfect Remains!’ Reader review‘A superb debut!’ Reader reviewOn a remote Highland mountain, the body of Elaine Buxton is burning. All that will be left to identify the respected lawyer are her teeth and a fragment of clothing.In the concealed back room of a house in Edinburgh, the real Elaine Buxton screams into the darkness…Detective Inspector Luc Callanach has barely set foot in his new office when Elaine’s missing persons case is escalated to a murder investigation. Having left behind a promising career at Interpol, he’s eager to prove himself to his new team. But Edinburgh, he discovers, is a long way from Lyon, and Elaine’s killer has covered his tracks with meticulous care.It’s not long before another successful woman is abducted from her doorstep, and Callanach finds himself in a race against the clock. Or so he believes … The real fate of the women will prove more twisted than he could have ever imagined.Fans of Angela Marson, Mark Billingham and M. J. Aldridge will be gripped by this chilling journey into the mind of a troubled killer.
Copyright (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017
Copyright © Helen Fields 2017
Cover photographs © Arcangel Images / Shutterstock
Cover design © HarperCollins 2017
Helen Fields asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008181550
Ebook Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780008181567
Version: 2018-05-14
Dedication (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
For David, Gabriel, Solomon and Evangeline,
who let me write in a time machine
where just five more minutes in my world
is always an hour or two in yours.
Contents
Cover (#u250b825c-685e-54d2-9fbd-6f2ebbe80562)
Title Page (#uf8876f2c-7b60-5965-b110-70a22f1b7f52)
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on for a sneak peek of Perfect Prey
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
He laid out the body with almost fatherly care, stretching each limb wide, allowing air to circulate freely around her skin. She was ashen but peaceful, her eyelashes bold against the greyness of her face, lips colourless. He preferred it to the way she’d looked when they’d first met. The nakedness was unattractive, splayed as she was, but it was necessary. There should be no part of her left. No aspect of her past, no link to the life she was leaving. This was, in many ways, a cleansing. Very precisely, he aimed his foot above the middle of her left humerus, letting his whole weight bear down on her arm, feeling the crackle and shatter of it vibrate through the bones in his own leg. Only when satisfied that the pyre was perfectly prepared did he take the small silk pouch from his trouser pocket. Tipping the white gems into his hand, he rolled them between deft fingers and palm, enjoying the contrasting smoothness and sharpness, dropping them like pennies down a wishing well into her mouth, saving just one. It seemed a shame to burn such immaculate work but no flesh could be spared. He had soaked the body in accelerant overnight, marinating her, he’d joked, just in case someone stumbled in earlier than expected, not that he was so amateurish that it would happen.
As a last touch before leaving the stone cabin, he allowed a fragment of bloodied silk scarf to drift to the floor. Planting a heavy rock over it, he ground it into the earth. The grate of a struck match, the screech of ancient rusty hinges, the woof of flames consuming oxygen and it was done. He carried a metal baseball bat a reasonable distance away and covered it with rocks. He’d polished it free of fingerprints but, invisible to the naked eye and awaiting the black light that would illuminate it, a single smudge of blood remained on the handle. A few feet further and he relinquished the final tooth, sticky threads of gum tissue left dangling, then kicked a token sheet of dust over it. That would do.
There was a walk, not so very far but perilous in the dark, which made it slow. The air temperature was below freezing even in the foothills. His breath misted the sharp focus of the stars above him. It was a fine resting place for her, he thought. She was lucky. Few people left the world from such a viewpoint. Soon enough, the Cairngorms were disappearing behind him in the mist. When the first light hit them, they would turn purple-grey against the sky, barren and rocky, almost a moonscape. He watched in his mirror as the vast formations dipped into no more than shallow hills. This was his last visit here, he thought. A final farewell. It had proved to be the perfect location.
Edinburgh was still more than an hour away and there was rain forecast, not that it would stop the burning. By the time the first drop fell, the heat would be so intense that only a flood could halt the destruction. His priority was to get home as quickly as was prudent. There was so much left to do.
The woman had given in more easily than he’d imagined. If it had been him, he’d have fought to the last, would have focused every ounce of anger and bile on resisting. She had pleaded, begged and in the end cried feebly and howled. Life was cheap, he thought, because the general populace failed to appreciate its value. He understood. He constantly pushed himself to the limits of his capability, strove to learn, to surpass. He burned with a thirst for knowledge like others craved money, making it hard to find an equal. That was why he’d been forced to kill. Without her sacrifice, he would forever have been surrounded by women unable to satisfy his intellect.
He listened to a language CD as he drove. He liked to learn a new language each year. This time it was Spanish. Easier than many, he admitted to himself guiltily, but then he had an exhausting amount of other matters on his mind. He couldn’t be expected to pick up anything more complex whilst doing so much research and travelling.
‘It’s not as if I’ve had any free time.’ A rabbit dashed out from the verge. He slammed on his brakes, less from a desire to avoid it than with the shock of the movement in his peripheral vision. ‘Damn it!’ He was distracted and he’d been talking to himself again. He only did that when he was overtired. And stressed. He’d stayed up late arguing. Whoever thought it was an easy task persuading an intelligent woman to do what was best for her, was a fool. It was a challenge, even for a man of his faculties. The brighter the woman, the harder it was. But rewarding in the end.
He pulled over at the outskirts of Edinburgh and drank passably warm coffee from a flask. He couldn’t risk going into a cafe. In spite of the lack of interest he was likely to generate – no one wanted to stare at a middle-aged, saggy-bellied man with an unsightly bald patch – it would be stupid to have his likeness caught on CCTV returning to the city along this route.
The Spanish voice droned in the background until he hit the off switch. It was such a big day, why shouldn’t he take a break for once? A lady was waiting at home, needing substantial care and attention. She wouldn’t be able to talk clearly for a while, in fact she would probably need speech therapy. Luckily for her, he was a gifted tutor in many fields. It would be his pleasure and privilege to assist.
Chapter Two (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
Detective Inspector Luc Callanach wondered how long it would take for the jibes to stop, and they hadn’t even started yet. It was his second day with Police Scotland’s Major Investigations Team in Edinburgh and he’d found himself in a depressingly grey, ageing building that couldn’t have looked less like a hub of cutting-edge criminal investigation. Yesterday had been an easy introduction, consisting only of briefings and meetings with superiors too aware of political correctness to dare crack any gags about his accent or nationality. Those who ranked below him wouldn’t be so obliging. It seemed unlikely that Police Scotland had ever had to integrate a half-French half-Scots detective before.
Callanach was scheduled to give a meet and greet speech, explain how he intended to operate, and what his expectations were of the men and women in his command. It would be bad enough when they saw him – archetypally European with unruly dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin and an aquiline nose. Once he opened his mouth, it would only get worse. He glanced at his watch and knew they’d be sharpening their collective wits. Keeping them waiting wasn’t going to improve things, not that he particularly cared what they thought of him but he was all for an easy life where he could get it.
‘Quiet. Let’s get started,’ he said, writing his name on a board and ignoring the incredulous looks. ‘I’ve only recently moved from France and it will take some time for us to adjust to one another’s accents, so speak clearly and slowly.’
There was silence until what sounded like, ‘You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding,’ came from the far end of the room, where too many bodies were crowded together to identify the speaker. It was followed immediately by a shushing noise that was distinctly female in origin. Callanach rubbed his forehead and reined in the desire to check his watch as he prepared to tolerate the inevitable questions.
‘Excuse me, Detective Inspector, but is Callanach not a Scottish name? It’s just that we weren’t expecting anyone quite so … European.’
‘I was born in Scotland and raised bilingual. That’s as much as any of you needs to know.’
‘Bi-what? Is that even legal here?’ a blonde woman called out, to the enjoyment of her fellow officers. Callanach watched her watching the others, waiting for their response and saw that she was trying to impress, to fit in with the boys. He waited blank-faced and bored for the laughter to subside.
‘I expect regular case updates. Lines of command will be tightly managed. Investigations falter when one person fails to pass on their knowledge to others. Higher rank is no excuse for you to blame those beneath you and inexperience is no defence for ineptitude. Come to me to discuss either progress or problems. If you want to complain, phone your mother. We have three live cases at the moment and you’ve been allocated tasks on those. Questions?’
‘Is it right that you were an Interpol agent, sir?’ a detective constable asked. Callanach guessed he was no more than twenty-five, all curiosity and enthusiasm, as he had been at that age. It seemed a lifetime ago.
‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tripp,’ he replied.
‘Well, Tripp, do you know the difference between assisting an international murder investigation with Interpol and conducting one in Scotland?’
‘No, sir,’ Tripp answered, eyes shifting left and right, as if terrified that the question was the start of some unexpected test.
‘Absolutely nothing. There’s a corpse, grieving relatives, more questions than answers, and pressure from the top to get it sorted in no time and at minimal cost. Even under the constraints of budgeted policing, I won’t forgive sloppiness. The stakes are too high to let your dissatisfaction at the current overtime rate affect the effort you’re willing to put in.’ He took a moment to stare round the room, meeting every pair of eyes full on, making his point. ‘Tripp,’ he said, when he’d finished, ‘grab another constable and come to my office.’
Callanach exited the room without farewells or niceties. No doubt Tripp was already getting it in the neck for being singled out, the team was bemoaning their newly allocated detective inspector and bitching about Police Scotland’s failure to promote from within. Policing was the same all over the world. Only the coffee really changed from place to place. Here, he was unsurprised to find, it was bloody awful.
His office could best be described as functional. It would take promotion to a higher rank before he transcended into actual comfort. Still, it was quiet and light with two telephones, as if somehow he could split himself in half and take two calls at once. On the floor were just two boxes of personal possessions awaiting transfer into drawers and onto shelves. Not that there was anything vital in them. He’d come to Scotland for a clean start. The country of his birth had seemed the logical place to put down new roots, not to mention one of the few places he could apply for a police position as a passport holder.
Tripp knocked on his door, a young woman behind him.
‘Ready for us, sir?’ Tripp asked.
Callanach beckoned them in. ‘And you are?’
‘Detective Constable Salter. Nice to meet you, sir,’ she said, looking down at her shoes part way through the introduction. Her awkwardness was irritating in its predictability. Callanach suffered from the least likely affliction of being good looking to the point of distraction, with a face that could – and had – stopped traffic. Few people understood that it was more burden than blessing these days.
‘Salter, take me through procedures from initial crime report, ordering forensics and into trial preparation. Tripp, I want comprehensive notes on forms, filing, the works. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir, not a problem.’ Tripp seemed delighted to be of use. All Salter managed was a downcast mumble which Callanach took as agreement.
‘Would you give us the room please, constables?’ a voice cut in behind them. Standing in the doorway was a female officer in dress uniform. Salter and Tripp scattered as she entered and kicked the door shut behind her.
‘I’m DI Turner, Ava as we’re the same rank.’ She gave a wide grin, suffering none of Salter’s inability to look him in the eyes. Callanach’s fellow detective inspector was around five foot five and slim. Her chestnut, shoulder-length hair was curly although an attempt had been made to restrain it in a ponytail. She wasn’t beautiful, not in modern advertising terms, but handsome would have been an insult. Her features were fine, grey eyes widely spaced.
‘Callanach,’ he responded. ‘By the look on your face, I’d say you’ve been party to something I haven’t. Did you want to share it or am I supposed to guess?’
Ava Turner ignored the dismissive tone and answered unabashed. ‘Well, I did hear one of the sergeants asking why they’d been sent an underwear model instead of a proper policeman.’
‘I get the picture,’ he said.
‘I’m guessing you’re used to it. If it helps, the fact that you’re French will be more acceptable to the majority of them than I am.’
‘English?’ he asked, as he shifted the position of a filing cabinet.
‘Pure Scottish, but my parents sent me to an English boarding school from the age of seven, hence the accent. That makes me about as welcome as the plague. Don’t worry about it. If they actually liked you at this stage, you’d be doomed to fail. Presumably you’ve arrived with a suitably thick skin. Give me a shout if you have any problems, you’ll find my numbers on the contact sheet in your desk. I’d better go and change. I’m just back from a community awards ceremony and I can’t stand being in uniform. Your team are a good bunch, just don’t take too much shit from them.’
‘I have no intention of taking any shit from anyone,’ he replied, picking up one of the phones and checking for a dial tone. When he looked up again, he was speaking to an empty space and an open doorway. Callanach dropped into the chair behind his desk. He took out his mobile, programmed in a few of the more important numbers from the contact sheet and was just considering emptying the first of his boxes when Tripp bundled in.
‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but we’ve just had a call from an officer at Braemar. They’ve found a body and are asking to speak with someone about it.’
‘And Braemar is in which area of the city?’
‘It’s not in the city, it’s in the Cairngorm Mountains, sir.’
‘For God’s sake, Tripp, stop saying sir at the end of every sentence and explain to me how that could possibly be an Edinburgh case.’
‘They suspect it’s the body of a woman reported missing from the city a couple of weeks ago, a lawyer called Elaine Buxton. They’ve found a scrap of clothing that matches a scarf she was wearing when last seen.’
‘That’s all? No other link?’
‘Everything else has been burned, sir, I mean, sorry. Braemar thought we might want to be involved early on.’
‘All right, Constable. Pull together everything there is on Elaine Buxton then get Braemar on the phone. I want detailed information on my desk in fifteen minutes. If that is Edinburgh’s missing person then we’re already running two weeks behind her killer.’
Chapter Three (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
Callanach put down the phone feeling weary and decided it was down to the effort of decoding the Scottish accent. He barely remembered his father and, although his mother had insisted he learn to speak English as well as her mother-tongue French, he hadn’t been prepared for full immersion. The sergeant from Braemar managed to mix the singsong cadence with a regular dose of colloquialisms. Callanach suspected it might have been largely for his benefit and, a couple of sentences in, had stopped bothering to ask what any of it meant. He made an idle note of the word ‘haver’. Tripp would have to double as interpreter. In the meantime, Callanach had agreed to consult on a case that should technically speaking have been out of his jurisdiction. That wouldn’t endear him to anyone, additional money and manpower being expended where it could be avoided, but it certainly sounded as if the body in the mountains was Edinburgh’s missing woman.
He saw Salter going past his office and stuck his head out of the door.
‘Which of the current cases is nearest to resolution?’ he shouted after her.
‘Brownlow murder, sir. Culprit’s been apprehended, we’re just prepping the files for the Procurator Fiscal. Preliminary court hearing is next week.’
‘Right. I want you, Tripp and two others from the Brownlow team in the briefing room in ten minutes. Organise it. And how far away are the Cairngorms?’ The look Salter gave him was all the response he needed. An overnight bag was required.
The briefing was tense. The squad he’d shifted from the Brownlow case obviously wasn’t thrilled at the two-hour drive they had coming, nor starting a new batch of paperwork while they were still finishing another. Detective Constables Tripp, Barnes and Salter were led by Detective Sergeant Lively. The detective sergeant was studying him as if he’d just crawled out of a cesspit. Callanach ignored him and gave the fastest explanation he could for what they were doing, then handed over to the officer sent to update them on the missing person investigation.
‘Elaine Margaret Buxton, thirty-nine years of age, divorced, no children, worked as a commercial lawyer at one of the biggest law firms in the city. She went missing sixteen days ago. The last confirmed sighting was on a Friday night as she left the gym to return home. Her mother reported her missing the following evening after she’d failed to turn up for lunch and couldn’t be raised on either her home phone or mobile. Her car was in her garage, no clothes or cases gone, passport still there. It was out of character for her not to have checked her emails on the Saturday morning. Her keys were found in a communal hallway. She’s described as incredibly organised, borderline workaholic, hadn’t taken so much as a day sick in the previous two years.’
‘Any boyfriend or obvious suspects?’ DC Barnes asked.
‘The ex-husband Ryan Buxton is working abroad with a full alibi. There’s no known boyfriend. Everyone we’ve spoken to has confirmed that she was completely obsessed with the law. She was either at the office, at home or an exercise class. We had no leads, until this.’
‘Why are the Braemar police so convinced this is your missing person?’ asked Callanach.
‘The last person to see Miss Buxton had a photo of her on their mobile. She’d stopped by the gym bar to have a drink at a friend’s birthday celebration. We circulated the photo and listed the clothes in detail. That’s how they came up with the match.’
‘Has anyone contacted her family yet?’ Tripp asked.
Callanach took that one himself. ‘No, and mouths had better stay shut until we’ve seen the body and crime scene for ourselves. DNA evidence is required before we make a positive link.’
‘This might be our missing person but it’s not our homicide. What’re we doing chasing up country when we haven’t got so much as a confirmed identification?’ asked DS Lively. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t got our own cases to be getting on with and there’s some detective inspectors on that patch who could work this case as well as any former Interpol bigshot.’
‘If that is Elaine Buxton, she was abducted from Edinburgh, meaning there’s a reasonable chance she was murdered here too. I’m not prepared to lose the opportunity of inspecting the crime scene because you can’t be bothered to make the drive. As for any outstanding work on the Brownlow case – learn to multitask.’ Callanach snatched his notes from the table. ‘We have some distance to cover, so get moving.’
Back in his office, Callanach threw a toothbrush, raincoat and boots into a bag. He considered leaving DS Lively behind instead of putting up with his sour face for the next two days, then thought again. Better to deal with the man than let him win. His squad needed to know from the outset that he wouldn’t stand laziness or insubordination. It didn’t matter what they thought. For the next six months they would criticise whatever decisions he made, right or wrong, until they found a more interesting target.
Chapter Four (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
They met with local police at the rural satellite station in Braemar and were transported into the mountains in a four-wheel drive. Some off-roading was required to get near the crime scene and the weather was closing in. It took another hour to get there. The temperature had dropped dramatically by the time Callanach saw the lights and tents of the investigative team. The only blessing, courtesy of the location, was that there was no sign of the press.
‘Who found it?’ he asked the driver.
‘A couple of hikers saw the flames from a distant peak but had to walk fifteen minutes before they got mobile reception to phone it in. By the time the fire service had located the bothy it was nearly burned out. Not much left to see, I’m afraid.’ Callanach took out a camera. He always took his own photos at crime scenes. Later, the images would cover his office wall.
The bothy, more refuge than accommodation, was a stone hut left unlocked for hikers caught in storms or mid trek, consisting of a single room, its rear wall set into the rock face. Callanach guessed the original building dated back a couple of hundred years. Now the roof was completely gone, fallen in once the fire had taken hold, making the forensic investigation painstaking. Even the huge stones of the wall base had shifted in the intense heat. Callanach surveyed the horizon. This wasn’t a place you could stumble across. Whoever had brought the woman here had chosen carefully, made sure it was nowhere near regular trekking routes, and had been inside before.
‘Where is the body?’ he asked.
‘They’ve collected the bones already, but their positions are marked inside,’ the driver told him.
‘Just bones? That’s all that remains?’
‘Afraid so. The soft tissue was completely incinerated. We’ve no precise idea how long the fire was burning but it was a matter of hours, for sure.’
They walked to the doorway of the hut, now ablaze with portable floodlights, and watched as two forensics officers trod gingerly through the dusty debris. It was a grim place to die. A hand on Callanach’s shoulder stopped his imagination from filling in the details.
‘DI Callanach? I’m Jonty Spurr, one of Aberdeenshire’s pathologists. Not much left here for you, I’m afraid.’
Callanach shook his head. ‘I was told you had located an item of clothing. How did that survive when everything else is ashes?’
‘It’s not a complete item, just a scrap of a scarf, but the pattern was sufficiently remarkable that one of the constables recognised it as the same as your missing person’s. It got trapped under a rock and the lack of oxygen protected it. It’s already on its way to the lab for DNA testing. Looks as if there’s some blood on it.’
Callanach frowned. ‘That’s all you’ve got? Surely there must be something more.’
‘These are the cards we were dealt, Detective Inspector. Fire is a crime scene’s worst enemy. The accelerant can usually be identified fairly quickly. Unfortunately, it’s a peat floor in this part of the Cairngorms which quite literally added more fuel to the flames. Without it, I’m sure it wouldn’t have burned so long or so hot. The bones are badly damaged.’
‘What about tyre marks? There must have been tracks.’
‘You’d hope so, but the fire trucks were called in first and tore up the ground. They had no idea what was inside. We’ll get the dogs out tomorrow and do a fine-comb check of the area but it’ll do no good tonight, not enough light left.’
Callanach took out his camera again and began collecting images of the grey and black charcoal mess of floor.
‘Did she die here?’
‘I can’t say for sure, and with only bones left I may not be able to pinpoint a cause of death, unless the skull gives me something. Many of the bones are broken, the jaw is in pieces. It seems to me though that this was about disposing of the body. Your murderer didn’t want anything left, was probably hoping she’d be unidentifiable,’ the pathologist remarked, pulling off rubber gloves and stretching his neck.
‘You believe she was killed elsewhere and transported here?’
‘You’re the detective. That part’s up to you. If you’re staying overnight, you can come to the morgue in the morning, see what we’ve got.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Callanach replied, looking around for Tripp. He found him stealing a sip of coffee from Sergeant Lively’s flask. ‘Tripp, interview the hikers, mark their precise position on a map and the time they first saw the fire. I want to hear their call to the emergency services and you’ll need to go to the spot where they were standing to photograph the view they had across to here,’
Sergeant Lively interrupted. ‘Statements will have been taken already so I don’t see what good that’ll do.’
The man’s too-long-in-the-job attitude was tiresome to deal with, but far from unusual. Callanach fought the desire to reprimand him and concentrated instead on the matters at hand.
‘The number of hours this fire was burning will help us determine the time the murderer left the scene. The height, and perhaps even the colour of the flames when the hikers saw them, might help establish that, enabling us to question local people about unusual vehicles within a specific time frame.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Lively mumbled, not bothering to hide his lack of respect.
‘Where are we staying tonight, sir?’ Tripp asked, stamping his feet and shoving his hands ever deeper in his pockets. For all his usual enthusiasm, Tripp looked distinctly uncomfortable in the great outdoors and the freezing cold.
‘Ask the local officers what’s around. There must be accommodation reasonably nearby. Tell Salter she’s to attend the morgue with me in the morning and I want Barnes at the scene until it’s completely documented. Feedback from each one of you, every two hours.’
‘What if that’s not Elaine Buxton? It’ll have been a complete waste of our time.’
Callanach glared at Lively. ‘Whoever’s corpse that is, Sergeant, they were almost certainly murdered and if we can contribute to the investigation then only an idiot would regard it as a waste. So unless you have something professional to contribute, from now on you can keep your personal opinions to yourself.’
Chapter Five (#ub2a419c1-aac6-5349-a78c-0353e6a7578e)
The landline rang. King studied the number before picking up. It was a local code.
‘Dr King,’ he snapped.
‘Hello, this is Sheila Klein from Human Resources. I’ve been asked to ring and see when we can expect you back. University policy is that we need a doctor’s note for medical leave beyond three consecutive days.’
Reginald King sighed. He hated the petty rules and regulations that tied him into his banal public existence. The woman on the phone couldn’t possibly comprehend that there were aspects of his life demanding more attention than his underpaid, under-appreciated and underwhelming job.
‘I’m aware of the terms of my employment contract.’
‘So, any idea when we might see you or have confirmation from your doctor?’ Sheila asked, her voice trailing off towards the end of the sentence.
King took a key from his pocket as she whined. ‘A few more days,’ he said. ‘Maybe a week. The virus has gone to my chest and set off my asthma.’
‘Gosh, that sounds awful. You know we have an open-door policy. Do call if you think you’ll need more leave. I’m sure the department head will be sympathetic.’
The Head of School in the Department of Philosophy would not be sympathetic, King thought. She would be as ignorant as ever, and the ignorant always failed to appreciate him. Just because he was an administrator rather than an academic, because his qualifications came from a university she chose not to recognise, because he hadn’t climbed the ranks through socialising and networking, she was not interested in him. Well, the Department of Philosophy could pay his wages while he had some time to himself. Professor Natasha Forge, the youngest Head of School of any department at the University of Edinburgh, would no doubt fail to even register his absence.
King unplugged the phone. Twelve steps down into the cellar he went, switching on the basement light and sliding a wooden panel in the wall to reveal a keyhole. Unlocking the hidden door and stepping inside, he rose twelve steps back up, parallel to the first staircase but concealed behind a layer of plaster, brick and sound proofing. At the back of his house was a secret space, windowless, silent, timeless. It was a place of beauty. He congratulated himself on how well he had designed it with pastel colours to soothe, with gently piped classical music, and art prints adorning the walls. Unless you surveyed the house inside and out, you would never know the back section existed. It was his island. He recited John Donne’s lines as he took a key to the last door. The great poet was right. He could not be entire, if alone. That was why he had gifted one fortunate person with the chance to accompany him on his journey. As he opened the door, the woman on the bed began to scream.
Elaine Buxton, recently presumed dead, the bones attributed to her corpse already laid out on an autopsy table, strands of DNA in code form swirling through cyber space so that her death could be formally recorded, cried out until her voice was hoarse.
‘Your gums are healing nicely,’ King said. He spoke softly to her. It was a point of pride that he didn’t lose his temper, no matter how much she screamed. Not so with the other woman. When he’d taken her, she’d scratched, bitten and kicked him so hard his groin had been agony for a week. She’d required no delicate handling. She had been beneath him.
‘Pleath, ’et me go,’ Elaine mouthed, the tears starting again. That irritated him, as he knew it would any man, but it was to be expected for a while. Until she learned to appreciate him.
‘In a week your mouth will have recovered enough to fit dentures, then we’ll commence speech therapy. It won’t be instantaneous but you’re a bright woman. You need another shot of antibiotics and more steroids. Please don’t fight me, I’m only trying to speed the healing process.’
Elaine began to shudder although the motion made no impact on the metal ankle and wrist cuffs with short chains, binding her to the bed. King took out two syringes. He was respectful when he touched her, would never cause unnecessary pain. She didn’t understand that yet, obviously believing that at any moment she might receive the same treatment as her decoy. It was a shame he’d had to kill the woman in front of Elaine, but it had all been part of the education process. She needed to know that he was capable of being strict. Every pupil had to be shown stick and offered carrot. Knowing that one’s teacher would not tolerate a failure to comply was an excellent motivator.
He stroked Elaine’s arm with his pale, silky hand. She shivered as their flesh made contact but did not tell him to stop. Perhaps, he thought, she was learning already. That was why he’d chosen her. Months of watching, waiting, consuming her days and nights from the shadows. Studying her. Real study with commitment, not the poor excuse for it that universities accepted these days, had borne fruit. She was perfect. Adaptable. Fast. No husband or children to distract her. He’d seen her pick up a set of legal papers at six in the evening and work all night, only caffeine for company, springing into court the following morning as if she’d slept ten hours. Then she’d go to the gym and work the tension from her body. There was no excess. She was driven, like him. Constantly improving.
That was why her choice of body double had been so ironic. King couldn’t have found a more dynamic opposite. All he’d needed was a woman of roughly the same age, height and build. The fact that she was a prostitute, stick thin (presumably from years of drug abuse) and barely able to string together a coherent sentence, had made it all the easier to dispose of her. He could have been kinder, but she wouldn’t listen when he’d tried to explain the service she was performing, giving him a life partner who was his perfect match.
He’d never even learned her name. As it was, she would forever be the missing Elaine Buxton. And Elaine Buxton, erased from the living world, belonged wholly and exclusively to him.
‘I could rename you,’ he said. ‘It might be an important part of the adjustment process. Compile a shortlist in your head of say three or four. You can explain why you selected each of them, then I shall choose the one I find the most pleasing. It’ll be a good way for us to move forward together.’
‘You’re crathy,’ she whispered as he withdrew the needle from her arm.
‘You shouldn’t use such base terms. But you’re upset and I’ll be lenient for a while.’
‘Wha’ ’id you do with the girl?’
‘You needn’t worry about her. At the end, her sacrifice made up for her wasted life.’
Elaine was staring at the area where he’d carefully laid out a vast sheet of plastic for the girl’s body. King had used an old car, hired from a sufficiently disreputable dealership that wouldn’t want any contact with the police, and kept it in a garage away from his home. One night he’d driven to Glasgow, picked up the girl who was soliciting in her usual spot (he’d been there several times to select the right one) and driven round a few streets to find a quiet place for her to earn her money. He’d found that concept amusing, even as he’d pressed the chloroform-soaked rag over her face. Earning money. That was all young women thought they had to do for a few pounds these days, believing that men existed to pay for them, that they simply had to don a short skirt and paint their mouths red. It was pitiful. And she’d wanted to charge him thirty pounds to put her filthy tongue inside his trousers. He was ridding the world of a scourge. He may well have stopped the spread of a dreadful disease by bundling her unconscious body under a tarpaulin and driving her away from her next customer.
It had taken immense physical effort to cart her into the hidden room. Down one set of stairs and up another had seemed like a genius plan when he’d conceived it. The reality was more cumbersome. Several times he’d banged her head hard on the steps, not that it mattered. He’d kept her body wrapped in plastic, but allowed her to breathe. Asphyxiation wasn’t the plan.
Elaine hadn’t liked it when he’d brought the girl in. Perhaps the tiniest hint of jealousy behind the melodramatic hyperventilation and wide-eyed head shaking, he’d thought. How could she ever have believed he would bring such a filthy, low creature into their lives?
King had returned the woman to consciousness long enough to obtain details of past fractures. Previous injuries could tell tales. The thickening of bones long after they’d healed could reveal an unhelpful story, even if all the DNA had been destroyed. She’d been remarkably forthcoming. He’d just had to promise he’d let her live if she provided the information he wanted.
In the event, there wasn’t much to be concerned about. A finger broken in a car door and a dislocated shoulder that wouldn’t show up. By far the more important thing was to ensure that the girl’s left upper arm was fragmented where Elaine’s had been fractured after she came off a bicycle as a teenager. If that bone was left intact and the pathologist was thorough, then all of King’s hard work would have been for nothing.
Once he had all he needed, King had told Elaine to watch and not look away. When he’d put on the protective glasses the prostitute had only looked curious. When he’d snapped on rubber gloves and a face mask she’d begun to plead. Elaine, for once, had grown silent. When he’d picked up the baseball bat, well, that was a different story. He had no memory of Elaine’s reaction for those few minutes. He’d experienced what he assumed was tunnel vision, for the first time in his life. It had been a breathtaking episode. Everything but the screaming, whimpering, dribbling, blubbering pile of living flesh before him had faded out. There had been no peripheral vision to distract him. He couldn’t hear anything beyond her feral cries. It was the most intensely concentrated sensation he had ever felt.
He’d awoken, and it was an awakening, standing before her, bat clutched in his hands, to find his pulse racing as if he’d run a marathon. It had been quite the adrenaline rush. For a while there was silence, then gradually Elaine’s intermittent sob-screams had broken through. The girl’s face was a mess, as he’d intended. He’d needed to bash every one of her teeth out of their sockets and damage the jaw beyond x-ray comparison for the identity exchange to work. He hadn’t foreseen that he’d get so carried away, he felt rising shame at the guilty pleasure he’d taken, seeing his handiwork in the bruises on her neck and breasts, guessing there were marks on her stomach and legs too, but unwilling to lift her undoubtedly infested clothing to see. He’d lost control – nothing to be proud of – but didn’t he deserve to vent? Better to let it out with her than Elaine. He had no desire to diminish his prize.
King shook himself out of the memory and stared at the woman whose identity the prostitute had taken in death.
‘How are we doing with those tapes? I’m sure you’ve been glad to have an activity to occupy you. I know you already speak French so I thought Russian might be a more exciting challenge. When you’re talking properly again, I’ll test you and we can make some real progress.’
He flicked a switch on the sound system and a voice began speaking words that Elaine had no inclination to listen to, or repeat. With a baby-soft kiss on her forehead, King placed a protein drink at her side and left.
Chapter Six (#ulink_f4600d4f-2019-5ba5-90c0-39cd5ced73e6)
The autopsy table looked more comfortable than the bed he’d slept in. That was before it was occupied by the remnants of what was presumed to be Elaine Buxton’s skeleton. It had been a bad night. Callanach would have self-medicated with a decent bottle of red, but the only wine on offer had a label with all the appeal of a bargain-bucket binge drinker’s delight. Braemar was a slightly touristy but pleasant village lacking much choice in accommodation and the better options had been fully booked. In the absence of good wine, he’d settled for a dilapidated TV with crackling reception, soup he’d admired only because he’d previously thought it impossible to cook it so badly, and half decent coffee.
Jonty Spurr, the pathologist, was quiet as he worked. Callanach appreciated that. He’d witnessed too many autopsies to be disturbed by the body. What he found more disquieting was the forced cheer some pathologists had about them. Too talkative, too determined to lift the atmosphere. Spurr was slow, not annoyingly so, but unhurried and probably unflappable under even the worst pressure.
‘The victim was an adult female, aged between thirty and forty, I’d say, approximately five foot six.’
Callanach glanced at DC Salter. She was young but not new to the job and showed no sign of being troubled by what she saw.
‘Has the accelerant been identified yet?’ she asked.
‘We’ll need to do more tests on the bones for that. The fire department might have picked something up at the scene.’ Spurr chose a bone fragment and held it up for Callanach to inspect more closely. ‘The heat and length of time the fire was burning destroyed any chance of getting DNA from the bone marrow. The skull, jaw and upper chest sustained damage not caused by the fire. You can see a pattern of fractures indicating repeated use of a heavy, blunt weapon. Must have taken quite some force.’
‘Was that the cause of death?’ Callanach asked.
‘I’d put my money on those injuries occurring before death. The resulting trauma to the brain may well have been what killed her. With no soft tissue left, I’m not going to do much better than that. Given the planning put into disposing of the body, there’d have been no other practical reason to disfigure the face after death.’
‘Bastard,’ Salter said.
‘Indeed,’ Spurr replied. ‘We’re cross-checking the teeth against Elaine Buxton’s dental records. Some have fillings or caps, so it should be easy enough.’
‘How soon will we have that?’ Callanach was keen to leave. Morgues made him claustrophobic in spite of the bright light and fierce air conditioning. It felt like a prison cell and he’d had enough of those.
‘Maybe as early as tomorrow. Will you still be here?’
Callanach wasn’t even going to consider another night in the same accommodation.
‘No, in Edinburgh. We’re going back to the crime scene to get a daylight view then we’ll set off. You’ll call when you have more information?’
Spurr nodded, stripped off a glove and offered Callanach a hand. He disliked the dry, powdery feel of it against his own, as if death was contagious.
‘Is there any news from the crime scene this morning?’ he asked Salter once they were on the road.
‘No. I tried to speak to DC Tripp but mobile reception was poor. He and DS Lively were off to speak with the hikers first thing, but they should be back at the crime scene by the time we get there.’
‘She wasn’t murdered there,’ Callanach said.
‘Surely it’s hard to tell at this stage,’ the young constable commented quietly.
‘Why bother taking her so far to kill her? It makes no sense. It may be the perfect site to dispose of a body, but it’s not a comfortable or convenient place for playing out his fantasy about her death. A great deal of time passed between her disappearance and the corpse turning up, time the murderer spent elsewhere with the victim. Whoever abducted her had this place in mind for weeks, if not months.’
An hour later the bothy was back in sight. Forensic investigators were shouting to one another, the excitement plain on their faces. Callanach was out of the car before Salter could put on the hand brake.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked a passing officer.
‘The dogs tracked a weapon some distance away, buried under a pile of stones.’ Callanach watched the back slapping among the handlers.
There would be no fingerprints, he thought. A man who found such a perfect place to destroy a body didn’t leave prints.
‘Good news, right, sir?’ came Tripp’s voice from behind him.
‘Tell me what you’ve got,’ Callanach replied. Tripp wiped the smile off his face and looked down at his notebook.
‘The hikers repeated what they’d said in their statements. Oliver Deacon and Tom Shelley, both in their early twenties, had been hiking for about three hours, reached the midway point in their route and saw the blaze from’ – he looked around, identified a peak and pointed into the distance – ‘over there. They had binoculars and took photos with their phones, not that they show anything except a distant orange dot. I’ve drawn a map of their route.’
Callanach nodded. ‘We’ll head back to Edinburgh tonight,’ he said. ‘If I authorise any more overtime, I’ll have no job to get back to.’
Two hours later, they were fighting the city traffic.
‘Something wrong, sir?’ Tripp ventured after dropping Salter home.
‘I think so,’ Callanach replied. ‘I just don’t know what yet.’
‘We’ll be taking over the case, will we, if it proves to be Elaine Buxton’s body?’
‘As soon as I’ve cleared it with the Detective Chief Inspector. Take me straight to the station.’
The Major Investigations Team offices were all but deserted. Callanach liked being alone. He could concentrate, undisturbed by slamming doors, the hiss and gurgle of drinks machines and the constant undertone of voices. Quiet was uncomplicated. And it delayed returning to his flat. Somehow the act of unlocking that door would make his transition to working and living in Scotland real. He longed for France, for the culture that ran in his blood. Having one Scottish parent and being fluent in the language was no substitute for the country that had been his home for all but the first four years of his life. Even the cloud under which he’d left hadn’t tainted his memories of Lyon.
He opened a box and began dumping the contents into drawers.
‘So was your trip to the Cairngorms worth the bollocking it’s going to get you?’ came a voice from the doorway. Startled, he dropped a file, getting a laugh from his fellow detective inspector. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t meant to scare you. Apparently Interpol agents are easily caught unawares.’
Callanach retrieved the file from the floor, frowning as he reordered the paperwork.
‘DI Turner, I’d assumed I was alone.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly one in the morning.’
‘I practise my best paperwork avoidance at night. No one here to chase me for it. That and the fact that I’ve done so many night shifts, my brain has long since ceased to differentiate between dark and light,’ she said. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I thought I might as well unpack before I’m dismissed,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘I’ve got some single malt in my office. We could toast your welcome and goodbye in one sitting.’ Callanach pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and breathed in slowly, aware that he was gritting his teeth as he tried to find the least offensive form of words he could. ‘Don’t worry,’ Ava said. ‘You’ve had a long couple of days. Some other time.’
‘I just don’t believe that socialising at work is sensible. Maintaining professional boundaries is important.’
‘Not a problem.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve hit the ground running. Probably best to leave the unpacking ’til morning.’
He ran a hand through his hair and stretched his neck. ‘Look, you’re right, I do need a drink.’
‘No, I think you were right. One in the morning is no time to be here. I’m going home. You should too, judging by the look of you. Goodnight.’ She let his door swing softly shut as he swore under his breath. He could have handled that better. It was time to face his apartment, accept that life had moved on and that he had to move with it.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_c49e43a4-0c58-58ac-952f-a8330bd3fcee)
Edinburgh had been the closest Callanach could get to Lyon, in Scotland. It had the feel of a town, in spite of its size and busy economy, and a history its inhabitants celebrated. The city was easy to love with its sympathetic blend of old and new architecture and a population that seemed to have embraced different races and cultures whilst maintaining its own heritage. If they could only control the wind chill factor, he thought, it would be ideal. Callanach had rented a flat in Albany Street. A hundred years ago, it would have been a grand old terraced house, set over four floors, home to one of Edinburgh’s elite families. These days, the inhabitants were busy professionals who would come and go through the central hallway, marking the nearness of their lives with only a raise of eyebrows or curt greeting. He found it wasteful, how little communication passed between neighbours. It was why dead bodies were noticed only by their unbearable odour and how domestic violence could be perpetrated on the same victim repeatedly without intervention. Good neighbours enabled good policing.
He poured a large glass of red wine and picked up a book. Reading himself to sleep had been a habit as far back as he could remember. It was the only thing that distracted him from work. But tonight concentration was difficult. With every page, the image of the bleak Cairngorm Mountains reappeared, forbidding and harsh. Winter was approaching. The Braemar bartender had told them the town would be full of skiers and snowboarders at the first flakes. It was a couple of weeks off yet, but December would bring snow to the peaks. The crowds of summer hikers were long gone, high winds and rain deterring all but the hardiest. The killer’s timing, then, was either planned to perfection or lucky beyond the very best of odds.
Callanach woke early, realising he had no food, craving the tiny cafe on the street corner near his old apartment where he could eat freshly baked croissants and read a newspaper in French. Instead, he hurried to the only place close by and open, a health food store across Broughton Street, where he was surprised by the friendly reception, and picked up dried fruit, yoghurt and rye bread.
He plugged in his computer as he ate, wondering what his private emails would bring. They’d been stacking up for a week and he was tempted to simply delete the lot before reading.
There were administrative emails from Interpol dealing with his departure, requesting a forwarding address for documentation, nothing important. Then there were updates about local events in Lyon he’d usually have attended – a wine festival, sports rally, the opening of a new restaurant – and he pressed delete with a sense of resignation. Much of it was the usual e-junk but then he spotted it, hidden between a wine-club subscription offer and a newsletter from his last gym. A bounce-back notice had come from his mother’s email address. She had apparently moved beyond steadfastly ignoring his communications and taken action by changing her email completely, as she had already done with her mobile phone number. His letters were returned unopened, his landline calls were screened. Callanach threw the remainder of his breakfast in the bin and slammed his laptop closed, immediately regretting how he’d let it affect him. Getting angry wouldn’t change a thing. He was where he was. What mattered now was Elaine Buxton. Nothing else. He had to make the new start work for him. Offending DI Turner the previous evening was a less than impressive start, and an error it would be tactically sensible to rectify sooner rather than later. With the office still to be organised, he changed from his sweats into a shirt and trousers then left for the station.
Tripp was waiting outside his office when he arrived, looking eager and rested. That was the benefit of being in your twenties, immune to too little sleep and careless of stress. For a couple of seconds Callanach was tempted to send him back to Braemar. Uncharitable, he thought. At least DS Lively hadn’t been waiting for him.
‘DS Lively was wanting to talk to you, sir.’ Callanach rolled his eyes. ‘And I thought,’ Tripp continued, ‘given what we learned in Braemar, you might want to visit Elaine Buxton’s flat today, so I’ve organised that for lunchtime, and her ex-husband’s phone number is on your desk.’ Tripp had been busy. Callanach mentally rebuked himself for wanting to send Tripp back to Braemar. The young detective constable was sweetly unselfconscious of appearing too keen. That was a rarely seen attribute in any police officer.
‘Thank you. Where is the detective sergeant?’
‘In the briefing room. Shall I fetch him?’
‘No, we’ll go to him. Coffee en route.’
Approaching the briefing room, Callanach could hear the exact conversation he’d suspected would be taking place. The door had been left open, sensitivity not a concern, and Lively’s voice boomed out.
‘How the hell did he end up walking straight into a detective inspector post? That’s what I’d like to know. It’s not as if there weren’t plenty of other candidates, people who know the city and understand the people. Rumour has it, some bastard pulled more strings than make a fishing net to get him in here. He wasn’t through the door more than ten minutes before dragging us off our patch into someone else’s investigation.’
‘Leave it out, Sergeant, he was just doing what he thought was right for the victim,’ a female voice spoke up. It took Callanach a moment to identify it as DC Salter’s. Tripp tried valiantly to get a few steps ahead and stop the discussion but Callanach put an arm out to prevent him.
‘Let it run, Tripp.’
‘But, sir,’ Tripp started before Lively began again.
‘Go on then, Salter, tell us what you think of him. Some sort of genius, is he, coming out of Interpol and all? Begs the question why he moved here. Maybe the detective inspector couldn’t cut it in the big league and thought this would be a soft option?’
Callanach booted the door fully open and slammed his coffee down on the desk.
‘You asked to speak with me, Detective Sergeant. Is there an update?’ Callanach stared at Lively, ignoring the rest of the crowd.
‘They found blood on the baseball bat and some soft tissue on a tooth nearby. DNA from both is a match for Elaine Buxton. Her case has been officially upgraded from missing person to murder. The pathologist’s report will be through later today. And the Chief wants to talk to you.’
‘Set up a board, Salter. Maps, photos, forensics, everything we have,’ Callanach called as he walked towards the door.
‘It’s still not our case yet, Inspector,’ Lively shouted.
‘It’s about to be my case. If you don’t want it to be yours then there’s a large empty desk in my office where you can leave your letter of resignation,’ Callanach snapped.
Lively stood up. Callanach knew he should leave it there and let tempers cool, but the conversation he’d overheard in the corridor was still worming its way through his veins.
‘You want rid of me, do you, pal? I bet you do, ’cos I heard what you did. Shall I tell you what we do to men like you in Scotland? You fuckin’ froggies might think it’s all right to …’ Lively had stepped forward and punctuated his last few words with a finger poke to Callanach’s shoulder. He didn’t get any further. Callanach shoved him backwards so hard that Lively went flying into the arms of his fellow officers who broke his fall and probably saved him a fractured coccyx. Lively hid his embarrassment with a laugh that made its way through the group as a strained echo.
‘You wanna watch that temper of yours, Detective Inspector,’ Lively said, his mouth a hard smirk across his face. ‘It’ll get you in trouble. Of course, you’re used to that …’
Callanach stepped further towards Lively and his support group, his fists itching to punch the smug grin, biting down so hard he could taste blood in his mouth.
‘Sir, DCI Begbie’ll be waiting.’ Tripp’s voice was soft and unsure but it broke the tension in the room. The fight had already gone out of Lively. He’d made his point and would no doubt continue making it to his audience at the pub after their shift ended. Tripp picked up Callanach’s coffee and files, holding the door open for him.
The length and speed of Callanach’s strides made it necessary for Tripp to all but jog alongside him.
‘DS Lively isn’t good with new people. And he was really friendly with the old DI. I shouldn’t pay too much attention,’ Tripp blustered.
‘If I need your help or your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Now go back to Salter and get those boards up. I want this investigation in order, no more distractions.’
His appointment with Detective Chief Inspector Begbie was predictably draining. The Chief was approaching retirement age and of an old school type. Dealing with his superiors had never been an issue for Callanach at Interpol. They’d trusted his judgment, and seen him rise through the ranks. Here, as he’d just been reminded, he still had to prove himself. It wasn’t that he minded being spoken to like a wayward child, more that he was embarrassed at having to defend his position when it was predominantly gut instinct that Buxton had been killed in Edinburgh. It sounded so trite. Finally the DCI had given in on a limited basis. Callanach was allowed to visit the victim’s flat, talk to witnesses and put together a sufficiently compelling picture to show that he should head the investigation. It wasn’t much, Callanach thought grudgingly, but it was a start.
Elaine Buxton’s apartment was as immaculate as the address was desirable, in the much sought after Albyn Place, overlooking Queen Street Gardens. The decor was tasteful, only the light covering of dust betraying the owner’s disappearance. It was the apartment of a life lived elsewhere, of someone so consummately professional that her standards never slipped. The only room showing signs of life was her study, where two books remained off their shelf on the desk, both doorstop sized and on the subject of contract law. He’d have to review whatever cases she’d been working on when she’d disappeared, but it didn’t seem plausible that so dry an area of law could give birth to such a violent crime.
He sat in her large leather chair and leaned back. It wasn’t comfortable. The headrest wasn’t worn. This wasn’t a woman who used her study to contemplate life. As Callanach sat forward to open the drawers, the cushion shifted slightly beneath him. Yes, that was it. Her constant position, head bent towards book or brief. Always working, concentrating. The interiors of the drawers were as orderly as the surface. A Montblanc fountain pen was in its case, highlighters remained in their plastic container and painkillers, open and half used, were tucked back into their packet. A black glass paperweight, smooth and tactile, held down a neat pile of bills and correspondence. Callanach reached out to touch it, imagining Elaine doing the same as she read or made telephone calls, feeling the cold stillness beneath his palm. It was plain and simple, and it did its job perfectly. Much like the woman herself. Elaine Buxton liked order and routine. What was missing, Callanach thought, was a sense of self. There was not one photo on display. Likewise any plants. No living thing that might require care or attention. Healthy homemade meals were labelled and stacked in the freezer, each in a handy single-person-sized portion. The whole place seemed devoid of human touch.
Callanach retraced his steps and went back into her bedroom. The bed was bare, the sheets stripped by the forensics team looking for signs of sexual activity and DNA. None but hers had been found. There was minimal makeup in her drawers, only two bottles of perfume in her en-suite cupboard. He opened her wardrobe and found two rows of shoes, split between work and exercise. It was ironic how someone who valued order and neatness so highly could have ended their life in such chaos and trauma. At what point had she realised something was wrong? As soon as she’d left the gym, perhaps. Had someone been following her or was he waiting for her at home? Buxton was fit and healthy. She’d have put up a fight if she hadn’t been taken completely by surprise. There was no sign of a struggle, though.
Finally, among neatly folded sweaters, Callanach saw the one thing that had been missing. A ragged teddy bear peeked down from the top shelf, much loved, by the look of it, too precious to put away with the other childish things. Something to look at every morning and evening as she dressed and undressed. A fragment of warmth in an otherwise formal home. He closed the cupboard door against the bear’s forlorn, waiting stare. It wouldn’t help him find her killer and it didn’t progress matters to dwell upon the human loss. Only science, logic and research solved cases. Elaine’s house offered nothing further. Callanach locked up and was glad to leave the silence and stillness behind.
Calls to her ex-husband Ryan proved unrewarding. He’d been out of contact with her for more than a year. Following the autopsy report, police officers notified Elaine’s mother of her death that afternoon. Callanach was pleased it wasn’t his job on that occasion. No amount of training or experience made delivering death notifications any easier. The press was given the information shortly afterwards, with a renewed request for information. Callanach chased up the friend whose birthday celebration Elaine had attended at the gym and found she’d been more of an acquaintance in reality. They’d shared a Pilates class, worked out together each Wednesday and Friday but didn’t socialise anywhere else. Elaine hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend, she’d told Callanach, not that they chatted about that sort of thing. It was in keeping with the way she lived. Work colleagues all said the same. So, surely, Callanach mused, she’d have noticed someone taking an interest in her, watching her, following her. She was a lawyer. She’d have known there were court orders available to protect her. Was her murderer so restrained that he’d never once revealed himself?
Elaine’s diary and correspondence had been seized as evidence. Callanach took the paperwork home, expecting little more than meetings and reminders in to-do-list form. It had already been inspected by the missing persons team and no useful information had been identified. The diary was A4-sized, with a sheet for each day, the notations proficiently brief.
Three weeks prior to her abduction was this: Senior partner review. Resolution statistics good. Increase in billable hours required. Buxton was an achiever but not someone with a hard head for business then, failing to squeeze her clients hard enough for money. The oddity of a likeable lawyer. Callanach flicked through the remaining pages, finding only a well-organised professional who structured her day carefully and filled her time to the maximum.
The pages of the diary gave nothing away that Callanach didn’t already know but tucked inside the back cover was a card from what was presumably an old friend, announcing the birth of a baby girl and updating Elaine as to recent news. A house move, a career break while she enjoyed some parenting time, a joke about a mutual acquaintance. Nothing that indicated the friend had seen Elaine for months, if not years. The return address was London. Behind the card was a half-drafted letter in reply. It began with the expected congratulations, comments about the baby photos and questions about the house move. Then the tone changed.
I’m so sorry I missed the baby shower and it doesn’t look as if I’ll make it to the christening either. Work is a bit pressing at the moment. You always did tell me I take life too seriously – I’m starting to think you were right! I’ll do my best to get down to London for a visit soon. Perhaps I’ll amaze you and book a holiday like you suggested. I haven’t been away since the divorce. Maybe I’ll even meet someone new (you’re bound to like him more than you did Ryan). Time to get my head out of the books.
Callanach closed his eyes. There was no good murder, no fair or reasonable circumstances under which a life could be stolen, but Elaine Buxton had been cruelly robbed. How had she felt when the thought crystallised in her mind that she was being abducted? Did the irony of that unfinished letter occur to her, with its dreams of holidays and meeting a new man, or was the panic too all encompassing? Had she finally found her voice and fought for her life? Callanach put the papers down. One hand wandered into a pocket as he paced his small sitting room, and there, as if it was a stowaway, he found Elaine Buxton’s paperweight. He took it out, brushed a stray strand of cotton from its unblemished surface, tried to recall the precise moment he’d taken it and how he’d justified it to himself at the time, but the memory was a cloud. Slowly, quietly, almost as if he were being watched, he slid the heavy glass under his pillow.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_077e78af-735f-5abd-b82a-c4416a5d9afc)
King seethed at Elaine’s lack of cooperation. It was usually beneath him to be reduced to obscenities but, if he were forced to use a common phrase, he might say she was being a fucking bitch. He’d tried to fit her new dentures but she’d cried when he’d pushed them into her mouth, moaning at the pain from her gums, saying they were still too sore. The disgusting creature had shaken her head to and fro like a rabid dog, trying to avoid the procedure. He’d known he would have to tolerate her saliva and had gloved-up in readiness. Her head throwing, though, had sent streams of mucus from her snivelling nose across his face. He could have vomited with repulsion.
She had to respect her new situation. If she wouldn’t learn willingly then she would be taught. Discipline would do her no harm. The protein shakes he made her weren’t appreciated either. Half a dozen times he’d had to hold her nose and tip it into her mouth. She’d soon stopped thinking she could starve herself. King took an old, wooden ruler from a drawer in his study, picked up his laptop as an afterthought and retraced his steps down the official and up the unofficial staircases. A tiny nick at the edge of the panel hiding the keyhole would have to be polished out. It wouldn’t do to get sloppy. Not when everything else had gone according to plan.
Elaine frowned when he entered. Like a stroppy teenager, he thought. But it wouldn’t last long. If he could just help her progress through this stage, she would see sense. He walked to her bedside without speaking. There was no point engaging with her. It would only create another scene. This help he was giving her, this tough love, was best dealt swiftly and silently. King checked that the chains and cuffs binding her hands were tight enough that she couldn’t thrash and cause too much additional damage. She closed her eyes tightly and her mouth even more so, assuming, no doubt, that he meant to try again with the dentures. Her behaviour proved she needed more than just coaxing to comply. This was, he decided, an inevitability of neither his choosing nor his making. It was all her fault.
It wasn’t until he pulled her ankle chains tighter causing her legs to part wider, that she began screeching. However, he was delighted to note that no amount of hysteria made a millimetre of difference to her bindings. He was clever to have thought so carefully about the restraints he would need for his guest suite. King giggled shrilly. Elaine stopped shrieking and stared at him as if he’d grown a second head.
‘Guest suite,’ he muttered aloud.
In a second, she was bawling like a toddler again. Don’t talk to her, he counselled himself. Silence until the lesson has been given. That was when she began to beg. He’d known she would.
‘Pleath, pleath don’ rape me. Pu’ in the denture. I’ll be good.’ King rotated his head slowly from shoulder to shoulder, working out the tension her pathetic whining had caused. He looked coolly into her eyes. He could reassure her, he supposed. After all, he had no intention of raping her. He wasn’t an animal. Only foul lowlifes who couldn’t get it anywhere else were reduced to rape. Then again, if the prospect scared her sufficiently to induce compliance, why shouldn’t he use the threat as part of his portfolio to help subdue her?
‘Not subdue,’ he whispered. ‘Educate. Damn!’ he shouted. Why was he talking to himself? She’d thrown him off balance with the rape comment. He had to concentrate. King picked up the ruler and hit the bare sole of her left foot, hard. The smacking sound it made was like clean, white light. In his head he counted and made it to four before the screaming began, the myriad of nerve endings taking their time to communicate with her brain. Now he would allow himself to speak.
‘That took longer than I’d anticipated,’ King said. ‘This is what the Germans call Sohlenstreich, quite literally a striking of the soles. An ancient and well-practised form of correction used in cultures across the world. My father taught me about it at quite a young age. He was a gifted educator.’ He snapped the ruler across her other foot. This time Elaine knew what was coming and emitted the scream, if anything, slightly before wood contacted skin. ‘Effective because it’s extremely painful, but leaves few marks or lasting injury. I shall be careful not to break any of the bones in your foot, although sometimes there are accidents.’ He slapped her left foot with the ruler again.
‘As for raping you, get your mind out of the gutter. I am not so needy as to require such base rewards.’ The level of her screaming was becoming intolerable.
‘If you do not stifle that noise,’ he said, punctuating each word with a strike on one foot then the other, ‘I shall not stop!’ Eleven blows in quick succession. More than he’d intended to deal her. She was starting to pull herself together though, eyes wide, watching him, weeping rather than yelling. Her whole body was shaking. It was shock, but she’d come round. The human body was more resilient than the mind.
‘I’m going to ask you some questions to check that you are progressing. If you answer correctly this will end and we can be friends again. Will you let me fit the dentures without fighting me?’ Elaine nodded furiously. ‘Good. And will you drink your protein shakes without fuss?’ More nodding. ‘What was the German word for this form of correction?’ Silence. He raised the ruler into the air.
‘No, no, I’m trying to remember, I’m trying,’ she whispered, her throat coarse. Even without the dentures she was working harder to speak clearly, playing the diligent pupil.
‘You weren’t paying attention, were you, Elaine?’ He slapped the ruler against her right sole, quite lightly he thought, but still she let loose another assault upon his ears. He supposed the pain was increasing with the bruising.
‘Come along, think about it …’
‘I don’t know, I can’t think. Don’t hurt me any more,’ she sobbed.
‘Sohlenstreich,’ he shouted, hitting her left foot hard. ‘Sohlenstreich, say it with me.’ There were more blows, he’d lost count by then but the miracle had happened. She was chanting the word with him, over and over, with each blow to her feet. There was no more crying. Elaine had learned. He felt a burst of joy, close to exultation. The knowledge that he had triumphed, that he’d been right about this all along, was as powerful as he could ever have imagined. He felt a thrumming inside. The first step was complete. He had changed her, brought her closer to perfection, brought her closer to him.
He threw the ruler down and went to her side. ‘Good girl,’ he crooned into her ear, stroking back hair from the mess of tears and sweat that covered her forehead. ‘You’re my sweet girl, aren’t you? That wasn’t so hard. Obedience will be rewarded but you must behave yourself. Understand that I only want what’s best. Let’s move on.’ He decided on leniency, released the cuffs around her ankles and tenderly laid her legs back together on the bed. She drew them into her chest and bit her bottom lip. ‘Look at you, trying so hard to be quiet for me. I’ll put some painkillers into your next drink. They’ll help you sleep.’ He loosened the chains on her arms enough that she could relax.
‘There’s one more thing I want to show you. I think you’ll be pleased.’
Picking up his laptop, he pulled a chair next to her head and sat down so they could see the screen together. He opened a file and brought up a video clip. There was some crackle at the beginning, the picture dark and grainy, but soon the ambient hum died down to reveal a large video screen, a mass of heads marking the bottom of the view.
‘What?’ she whispered. King smiled. The pain in her feet was forgotten already. This would be priceless.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’
A church organ struck up the tune of ‘Abide With Me’ and the screen came to life. King watched Elaine’s face as her mother took a seat at the front, dark glasses shielding her, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. The camera panned slowly round, showing rows of people sombrely dressed, most with their heads bowed, no one talking. Elaine choked a sob back in her throat.
‘I don’t understand,’ she stuttered.
‘Let’s not play dumb,’ King replied, taking her left hand in his and rubbing its back with his thumb. ‘This is your memorial service. The police won’t release your body yet, of course. Who knows how long they’ll hang on to that bag of bones? But this is your grand exit. Your fifteen minutes of fame.’
‘I don’t want to watch any more,’ she said, looking away.
‘But I require you to. I really must insist.’
She didn’t look away again. Elaine Buxton was a fast learner. That was why he’d chosen her.
Her family sat in the front pews. King knew each by name and recited details about them so Elaine could appreciate the depth of his research into her life. It was a tremendous compliment that he’d dedicated so much of his precious time to her. Her cousin, Maureen, did a reading followed by another hymn. After that came a eulogy, delivered beautifully by a man King didn’t know. The man spoke about her when she was younger, a person King didn’t recognise from the description, a tale of a disastrous skiing trip, a girl who worked hard but played harder, private jokes that the world would otherwise never have been party to. Now, it seemed, her life was public property. It had irritated him as he’d filmed. Too many had gathered and the church was full, necessitating the outside screen. The police had been there in droves.
‘A bit flowery, I thought,’ King commented at the end.
‘Michael,’ Elaine said, as if calling from sleep. King pinched her hand roughly.
‘Who was he?’
‘My friend from law school,’ Elaine answered. ‘We lost touch. He moved to New York.’ He glared as tears filled her eyes. She really was insufferable.
‘You should be grateful. How many people get to see and hear the things I brought you? You were respected, loved, admired and you got to hear it all without dying. I liberated you!’
‘Let me go,’ Elaine begged in a hushed voice. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I’ll pretend I have concussion. I don’t think you’re a bad person, just, well, confused.’
King was breathing hard. He could feel hot colour rising in his cheeks. The sound of his own grinding teeth echoed within his skull, and then he could smell her. Unwashed, festering on that mattress. She’d been there twenty days already, and hadn’t even bothered requesting use of the bathing facilities. He’d provided a shower stall in the corner of the room for exactly that purpose, and would happily have supervised had she been suitably placid. All she had to do was ask. Putrid cunt. She’d tricked him, hadn’t learned a thing. He hated being duped. His judgment had been flawed. Badly flawed. Perhaps she wasn’t the right one, after all.
King brought a hand up from beneath the laptop brutal and fast, smashing plastic and metal into Elaine’s face as she reeled back in horror.
‘Confused, you dumb whore? I’m not the one who’s confused. You’re dead! Don’t you get it? Everyone thinks you’re gone. They have your blood, your clothes, a body and your teeth. They have consigned you to history. Do you know what that means, miss smarter-than-me fucking lawyer?’ He grabbed the neck of her t-shirt and pushed his face into hers. ‘It means you’re mine. You belong to me and that’s the way it’s going to be. So you’ll do what you’re told, when you’re told and learn to like it. No one’s coming to save you. Their grief will fade and they’ll forget. Nobody’s searching for you any more.’ He shoved her onto the pillow, straightening his own clothes, knowing he had to calm down.
‘You’re right,’ she hissed from the bed. ‘They’re not looking for me. But they are looking for you. You’ll never find a moment’s peace, never stop looking over your shoulder. One day they’ll be waiting at your door when you get home and that’ll be …’
He smashed his arm across her mouth, whipping her head round and sending blood flying from her mouth. He felt soothed immediately. It was what she’d wanted. Oblivion. But he wouldn’t be forced into killing her. He still had important plans. Only perhaps he’d have to improvise a little. King left her twisted body as it was and exited. She could wake up and consider her fate alone.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_657942cf-a8e3-5816-989b-79a029f94cf0)
The lack of progress was driving Callanach crazy. He’d attended Elaine Buxton’s memorial service and watched the vast crowd outside weeping for a woman most of them didn’t know personally but who’d been stolen from their city. He knew what the collective was thinking. That it could have been them. That it could have been their wife, sister, daughter or mother. Such crimes left scars on the landscape of a community as vivid as the scorched earth that was once a mountain bothy. The crowd had come not only to mourn, but to jointly experience that unspoken truth. Thank God it was not me. And there was nothing wrong with that, Callanach thought, the clinging on to life. That was what policing was about, after all. Protecting, valuing, cushioning a too short, too fragile existence.
In the fortnight since then, the hours had started to drag. His phone rang less and less often. Public appeals for information had proved fruitless. The police had trawled Elaine’s computer files, diary, emails, current and past cases. Nothing had raised a red flag. She’d avoided social media, tended to call friends rather than texting, had never gone near an internet dating site. The usual lines of enquiry were dead-ending. Callanach had even found the time not only to tip the contents of his boxes into drawers, but to organise them into some semblance of order.
‘Is it a bad time?’ Ava Turner asked, putting her head round his office door.
‘I’m not exactly busy, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ he replied. He’d seen her a handful of times in the last couple of weeks, but never in circumstances when he could apologise for his behaviour. Now too much time had passed and he felt ridiculous referring back to her offer of a drink and his negative reaction.
‘I need a couple of spare bodies to chase up a development on a case. Can I borrow some help from your team for the week?’ She parked herself in a chair opposite him.
‘Absolutely,’ Callanach replied. ‘It would be good for them to get working on something else.’
‘No breakthroughs?’ she asked. ‘That’s tough.’
‘It’s wrong,’ Callanach muttered. ‘For a murderer to be so meticulous in their planning, to have thought so far ahead. It’s completely at odds with the chaos or fanaticism it takes to kill.’
Ava sat forward, transforming from colleague to detective as she considered it. ‘That’s because you’re looking for a well-organised murderer. You’ve stopped thinking about him or her as a person. Whoever did this couldn’t employ those sorts of skills from thin air. You’re looking for someone who’s meticulous in their whole life, probably obsessively so, who’s never missed an appointment or favourite radio show, who reviews their time expenditure each month on different activities, who diarises when they last changed their sheets. Look for the person first. You’ll meet the killer later.’ Ava got up. ‘So I can take two from your team?’
‘As long as one of them is DS Lively,’ he said.
‘Not a bloody chance,’ she answered.
‘Do you have an hour or so available for a drink this evening?’ Callanach asked as she headed out of his office. Ava stepped back inside to answer.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘If it’s about last time …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s been a difficult transition moving here.’
‘The station is awash with rumours about your move from Interpol. There’s always gossip when an outsider takes rank instead of promoting internally. I understand you want to settle into the job before starting to socialise and that’s perfectly sensible,’ Ava said.
‘Actually that’s not …’
DC Barnes walked in, which Ava took as either a cue or an excuse to leave, Callanach wasn’t sure which. Barnes’ face was alight with a mixture of concern and adrenaline. ‘We think we’ve got another one, sir. A woman’s been missing since last night. Her assistant called it in.’
‘What’s the link with Elaine Buxton?’ Callanach asked.
‘The woman left work as usual but there’s no sign of her entering her home. Similar age to Elaine, single, no children. Totally out of character for her to go off the grid. Missing person report’s available in the briefing room and we’re bringing in the assistant for more information. We’ve got units at the woman’s home and are making the usual enquiries with colleagues.’
The briefing room was buzzing. Callanach took a seat at the back as he prepared to listen to what information had been gathered, notebook ready on his lap. Ava Turner opened the door and looked in quizzically. He beckoned her in.
‘I was coming to collect my extra bodies,’ she whispered. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Another woman is missing,’ he said.
‘Mind if I stay and listen?’ she asked. He shook his head and she took the seat next to his.
Jayne Magee’s face appeared on the screen. There was a slightly suppressed intake of breath from everyone watching. Callanach didn’t know why it was so shocking, only that the surprise came from what was around her neck in the photo. The sergeant who’d taken the missing person report began to speak.
‘This is the Reverend Jayne Magee, thirty-six years of age, Caucasian, Scottish national. Her administrative assistant, Ann Burt, called in her disappearance when Jayne failed to arrive for a meeting this morning at the Cathedral Church of St Mary in Palmerston Place, part of the Scottish Episcopal Church. What rang alarm bells is that she appears not to have been home last night. Her assistant says Jayne had no plans. The Reverend had told Ann she was looking forward to a quiet night in with a curry. Her only vice, apparently. When she failed to attend the meeting this morning and couldn’t be reached by phone, the assistant went to her house. She has a key and let herself in. There was no sign of Jayne. No bag or coat and in the fridge the curry they’d talked about was sitting untouched. Ann had emailed her at seven yesterday evening, passing on a query and got no response. Usually, the last thing the Reverend does every night is to check emails and respond to them. Ann Burt said she was curious about it last night but assumed something had come up, either illness or an unexpected visitor, and didn’t pursue it with a phone call.’
‘Where’s her home?’ Lively shouted from the far side of the room.
The sergeant shifted images and the screen flashed up a map of the city. The cathedral was marked with a blue cross and a red dot denoted what Callanach presumed was the home.
‘She lives in a detached house in Ravelston Park, across the river from the cathedral and roughly north-west. She always walks to and from work, even in the worst weather, and we’re told she was on foot yesterday.’
‘So, she left St Mary’s at?’ Callanach asked.
‘Around seven p.m. She’d been there for choral evensong, stayed to chat with a few people then gone home. There’s no sign of a break-in or a struggle, nothing missing that the assistant can identify.’
‘I see the similarities,’ Callanach said, ‘but do you not have anything more tangible that connects this to Elaine Buxton?’
‘Only this.’ A new photo filled the screen. As one, the people in the room leaned forward to make out what they were looking at amidst the green tangle in the picture. ‘Here, at the very bottom, is where Jayne Magee’s mobile phone was found. Just inside her front garden, at the roots of a bush. Whether she dropped it or someone else discarded it, we don’t know. It’s been sent off for prints and data.’
‘She could have been trying to make a call, perhaps worried that she was being followed, was disturbed and dropped it,’ Salter suggested.
‘Or whoever took Magee didn’t want us tracing the signal and getting a location,’ Ava muttered. ‘I’ll manage without your lot,’ she whispered to Callanach. ‘Looks like you’ve got work to do now.’ She left.
That wasn’t much to go on as far as linking the cases went. If it was the same person who’d taken Elaine, the one thing they knew was that Jayne Magee might not have much time left. Callanach rose to his feet, running a hand through his mop of hair as he walked to the front. It took all of two seconds for the noise level to reach a point where he couldn’t be heard.
‘Arrêtez,’ he snapped, reverting to French in his frustration. ‘Stop. There is no time.’
Someone tried a derisive oohing at Callanach’s loss of temper, only to be met by DS Lively cutting in.
‘We’ve work to do and the inspector’s trying to organise things. So if whoever that was can’t get a grip, then get out of the goddamn room,’ Lively yelled.
Callanach stared at him a moment, then opened his notebook to go through the list he’d compiled during the briefing, wondering if Lively had suffered some sort of character changing concussion. No doubt it wouldn’t last long.
‘CCTV footage, see if we can catch any part of her journey home. Neighbours, anyone who might have seen her near her home last night. Presumably the forensics team is already there?’ There was a nod from the officer who’d given the briefing. ‘Find the last person she talked to before she left the church. Ask what sort of mood she was in, what they discussed, what she was wearing. I want diaries, computer, make the mobile a priority. Tripp, you and Salter find anything that might connect her with Elaine Buxton. I want a full background on them both, from childhood to date. Understand?’ There were nods all round. The piss-taking was conspicuous in its absence, which showed Callanach that everyone thought what he was thinking. The clock was ticking. ‘Good. Now get back to work.’ The team filed out swiftly, buzzing with the combination of adrenaline and pressure. The next twenty-four hours would be crucial.
Lively managed to be in Callanach’s office before him. ‘I’d like to interview the witnesses at the church,’ he said. He was red faced and breathing hard, all evidence of his former cocky bloodymindedness evaporated.
‘Any particular reason?’ Callanach asked.
Lively nodded and stared at the floor. ‘It’s that, er, it’s where I go. To church, I mean. I know the Reverend Magee. Not personally, we’ve not spoken or anything, but I’ve seen her at services. She’s a good person and if this is the same man who abducted Elaine Buxton then I’d like to be able to handle the people at the church myself. Sir.’ He didn’t look at Callanach while he waited for a response. The humiliating addition of the respectful form of address was all Callanach needed to comprehend just how strongly Lively felt.
He wanted to say no, to punish his detective sergeant for the earlier thinly veiled threats and nastiness. But at least by having Lively centred on the church, the man would be out of his way. And there was the fact that Callanach had gone too far in shoving him, not that a man with Lively’s ego was going to make a complaint, but it was better to have a rival beholden than aggravated. Reason triumphed over anger.
‘It makes sense, as long as this isn’t too personal. I need you to be focused,’ Callanach decided.
‘I’ll be fine. I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves,’ Lively muttered.
It was beyond irony, Callanach thought, for Lively to have threatened to reveal whatever muck he’d heard about the forced departure from Interpol, only to ask for his own private life to be respected.
‘Take a constable with you and get started straight away. We’re already too many hours behind this bastard,’ was all Callanach said.
Jayne Magee was about as unlikely a target as anyone could imagine. There was no suggestion that Elaine Buxton was a regular at any church at all, so religion wasn’t the link. The pathologist hadn’t been able to estimate Elaine’s time of death, meaning they had no established pattern to follow, only the knowledge that she’d been missing sixteen days before her body was found. This time, the abductor might keep Jayne alive for weeks or she could be dead already. The killer had become a male in Callanach’s mind. There was no evidence, nothing solid, only years of past cases and what was screamingly obvious. Maybe it was more than one person, he considered, but Ava was right about looking at personality first. He couldn’t see such an obsessive character working well as a team player.
Callanach met with Jayne Magee’s assistant, Ann Burt, that afternoon. She dropped a dripping umbrella into Callanach’s bin then removed and folded her headscarf before sitting down. Callanach instinctively tidied his desk as she settled in. Stick thin, shrill and at the far end of her sixties, he guessed, Ann Burt told it like it was. She reminded him of his grandmother, distant though those memories were.
‘So I’m talking to the detective inspector, am I?’ she began. ‘You’re the third person I’ve repeated myself to today. Would you like to tell me what’s going on?’
‘It’s just routine, Mrs Burt. We’re covering all the angles.’
‘I may be old but I’ve not lost my faculties. I’ve had a call to say that there are three police officers at St Mary’s and a whole team at Jayne’s house. You’re thinking the worst, no doubt.’
‘There’s no trace of her at present and no one has contacted us to say they know where she is, so it’s all just standard investigative procedure.’
‘And the name Elaine Buxton hasn’t come up, is that right?’ Callanach didn’t say a word. The standard procedure line was one thing. Lying was another. ‘I thought as much,’ she went on. ‘You should know that the Reverend Magee has the heart of a lion. She’s a match for anyone. Don’t you go writing her off just yet.’ The words were brave but her eyes were too bright. Callanach made a few unnecessary notes while she regained her composure.
‘We don’t know who did this but experience tells us that in every case, a quick start is essential. We’re hoping the Reverend will turn up, that it was some personal crisis, perhaps simply that she needed time alone. But if that’s not the case then we have to consider all the possibilities,’ he said.
‘She led a prayer vigil for Miss Buxton shortly after she went missing. Hundreds came, we lit candles, prayed, had a minute of silence. Of course, we had no idea then what had happened to the poor girl.’ This time when the tears started Callanach didn’t pretend he hadn’t seen them.
‘We’re going to do everything we can. You’ve brought us her diary and computer, which will help. Tell me more about the sort of person she is,’ Callanach prompted.
‘She’s lovely, genuinely lovely. Not showy or loud, just warm. She has a wicked sense of humour, too. I never expected that from a lady in her position. Just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge. She’s very approachable, always has time for people. But bright, my goodness. Jayne studied at Oxford University, a master’s degree. Always has her nose in a book.’
‘And Jayne never said that anything was worrying her? Someone paying her too much attention, maybe?’
‘Never,’ Ann replied. ‘If that girl ever had an unkind thought about anyone, she didn’t express it in my presence.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘You’ll find her, won’t you, Inspector? Before anything …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘I’ll do everything in my power to find her,’ he said. Ann Burt patted his hand, a contact he tolerated for a second before pulling away and standing up to see her out.
By the end of the afternoon they were no further forward. The lab had confirmed that the only fingerprints on the phone belonged to Jayne Magee. Interviews of the immediate neighbours were tributes to the kind-hearted woman living next door and reports of how shocked they were that she was missing. Callanach gave in. He took Jayne Magee’s file and went home, collecting a take-out curry on the way. If that was the missing reverend’s only vice, then it was a good choice.
Back in Albany Street he ate dinner watching television. The evening news brought Ava Turner’s face before him, appealing for witnesses about a newborn baby who’d been left on a park bench and died tragically from exposure before he could be found. Ava looked like he felt. Callanach hadn’t been aware of the case she was investigating, but any incident involving a child was hard to handle.
Without thinking about it, he dialled her number. When the voicemail message clicked in, he considered hanging up then gave himself a mental kick. It was time to find allies.
‘Ava, it’s Callanach. I appreciate you’re tired and busy, but I could do with a second opinion on the case and I’m afraid you’re top of the list. Actually, yours is the only name on the list. So let me apologise and start again, tomorrow night perhaps, if we’re both free? Let me know.’
Too caffeine-buzzed to sleep, he opened Jayne Magee’s daily diary. It was shaping up to be a long night.
Chapter Ten (#ulink_fdc118ac-ec3d-59ef-80b7-82ede1762cd1)
The head of the Department of Philosophy had called King in to her office not five minutes after he’d returned to work. She might at least have let him clear his backlog. After three weeks away, the accumulation was frustrating. Could no one have covered his duties while he was away? He may not really have been sick, but his colleagues didn’t know that, did they? Not one call to offer sympathy or concern. And this morning the other administrative staff hadn’t even asked him about it. This was the way it had always been, no reason to expect anything better at this point. Was it intimidation or jealousy, he wondered, as he deliberately delayed by making tea, keeping Natasha, or Professor Forge as she insisted he call her, waiting just a few minutes more.
By the time King opened her door, she was taking a telephone call and raised her forefinger as if he was a wayward student, keeping him still and silent while she finished her business. Natasha was wearing a dark green suit that emphasised her hazel eyes and ash blonde hair. King hated the way she made him feel. Even though he couldn’t bear to be in her company these days, there was no escaping her beauty. He admired her long, slender neck, with skin that would have flattered a woman in her early twenties. Forge’s thirty-sixth birthday had come and gone yet she was remarkably untouched by the signs of ageing. But King wouldn’t let her affect him like she used to – he had a new world waiting at home that she could never conceive. Like some great Vernean adventure, he would travel into his secret inner domain, moulding it until his utopia was complete. He pictured Natasha there – she could insist he call her Professor to her face, but in his head he called her other names, some she wouldn’t like at all – and felt a desire so strong wash over him that the mug in his hand began to shake. Finally she hung up.
‘Sit down, please, Dr King. It’s good that you’re back at work. I’d like you to arrange a speaker for the next evening lecture. It’s only two weeks away so we’re behind with the arrangements. Can you organise it in that time frame?’ She raised her eyebrows at him. There had been a time when he’d loved that expression, her pensiveness. He’d been wrong. It was irritating. He hadn’t noticed then how it created tiny frown wrinkles across her brow, or her patronising habit of tipping her head to the side as she waited for a response.
‘Easily,’ was his reply.
She breathed in as if about to say something more, changed her mind and flipped her diary shut.
‘All right. The speaker should address one of our listed titles for the term and we’ll need an outline of their lecture seven days beforehand, so time’s tight.’
‘I know the format,’ he said, enjoying her tension. She had her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Little did she know how appropriate it was, he thought. If she could only see what he’d done; all that he’d become. The tailored suits and high heels, her immaculate hair kept short and businesslike, wouldn’t be so intimidating on his home territory.
‘Right, you’ll have a lot to catch up on from your leave, so that’ll be all.’ She turned her face to the computer monitor. He had been dismissed. All she’d ever done was dismiss him. King had once put forward a paper he’d spent months researching and writing, offering it for inclusion in the department’s journal, only to have it rejected out of hand. Three times he’d applied for academic posts in the department. Twice he’d been discounted at the first stage. The third time, he’d been selected for interview. He remembered his elation upon receiving the notification letter with something close to shame. He’d worked hour after hour, consuming every volume on philosophy he could find, studying teaching plans, the history of the department, everything and anything that would impress the board. He was finally going to receive the recognition he was owed. He wouldn’t let himself down.
On the day of his interview, he’d been calming his nerves in the gents’ toilets, splashing cold water on his face. That was when he’d heard those imbeciles giggling together, thinking they couldn’t be overheard in the ladies’ next door.
‘What are they doing interviewing him? He gives me the creeps and he’s horrible to the students, won’t give them the time of day. Can you imagine him teaching? I’m not staying here if he’s on the faculty, doing his typing, organising his diary. He’ll probably make us all address him as sir,’ the ugly bleached-blonde receptionist had said. He’d always loathed her. She embodied the worst of young women, concerned only with their grooming and social lives, handing themselves out to the lowest bidder, couldn’t write a sentence without a spelling mistake.
‘He’ll probably make us curtsy when we go in his room,’ said another. This was an older voice. Deirdre, King thought. That was worse. She’d always been polite to his face, friendly, even. How quickly women betrayed. Throwing a paper towel in the bin he told himself to stop listening, knowing it was stupid, damaging his confidence before the most important thirty minutes of his life and a chance at the academic career he’d always desired. But he’d stayed. It was the human condition: the need to know the worst, the destructive desire to see how it feels when you hit rock bottom. He’d inched closer to the wall to hear better. The voices were hushed and he’d held his breath to catch the words.
‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ two-faced Deirdre had hissed. ‘Natasha didn’t even want to interview him but Human Resources told her she should. They didn’t want a challenge to the fairness of their long-listing process. His CV is quite impressive.’
‘How do you know so much?’ Bleached-blonde had sounded amazed. ‘Oh my God, I never hear this stuff.’
‘I had to type up the notes of her session with HR. Professor Forge called me in especially to tell me I wasn’t to say anything to anyone, so don’t you go blabbing. I think he makes her skin crawl like he does everyone’s. She’s not giving him the job, that’s for sure.’
‘Bloody right,’ the yellow-haired whore had replied.
King hadn’t moved, not until they’d finished tarting themselves up and he’d heard the ladies’ door swing shut behind them, giggling viciously as they’d trotted up the corridor. When their grotesque laughter had finally faded, he’d let rage take him, slamming a fist into the mirror that was reflecting his reddened face and swelling tears. A second time, then a third, he punched the shattered glass, no pain transferring from hand to brain because everything was black and buzzing and he wasn’t sure what he was doing there, why he’d come, only that he had to get out, get out, get out!
He’d grabbed a toilet roll and wrapped the paper around his hand until the bleeding was hidden, shoved the fist into his pocket, wiped the sweat and other unthinkable liquids from his face, and marched down the corridor. He’d forced his pace to slow, held his head high, put his dignity back on like a helmet and left the building. He couldn’t remember the drive home, nor unlocking his door and throwing all his notes, all that work, into the bin. He didn’t remember cleaning and binding the fist that really required hospital treatment but that still, in spite of all the abuse it had taken, he could not feel. Nor could he recall falling asleep on his bedroom floor, flat on his back, arms over his face as if blocking out the world that had insulted him so badly, the same room where his mother had spent hours patiently teaching him and his sister algebra, French, chemistry, anything and everything. A whole history in this house. He’d wanted his parents to be proud of him then. Had been sure that even in death, this new career path would make them proud of him now. But he’d been tricked. Lied to. Made a fool. What he did remember, with startling clarity, was waking up and knowing he was better than all of them. He would show them how superior he was, humble every one of them with his brilliance. He would not run, wouldn’t be forced out, would never let them know the humiliation he’d suffered. Reginald King was a man born for recognition, adoration even, and he would not quit until he had conquered.
He smiled at the memory. What a moment that had been, a pivotal instant in his life. Still, there was work to do before he could progress further. Work that paid for him to live. He couldn’t afford to slack. There were mouths to feed. He filed a faked doctor’s letter with Human Resources, citing chronic gastroenteritis as his illness then fired off a few emails searching for a speaker. He was particularly keen to secure the attendance of a representative from Professionals Against Abortion. That would get right under Natasha’s skin, women’s rights being her regular ride of a high horse. It seemed unlikely that they’d be overwhelmed with invitations to speak at such a prestigious institution as the University of Edinburgh. He would follow up his email with a phone call to them in a couple of days.
The rest of the afternoon was spent clearing his desk of trivia before a trip to the supermarket on his way home. There were certain women’s supplies that needed buying. Not a chore he looked forward to, but a necessity. He went through the self-service checkout to avoid a nosy employee thinking too hard about the contents of his basket, treated himself to a good bottle of white wine – he might even share a glass with the ladies if they were behaving themselves – and set off to prepare dinner for them. It would be an interesting evening, he thought. Time for them all to get to know each other better.
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_480df778-e550-519a-926d-bd19836867b8)
At Ava’s suggestion they were meeting at a pub in York Place, just around the corner from Callanach’s apartment. She’d refused to give him the name of it, telling him he’d know it when he saw it.
She was right. Callanach spotted the Conan Doyle at the top of the road and knew immediately he was in the right place. Ava had promised to take him somewhere none of the rest of the squad would go, gossip was a price neither wanted to pay for a quick drink. It was warm and welcoming, eschewing the pretentiousness of trendy wine bars in favour of cosy chairs and a relaxed atmosphere. DI Turner was already there, checking emails on her phone and hugging a glass.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Callanach asked.
She smiled. ‘No, sit down and let me get you a drink. I started early, didn’t expect to find a parking space so easily.’
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
Ava held up the glass mug and he caught the scent of apples and spice in its steam. ‘Mulled cider,’ she said. ‘I can never resist it. I’m guessing I can’t tempt you to join me?’
‘Glass of red, I think,’ he said. While she went to the bar, he held her glass in his hands, enjoying the heat of it as he inspected the place. A large painting of Sherlock Holmes’ creator hung above the stairs from the doorway. Callanach wondered what the writer’s personal demons had been, to have conceived such an eccentric hero.
‘You’re a fan?’ Ava asked as she handed over a large Cabernet Shiraz.
‘When I was young, I consumed his work. It all fed subconsciously into my decision to become a police detective, I suppose. You?’
‘I should read, I know, but by the end of the day I’m so drained that concentrating on a book feels like more work. I love the cinema. I go all the time, often to the midnight showings, sit on my own, eat popcorn. It helps me switch off.’
Callanach raised his glass and Ava met it with hers. They sat in silence and sipped until a barman appeared, placing menus casually on their table.
‘You said you wanted to talk about your case,’ Ava said. ‘Anything specific?’
‘Not really. I keep wondering why we’re not making progress, if it’s my fault. Maybe the move to Scotland has distracted me. If I’d found Elaine Buxton’s killer, Jayne Magee would be safely at home tonight.’
‘You don’t know for sure that the same person took them both,’ she said.
‘There are too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. I studied their profiles today. Excelled at school, both graduated with a first-class degree, each highly regarded in their own profession, hard-working, dedicated. And both disappeared from their home without a trace.’
Ava put her drink down. ‘You must have overseen cases at Interpol where there was no break for ages then something happened and one piece of the puzzle landed so you could see the whole picture. You aren’t responsible for a lack of progress if there’s nothing to find yet.’
‘Isn’t it our job to seek out the answers rather than waiting for solutions to come to us?’ Ava seemed content not to answer. Callanach realised the pomposity of his response to what had been a simple attempt at comfort, and opted for changing the subject. ‘Why did you become a police officer?’
‘My great aunt was poisoned when I was five, my inheritance stolen and I vowed to find the killer,’ she said.
‘Je suis désolé, I’m so sorry, I had no idea …’ Callanach spluttered.
Ava began to laugh, tried to control it then the giggles got the better of her.
‘I can’t believe you fell for that,’ she choked, the laughter starting again and Callanach sat with raised eyebrows as he waited for her to stop. ‘Policing felt like a good match for the person I was in my early twenties. And I probably wanted to make it clear to my parents that I had no desire to get married and have endless dinner parties until I popped out a couple of grandchildren for them. If I had my time again, I’m not sure I’d choose the same path. What about you? It was a dramatic move to leave Interpol and join a city police force. I’m guessing we’re not quite as glamorous as your French colleagues.’
‘Glamour is overrated,’ he said, finishing his drink. ‘I’m hungry. How’s the food here?’
‘The steak is excellent,’ Ava said. ‘As is the baked brie, which is what I’m having.’
Callanach couldn’t help but smile. It was an unfamiliar sensation. But Ava Turner was so open and upfront that it was completely disarming. They ordered and made small talk until the food arrived.
‘Come on then, everyone has a reason. Why the police?’ Ava asked as she dipped baguette in melted cheese.
Callanach instantly regretted having asked Ava such a personal question. He should have foreseen having to respond in kind. His pause was long enough that Ava had fully gauged his reticence before he met her eyes again.
‘You don’t have to answer. It’s not a trick. And tell me if I’m misreading this or being dense, but this is the way it usually works. You ask me a question, I ask you one. We bump into each other at work, we get to know each other better so there’s more trust. When we have a bad day, we smile at one another, remind ourselves that it’s all par for the course.’
‘I know how it works,’ Callanach said. It came out more brusquely than he’d intended and he regretted it immediately. This wasn’t how he’d wanted the evening to go. He readied himself to say sorry.
‘Don’t,’ Ava said. ‘Don’t apologise again. People are who they are. As far as I’m concerned, forcing a square peg into a round hole is a waste of energy. But you’ll have to find a better means of communication than this. Your squad doesn’t have to like you, but they do have to respect you. So here’s the thing. If you don’t say please or thank you to your detectives, they’ll still do what they’re told but they won’t feel a sense of pleasure in working their hardest for you. If you snap at everyone all the time, you’ll drag your team down. And if you don’t let anyone get to know you, whether it’s me or anyone else, then you’ve got no reason to be here because there’ll be no loyalty and no community. And that’s all you have in the police. It’s what grounds you and supports you. It’s the only thing that makes the job tolerable at the end of the day. Feel free to stop me when you want to explain that you already know all of this.’
Ava stood up, picked up her bag and strode away. Callanach realised she’d left her jacket, grabbed it and turned to call after her. He searched the small passageway of steps leading down to the exit but she had already disappeared. Letting out a stream of expletives he returned to the table, threw the jacket back onto her chair and put his head in his hands. He never used to be this person. On top of everything he’d lost – his home, his career, even his mother – he’d become someone he no longer liked. Perhaps Scotland was a mistake, perhaps he was wrong thinking he could take up policing in a new country and that it would be the way it was before. If he was going to run, he should have run much further and never looked back. Slipping on his jacket, he stood up to leave as a glass of wine was thrust into his hand. He stared at Ava.
‘Going somewhere?’ she asked.
‘I assumed you’d …’ he stuttered, trying to stop the words before he looked even more foolish than he already did.
‘That I’d what? Oh my God, you thought I’d left?’ Ava laughed, a big belly laugh that contained not the slightest hint of malice or mean spiritedness. Callanach glanced at the large glass of red in his hand and wished furiously for a time machine to start the evening again. ‘You can go if you like, but I’m off duty and I have no intention of ruining my evening by flouncing off anywhere. I went to the bar, as you can see. Thought I’d give you a moment to decide if you wanted to join in the conversation or just carry on sitting there like a lemon.’
‘Un citron?’ Callanach’s translation skills weren’t bad but that phrase made no sense at all.
Ava laughed again, more softly this time. Callanach gave up, took a long sip of wine and forced himself to sit back and at least pretend to relax. Perhaps that was what was required to start a new life. Perhaps the best he could do was pretend that he could still act normally around people. Maybe in time he’d get more convincing at it. He took a breath and forced himself to share the sort of confidences he once wouldn’t have thought twice about.
‘We lived in Scotland until my father died. I was four years old. After that my mother found it hard to cope, so we moved to France near her family. She had to work long hours to support us and I learned to fend for myself. I got tough very quickly, always fast with a smart mouth, getting in trouble, fighting with the local boys. To them I wasn’t properly French, didn’t fit in. I suppose I turned myself into the sort of arrogant jerk everyone assumed I was when they saw me. By university I was bedding any woman I wanted, partying constantly. My mother called them my dark years. I almost never went home, was egotistic and unlikeable. Then I met someone and it changed everything. For six months I managed to behave like a decent human being, my grades improved, I was content.’
‘You split up?’ Ava asked.
‘We had a petty row. I went out, got drunk and she found me later that night in her best friend’s bed. She left and did not return. I never saw her or spoke to her again.’
‘And that changed you forever into the much improved human you are today?’ Ava teased.
‘Unfortunately not. I was making extra cash modelling so I threw myself into that world, avoiding the university crowd. It was exploitative, drug-fuelled and toxic. Everyone was out for themselves. I spent my weekends travelling with a bunch of crazy thrill-seekers. If we weren’t drunk or high, we were skiing, scuba diving, sailing or skydiving.’
‘Sounds awful.’ Ava raised her eyebrows.
‘Everything was excessive which meant, after a while, that it all became commonplace. It’s one of the many things I regret – not being sober enough to appreciate how lucky I was. Then the bubble burst. I got arrested for drunk driving. The police officer was female. I was horribly rude about her looks when she was booking me in at the police station and she slapped my face, hard.’ He rubbed one hand across his cheek at the memory. ‘The officer changed her mind about arresting me. Instead, she put me in a car and drove me two hundred miles back to my mother where she made me stand and listen, sober by then, to the words I’d said to her. For the first time in years, I was truly ashamed. My mother cried with embarrassment. I was at a crossroads, and that police officer sent me the right way. Had it been anyone else who’d arrested me, I would not be here now.’
‘She’s the reason you joined up?’ Ava asked.
‘She was a part of it,’ he said. ‘It was simplistic, but at the time it made sense. I served in the French police force until I was thirty, then transferred to Interpol where I’ve been for the last five years.’
‘So what made you leave?’ Ava asked. Her phone buzzed and she paused to read a text, frowning fiercely and muttering under her breath.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Another baby has been left in the same park, still alive and on its way to the hospital but the paramedics don’t expect it to survive. How can it be happening again? I’m sorry, Luc, I’ve got to go. I feel bad for leaving mid-conversation.’
‘Don’t,’ he replied, ‘at least I found somewhere that cooks steak properly.’
She smiled. ‘Nice to know what your priorities are.’ Ava put a companionable hand on his shoulder as she walked past him. He jerked away instantaneously, hoped she hadn’t felt it but saw the question in her face. ‘See you tomorrow, Luc. You take care.’
Ava left him staring at the books, globes and brass lamps adorning the walls. It was as good a place as any to drink wine and not think. He ordered another large glass of red and watched life go by until time was called.
The next day began too early. It was the first night he’d slept properly in weeks and the awakening beep of his phone was unwelcome. It was Tripp.
‘Not sure if it’s relevant, but I’ve been going through Jayne Magee’s neighbours’ statements. One of them saw a man at about the time we think she was taken, going round the corner at the end of the street pulling a large wheelie suitcase. I know it’s unlikely but …’
‘I’ll be half an hour,’ Callanach said.
He was there in twenty minutes, uncharacteristically dishevelled, shirt unironed, socks not even distantly related. Tripp stared as Callanach walked in clutching a steaming cup of coffee without noticing that a substantial amount of it was dripping down his jacket.
‘Morning, sir. Everything all right?’
‘Show me the statement and cross-reference it with a map.’
Tripp rummaged through a box of files then laid out documents on Callanach’s desk. ‘Jayne Magee’s house is here.’ He pointed at a red mark on a large scale map of the street. ‘And here,’ he pointed again, ‘about two hundred yards away, is where the neighbour saw the male. Mrs Yale who saw him was walking her dog, coming back into Ravelston Park as the male was exiting onto Ravelston Dykes. She didn’t see where he went after that. You think it’s our man?’
Callanach was silent. He started scrabbling through desk drawers.
‘Er … need any help, sir?’
‘No, I have it.’ Callanach held up a tape measure. ‘Lie down on the floor, on your side, tuck your legs and head in as tightly as you can.’
Tripp looked towards the doorway, mouth open, jiggling from one foot to the other.
‘Pour l’amour de Dieu, Tripp, I’m going to measure you, not kill you. Lie down.’
Tripp assumed the position and held still while Callanach stuck tape to the floor in a rough rectangle.
‘Move your feet in a bit,’ Callanach said. ‘And your elbows. Surely you can make yourself more compact than that!’
‘I can’t, if I move one limb another sticks out.’
‘C’est des conneries!’ Callanach muttered, throwing the measuring tape to the floor. ‘How tall is Jayne Magee?’
‘Five foot three,’ Tripp answered, giving up and rolling onto his back, arms outstretched as Callanach made for the door.
‘Salter!’ Callanach yelled towards the briefing room.
Footsteps approached at a pace and she burst through the door.
‘What, sir?’
‘Tripp will explain. We need to measure you.’ He threw the tape at them as he logged on to his computer. ‘Make yourself small, we must assume she was bound.’
They finished contorting, taping and measuring just as Callanach found what he’d been looking for on the internet. ‘The largest wheelie case available is thirty-four inches long. Is it feasible?’
‘Depends on the depth,’ Tripp said as Salter recovered. ‘But I’d say it’s possible.’
‘Salter, go to the shops,’ Callanach handed her a wad of notes, ‘and bring back a thirty-four-inch case, the deepest you can find, strong wheels. Tripp, we’re going to Ravelston Park.’
They got out of the squad car at the corner where the witness had spotted the male.
‘Two street lights, both the opposite side of the pavement from where he was walking,’ Callanach commented. ‘Many trees and high bushes. There would have been little light from the surrounding houses, they’re all situated well back from the road.’
‘He must have been turning west though, or he’d have crossed over before the corner,’ Tripp said. ‘So he either parked his car within walking distance from her house or he lives close by.’
‘He wouldn’t risk having witnesses to his route home,’ Callanach said. ‘There could easily have been more than one dog walker. The key to this is the vehicle. Have uniformed officers carry out door-to-doors within a quarter-mile radius, checking if anyone saw a man with a case getting into a car, van or truck. We should see if the witness walking the dog can tell us any more.’
Mrs Yale could be heard before she was seen, yelling at her husband to let Callanach and Tripp in, as she controlled an Airedale Terrier who appeared more hungry than friendly. She was large, in her late seventies and obviously excited by the attention.
‘Don’t mind Archie,’ she fluttered. ‘Sit yourselves down. Michael will fetch us tea, won’t you, dear?’ Her husband shuffled dutifully away.
‘Mrs Yale,’ Callanach began.
‘Isabel,’ she said. ‘Would you like biscuits with your tea?’
‘No, thank you. You saw a man leaving the road with a case. Can you describe him again?’ Callanach asked.
‘There wasn’t much to see, I’m afraid. It was dark and cold. He was wearing a long coat, grey or black, a woolly hat and a scarf right up over his mouth. He was all shadows, my darlin’.’
‘You noticed a case?’ he prompted
‘Yes, a big thing. I hate the sound those wheels make.’
‘Can you describe it in more detail?’ Tripp asked, taking a tea cup from the tray.
‘It was soft, like a giant rucksack rather than one of those hard ones. Heavy too, by the look of him pulling it. It was black, with lots of zips. Didn’t see any labels, I’m afraid.’
‘You seem to remember more about the case than the man, if you don’t mind my saying,’ Tripp commented.
‘That’s because I was closer to it. I was bending down as the man came past me, bagging Archie’s doings. My first thought was what shiny shoes the man had. You don’t see many gentlemen that bother these days. Black lace-ups. Not really the best thing in this weather.’
‘Anything else, Mrs Yale? Anything at all?’ Callanach said.
‘I hadn’t realised I’d seen anything of note.’ She fussed over biscuit crumbs. ‘But there was a faint smell about him. I don’t suppose many would recognise it nowadays, but I’m sure it was mothballs.’
‘Mothballs?’ Callanach asked Tripp, not recognising the word.
‘You hang them in closets to stop moths from eating your clothes. Not very common any more.’
‘L’antimite. You’re sure?’ Callanach double-checked with Mrs Yale as she fed crumbs to the ravenous Archie.
‘It was the smell of my childhood, Mother swore by them. We couldn’t afford new clothes during the war, dearie, so we jolly well looked after those we had.’
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_3cefc786-1985-5c7a-98b3-1552631fafb2)
Dr King was nervous. It was ridiculous. He was in his own home. He’d brought these women here through sheer force of will for a higher purpose and he was about to have his first proper conversation with the woman he would mentor into their new life together. She might even bring the still-rebellious Elaine into the fold.
Jayne would be free of the drugs by now. She’d need food, drink and an explanation. With her extraordinary faith, perhaps she would be more circumspect about how she’d been delivered into his hands. If there was a God, then maybe Jayne had been chosen for him. He put the tray down and unlocked the door. Inside, occupying two beds, were the women who would change his life.
He’d only planned to take one, researching both to find the most suitable. Always have a backup, that was the thing. Jayne Magee had been his. He’d not anticipated taking them both, not until Elaine had proved so unruly. The reverend would be more docile and able to adapt. He’d felt it when he’d placed her on the bed, taking care not to hurt her whilst restraining her wrists and ankles. Human nature dictated that a prisoner would always struggle hardest when they first woke up. Jayne would rise above it though, he was sure.
On entering the room, he was assaulted by the most repulsive odour. He gagged, doubling over, tray crashing to the floor, splattering him with melon flavoured protein smoothie. His clothes were ruined.
‘I dressed especially smartly to meet you,’ he shouted. ‘Which one of you has done that? Which one … let me see!’ He marched over, glutinous pink liquid aglow from the colour raging in his cheeks as it dripped down his face. He ripped Elaine’s covers back. He had expected, actually wanted, it to have been Elaine but she was in her usual cretinous state, rocking to and fro with her eyes jammed shut.
It was Jayne then. He pulled her blanket away more gingerly and the stench was unbearable. He ran to a cupboard, grabbed an electric fan and dragged it to her bed. For a moment he questioned his choice to have the room windowless, but it had been the only way. He snapped on gloves from under the sink and began the clean-up operation. She was awake and he knew it, although her head was rolled away from him and she wasn’t speaking. Better that they didn’t communicate until this was over. He had to forgive her. After all, she didn’t yet know who he was, what his plans were. He could be anybody, any lunatic planning to do unspeakable things to her. It would be better when she discovered the truth and could put his actions into context. King finished up, showered, made a fresh tray of food and went back to introduce himself properly.
The Reverend Jayne Magee’s face was still turned away so he pulled up a chair.
‘Jayne, I’m Dr King, Reginald, but perhaps we should remain on formal terms until we’ve progressed. I won’t hurt you, I want you to know that straight away.’
Jayne was chanting beneath her breath.
‘What’s that you’re saying? I can’t hear.’ He leaned over her, trying to see her lips but she strained her face further away. It took him some minutes before he recognised the words. Jayne was reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
‘That’s what we’re here to debate. The existence and nature of God. It’s one of the reasons I chose you. I read the thesis you wrote during your time at Oxford and I think you’ll find I have some interesting responses for you.’ Still she wouldn’t respond, even after he’d displayed his genuine interest in her. It was becoming tiresome. ‘Turn your head, please. It’s terribly bad manners not to look at someone who’s speaking to you.’ Nothing.
King had no wish to chastise Jayne so soon after her arrival. It would put her off completely. Having previously thought that Elaine had rendered herself expendable, he realised she might have a new use, one that could speed things along much faster.
‘Jayne, you comprehend the fragile quality of human life and how little time we have to spare. I wish to begin a conversation with you’ – the muttered prayer continued – ‘so I shall make you responsible for your companion’s fate. I’m obliged to maintain discipline, Reverend, and I have many ways of doing so.’
He unlocked the cupboard above the sink, took a needle from the medical kit and walked over to Elaine. She’d been listening, pretending to be in her own world, but listening all the same and she knew something was about to happen. She screamed when he picked up her hand.
‘It’s a sterilised needle, so there’s really no need for all this fuss. There won’t be any lasting damage.’ He stuck it slowly beneath the nail of her middle finger, pushing down firmly as she struggled, wondering how it was possible to scream and gurgle at the same time. It was as if she was drowning in the pain.
‘Stop it!’ Jayne screeched. ‘Just stop, please.’
‘You’re talking to me now, are you?’ he asked, not withdrawing the needle from Elaine’s nail, not until he’d really made his point.
‘Yes, I’ll talk, I will,’ she shouted.
‘What do you think, Elaine? Have you had enough?’ Elaine spluttered a yes, nodding wildly at him, imploring Jayne to help.
King allowed himself one more jab into Elaine’s nail bed, gratified by a final shriek to ensure compliance, then withdrew the needle.
‘Do you remember what happened?’ he asked Jayne. She shook her head.
‘My lips are sore,’ she said, ‘and my neck aches.’
‘Chloroform is a bit hard on the skin, I’m afraid, and then I had to sedate you with ketamine while I went to work in case you became distressed and injured yourself. It’s a wonderful drug. It altered your conscious state but allowed me to issue you directions which you were able to follow. You may find you have strange dreams for a few days. And you’ll be dehydrated.’ He collected the tray. ‘Here, drink this.’ She jerked her head away as he held the cup. ‘You need to drink and I’m not so primitive as to want to drug you constantly. The whole point of you being here is for us to engage with one another. I don’t want to have to be any more persuasive today. It’s hardly fair on Elaine.’
Elaine started to squeal and thrash on the bed. Jayne took the straw between her lips, sipping cautiously.
‘That’s better,’ King congratulated her.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ Jayne asked. It was said remarkably plainly in the circumstances, he thought admiringly.
‘I’m an educated man, Jayne, not an animal. I am forging a better life for myself and for you.’ He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Though to be honest, I’m not sure how long it’ll be before Elaine has outstayed her welcome. She’s not working out the way I’d hoped.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Jayne asked. King stared into her eyes, wondering what she was thinking. Was she hopeful of release, curious about him, too scared to understand her position yet? She seemed full of exciting possibilities. A paragon of potential. She reminded him vaguely of his sister. Not that Eleanor had lived to see adulthood, but if she had, she might have been a lot like the reverend. Their parents had always said Ellie was destined to be a leader with her extraordinary academic ability, not to mention her flair for music. She had been almost perfect. Sometimes annoyingly so.
‘I’m doing it for us. For a future where we can learn together, appreciate one another, stretch our minds in glorious ways.’
‘What if I don’t want to?’ Jayne asked. King thought about it. She wasn’t being defiant, he decided, or difficult. It was a genuine question and it deserved a genuine answer.
‘You will want to,’ he said. ‘Eventually. I’m here to guide you.’
‘This is wrong,’ she said. ‘Please, think about what you’re doing.’
‘Jayne, don’t,’ he counselled her. ‘Elaine tried, God knows she begged for days, and it won’t work. There’s a plan, you see. Sometimes a human has to aspire to a life greater than the one they’re born to. I am more than the sum of my parts, as are you. The physical being is unimportant. Elaine’s finger will heal, pain is transient. It’s a conduit for progression, enlightenment.’
‘I see,’ Jayne said simply. He waited for more, but that was it. He’d won. For today he should be content with that much.
He was exhausted, drained by disciplining Elaine and all the cleaning. Locking the door on his way out, he heard a whisper, considered going back in, but decided not to. They would need time to get to know one another. It wasn’t until he reached the bottom of the stairs that his tired brain finally unscrambled the words he’d heard.
‘We’re going to die here,’ Jayne had said, in that plain way of hers.
Reginald King thought that smoked salmon and mushroom risotto would make an excellent choice for supper.
Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_f0d5b22e-f282-5896-b4d5-130b75391154)
DC Salter fitted neatly into the extra-large wheelie case, once Tripp had secured her arms with gaffer tape. There was no hard evidence that Reverend Magee had been inside the case or that the man pulling it was her abductor, but there it was, in glorious high definition, inside Callanach’s head and he just knew that was how it had played out. Isabel Yale’s shoe comment fit exactly with what Ava had intuited about the abductor’s obsessiveness. What sort of person made sure their shoes were gleaming before a kidnapping?
Lively knocked the door once and walked in. ‘We’ve finished our enquiries at St Mary’s. Only thing that came out of it was a group opposed to women vicars. Seems Jayne Magee had received some nasty letters, a bit of abuse, threats. She didn’t report it to the police but we found the notes in her desk. They’re being examined.’
‘It doesn’t fit with Elaine Buxton’s killing,’ Callanach noted. ‘Collate all the outstanding missing persons reports for women in this age bracket from the last twelve months. And I want the forensic report on the mobile phone. It should have been on my desk yesterday. Also, call the police at Braemar. Ask them to go back up to the bothy and look for parallel marks leading to the hut that could have been made by a wheelie case. It’s a long shot but still worth investigating.’
Callanach left Tripp cutting Salter free of the gaffer tape, and made his way down the corridor to the kitchenette. The coffee machine was broken, not that he was mourning its loss. When he turned around, Ava was behind him brandishing an empty cup.
‘I’ll wash, you dry,’ she ordered, grabbing a second dirty mug off the draining board and running hot water into the sink.
A uniformed officer appeared just as the kettle boiled, puffed out from the short flight of stairs from the ground floor, and thrust a large cardboard box onto the table in the corner before retreating without a word.
‘Biddlecombe,’ Ava called after her. ‘What is that?’
‘Delivery for Major Investigations, ma’am. No name on it. From some posh florist. Must be from a satisfied customer.’
‘Our customers are either dead or psychopathic, depending on your viewpoint, Biddlecombe. They don’t send flowers,’ Ava yelled, picking up the box and eyeing it suspiciously. ‘Should I open it or throw it out of the window?’ she grinned at Callanach.
‘Is it ticking?’ he asked. Ava held it to her ear dramatically and shook her head. ‘Phone down to the front desk and tell Biddlecombe to come back up here and open it for you. She needs the exercise if nothing else.’ Ava was already ripping open the parcel. ‘Nothing like a well-adhered-to security policy,’ he noted, peering over Ava’s shoulder into the box.
Inside was a bouquet of stunning long-stemmed white roses. He reached across and pulled a card from a tiny golden envelope. ‘“Detective Inspector, The thorn makes the bloom all the more precious. Yours.”’
‘Is that it?’ Ava asked.
Callanach checked the back of the card, the envelope and the box again.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Have you arrested anyone for crimes involving dreadful poetry or being overwhelmingly sickly recently? Because it seems you’ve caught someone’s eye.’
‘How do you know they’re not for you?’ she asked. ‘My admirers usually just ask for a photo of me in uniform to put up in their prison cell, in lieu of a dartboard, I guess.’
‘Can’t be for me. Don’t Celtic women just hit men over the head with a club and haul them back to their cave?’ Callanach asked.
‘Oh aye,’ Ava mocked. ‘And then only if the man’ll make good eating. Otherwise we dinnae bother.’ She grabbed the flowers, thrust them into an empty desk bin that she filled with water, and left them on the table. ‘Well, if they’re for me, someone doesn’t know I get hay fever, so no points for research.’
‘Shouldn’t you report the delivery, at least?’ Callanach asked. ‘These things can get out of hand …’
‘Because I don’t have anything better to do with my time, and a bunch of flowers is a priority right now?’ She laughed. ‘I’m opposed to undertaking any activity that doesn’t help clear the mountain of paperwork from my desk, DI Callanach.’
‘It’s your funeral,’ he replied. ‘Any joy with your babies?’
Ava flipped straight back into work mode. ‘No. They’re unrelated except for a blanket each was wrapped in. Just white towelling, but identical. There must be two very distressed or confused women out there. What about you?’
‘Some movement, only a little, but it’s progress.’
‘Forensics on Jayne Magee’s mobile.’ Tripp thrust the paper through the doorway. ‘Lab said sorry they’re late, they were working on DI Turner’s baby case.’
Callanach flicked through the paperwork. ‘Et voilà,’ he muttered, pouring the remaining coffee into the sink and running his finger along a couple of sentences that were heavy on the scientific language. He read the paragraph twice before calling Tripp back. ‘The laboratory confirms the presence of chloroform on Jayne Magee’s mobile. He’d have been wearing gloves. That means it’s definitely a kidnapping and it fits with the theory that she was disabled before being packed in the case.’
‘Yes, sir. And one of the uniforms working the door-to-doors in Ravelston Park just radioed in about a statement he’s taken from a man who regularly cycles home along that route. Give me five minutes and I’ll get you the details.’
Callanach went back to his office and phoned Jonty Spurr. The pathologist sounded gruff and hassled, the phone obviously on speaker as he continued working while they talked.
‘Do you have time to talk?’ Callanach asked.
‘Four dead teenagers in one car. They’d taken ecstasy and were racing. Never ceases to amaze me how people can be so careless with their lives.’ Callanach said nothing because there was nothing to say. ‘So come on then, what do you need?’ Spurr asked.
‘I have an abducted woman who, I believe, was taken by Elaine Buxton’s killer. She was subdued with chloroform when he took her. Is there any method for tracing chemicals from Elaine Buxton’s remains?’
‘Not from the bones or the environment, no. Normally it would be easy if we had organs to screen but the only soft tissue cells we have are from the tooth found near the baseball bat. I’m not promising anything but I’ll run a tox screen. The results will depend on how recently she’d inhaled the chemical and in what amount.’ Callanach could hear the metallic rattle of tools being picked up and put down.
‘One more thing. How long before the effects of the chloroform would wear off after she was first abducted?’
‘Number of variables with chloroform, such as size and weight of the victim and quantity of the dose. Assuming he didn’t overdose her and she survived, it’s minutes rather than an hour, maybe fifteen if he was being careful not to harm her. It can cause burns to the skin, as well as liver and kidney damage if too much is used. You can’t use it safely for long-term sedation.’
‘Where would someone get chloroform?’ Callanach was pushing his luck and he knew it.
‘That’s two things and you have a pathologist of your own in Edinburgh. The answer is the internet but probably sent from abroad. It’s a commodity in certain eastern European countries, otherwise it’s a common industrial agent. Difficult to pinpoint sources, I’m afraid, but it’s easy to get hold of if you’re determined.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I will repay the courtesy.’
‘Holding you to it,’ Spurr replied before the line cut off abruptly.
Tripp was standing outside his door waiting for the call to end. Callanach shouted at him.
‘I’m not your headmaster, Tripp. You don’t have to wait in the corridor. What have you got?’
‘Uniform says there’s no detailed description, but Liam Granger was cycling home from work down Orchard Road South, just off Ravelston Dykes and went past a man who he noticed because he was talking to himself in quite an animated way. Granger took a second look and saw the wheelie case. Didn’t notice his face or clothing. It was too dark for anything other than an outline. The cyclist assumed he was either mentally ill or drunk.’
Callanach strode over to the map on his wall clutching a red pen. He traced a line from Jayne Magee’s house into Orchard Road South.
‘He must have parked around this area here.’ Callanach pointed. ‘That walk would have taken five minutes pulling a heavy case. If he only had a quarter of an hour until she regained consciousness, he couldn’t have risked parking too far away.’
‘It’s a densely populated area, cars parked along that road all times of the day. We’ve knocked every door. No joy with anyone noticing unusual vehicles,’ Tripp added.
‘Send uniformed officers to knock doors in the vicinity of Elaine Buxton’s home. See if anyone noticed a man with a large wheelie case at about the time she got home. This is something he practised. He knew how to fold the body so it would fit, had the chloroform ready. And would you retrieve the photos of Elaine Buxton’s home?’
The photos were on Callanach’s desk five minutes later as Detective Constable Salter found a vehicle to drive them to Albyn Place.
‘Any news on DI Turner’s baby case?’ Callanach asked.
‘No, sir,’ Salter answered.
‘What’s on at the cinema at the moment?’ he asked. Salter blushed. ‘I just need something to take my mind off this case,’ he said, praying she hadn’t misinterpreted his question as an invitation.
‘I don’t know. My boyfriend downloads everything these days.’ Callanach offered up silent thanks for the mention of her partner. ‘You don’t seem the cinema type, if you don’t mind my saying,’ she noted.
‘What is it you think I do at weekends, then, Salter?’
‘Eat out at nice restaurants, drink wine, read newspapers, go to dinner parties. That sort of thing? I should probably fetch the car, sir.’ She fled and Callanach realised he’d put her on the spot. Still, her answers told him a lot about how he was perceived. Part of it was the stereotype attached to his nationality, he supposed, and too close to the truth of his old life for comfort. Not so for the past year. He’d closed every door, with only the ghosts of parties past for company.
Elaine Buxton’s apartment came into view with a ‘For Sale’ notice displayed prominently in front of it. Callanach guessed Elaine’s mother could neither afford to keep it nor wanted any reminder of the place from which her daughter had been taken.
‘Drive around the back,’ he directed Salter. He identified Elaine’s garage and studied the crime scene photos. He’d visited her home to get a sense of who she was, but hadn’t been inside the garage. Using keys taken from the evidence room, he clicked the automatic door and went inside. ‘The keys were found inside the hallway that leads to her apartment, correct?’ Salter checked the log and nodded. ‘Suggesting she’d dropped them there, that whoever took her was waiting for her inside but no one let him in or saw him there. No sign of a struggle, no noise, no trace evidence. It’s too clean. I think he took her from the garage, opened the door to the hallway and deliberately threw the keys into the corridor.’
‘Garage would have been locked though, according to her mother. The victim was very security conscious,’ Salter said.
‘There are bushes outside. He would have known her routine. Simple is best. He arrives here before her, it’s dark, he stands in the shadows behind the shrubbery, waits for her to activate the automatic garage door, bends down low and creeps in behind the car.’
‘He’d need to have been sure she was alone,’ Salter commented.
‘She didn’t bring men back here. He’d have known her well enough to be confident about that. By the time she’d stopped the car and the garage door was back down, he was waiting with the chloroform.’
‘You’re saying she couldn’t have avoided it, no matter what precautions she took. That’s not very reassuring for the rest of us. Why throw the keys into the corridor?’
‘To deflect attention from the side path which is how he got out of the garage, through the back door, presumably pulling a large wheelie case behind him. Come.’
He led Salter to a side door, leading directly from the garage onto a mud and gravel path back to the street. She went to walk out until he held up an arm to stop her.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Call it in to forensics. I want a team here looking for parallel impressions, gravel stuck deep into the mud in lines. The weight of her body would have made a substantial imprint through the wheels.’
The cinema question had been more than just small talk. He looked up what was on when he got home that evening and texted Ava.
‘Couple of hours paperwork on my desk,’ she replied. ‘If you’re still awake at half eleven, how about the late showing of Ice Cold in Alex at the cinema behind the Conan Doyle?’
He had no idea what the film was. It hadn’t come up in the reviews for the latest releases. As it turned out, the reason for that was because it was made in 1958. He found Ava with her legs propped up on the empty chair in front of her, dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and clutching the biggest box of popcorn Callanach had ever seen, eyes glued to the opening titles.
‘They re-run old films,’ she whispered to him. ‘So much better than watching on TV. And no bloody HD, super colour, surround sound nonsense. This is film the way it was supposed to be. Story first, everything else second.’ She offered the popcorn and he shook his head.
‘You’re really going to eat all of that?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely. And if you don’t have some, you’re missing the point.’
‘How’s your case going?’ Callanach took a piece of popcorn and played with it between his fingers.
‘Ssssh!’ was all the response he got and he forced his attention towards the screen. Detective Inspector Ava Turner was already immersed in a North African desert in World War II.
An hour and a half later, John Mills and Sylvia Syms had given Oscar-worthy performances, and Callanach didn’t move his eyes from the rolling credits until Ava stood up and coughed pointedly.
‘Now you can talk,’ she said. They went to a late night pub on Leith Street that also served reasonable coffee and sat in a corner, trying to ignore the couple next to them who were arguing loudly about wedding plans. ‘Your opinion?’ Ava asked, manoeuvring a tray onto the sticky table. On it was the coffee Callanach had requested and a brandy he hadn’t.
‘I think they should run away and get married in Vegas if it’s causing that much stress.’
‘Of the movie?’ Ava said, holding out the brandy glass. He raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s Friday night, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ she said. ‘I, for one, need a drink and drinking alone isn’t the Scottish way. Come on, admit it. The film was cinematic perfection.’
‘It was not what I expected,’ he said. ‘I mean that in a good way.’
‘Here’s to that,’ she said, taking a gulp. Her grey eyes appeared bluer in the glow of orange neon lighting. She looked every inch alive, as if just waiting for the next moment, the next challenge. For a second, Callanach wished he could climb into her skin and remember what that was like. ‘You’re going to ruin it by talking shop, aren’t you?’
‘Am I so very predictable after such a short time?’ he asked.
‘It’s your safety net,’ she said.
‘What’s yours?’ he asked, instantly regretting prying into her personal life again. Ava didn’t even blink.
‘I play act at being confident, sharp and funny,’ she said.
‘Why would you need to do that?’ Callanach asked, appreciating the brandy more than he’d expected.
‘Because then no one will see how terrified and out of my depth I feel most of the time,’ she smiled. ‘Maybe discussing work would be best.’ She drained the glass of brandy and replaced it with her coffee cup. ‘Why would two unrelated women leave their babies to die in the same park? I can’t think of a good reason, aside from there being a baby-stealing psychopath roaming the city, but then the mothers would have appeared.’
‘If this isn’t a copycat, and that seems almost impossible in the circumstances, then the two mothers have met, agreed to do this together. They are making a point,’ Callanach said.
‘Which would be?’ Ava asked.
‘The public disposal of the children,’ Callanach said. ‘So maybe they never wanted them in the first place?’
‘You’re thinking rape victims,’ she murmured.
‘Perhaps,’ Callanach said, ‘but there are other possibilities to consider. Often women who are trafficked whilst pregnant have their babies taken from them forcibly. That might explain the lack of complaint from the mothers.’
‘It might, but there’d be no point the traffickers leaving the bodies to be found. It just puts the DNA on file. It’s something to think about. Why is it easier to see other people’s cases so much more clearly than your own?’
‘Distance and perspective,’ Callanach said. ‘I, on the other hand, have a faceless kidnapper turned murderer who plans everything to perfection, suggesting an elevated ability to control his emotions and behaviour, but who talks to himself in public, presumably without even realising it.’
‘Internal debate and subconscious reassurance,’ Ava said. ‘He’s lonely, has no one to talk to or to validate his behaviour. There’s a theory that we need people to challenge us as much as to praise us, so that we can justify and reason. People lacking that create a second voice, an out loud voice.’
‘Do you think that’s why he took Elaine and Jayne?’ Callanach asked.
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ Ava replied.
‘Why not?’ Callanach shifted his chair closer to Ava and away from the previously arguing couple who’d progressed to making up, and were engaging in louder than necessary kissing.
‘If he wants them for company, why kill them?’ Ava asked.
‘He’s only killed one of them, so far,’ Callanach said, ‘but if you’re right about the motive for the abduction then there’s a chance Jayne Magee is still alive, no?’
They were interrupted by a scuffle at the door. A cursing, drunken twenty-something burst through followed by a couple of mates equally worse for wear, all staggering towards the loved-up couple on the next table.
Callanach glanced at the barmaid who was looking around for help.
‘What the fuck, Suze? I still love ya. Tell me you’re no’ gonna marry this wee piece o’ shite?’
‘Aw, Gary, really?’ the girl answered, looking bored rather than perturbed. ‘I’ve told you, and my dad’s told you. You need to keep away from me. It’s over.’
‘I know you still love me. Ye said you’d always love me. And he’s an insurance salesman. What sort of pissy job is that?’
Callanach raised his eyebrows at Ava who huffed and finished her drink.
‘You should leave now, pal,’ the insurance salesman-cum-fiancé declared, although he sounded more self-assured than he looked.
‘I’ll go when my girlfriend tells me to go. You’ll keep your gob shut, if you know what’s good for you. Come on, Suze, we need to talk outside.’
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Helen Fields
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: ‘Must read!’ Closer‘I love, love, LOVE Perfect Remains!’ Reader review‘A superb debut!’ Reader reviewOn a remote Highland mountain, the body of Elaine Buxton is burning. All that will be left to identify the respected lawyer are her teeth and a fragment of clothing.In the concealed back room of a house in Edinburgh, the real Elaine Buxton screams into the darkness…Detective Inspector Luc Callanach has barely set foot in his new office when Elaine’s missing persons case is escalated to a murder investigation. Having left behind a promising career at Interpol, he’s eager to prove himself to his new team. But Edinburgh, he discovers, is a long way from Lyon, and Elaine’s killer has covered his tracks with meticulous care.It’s not long before another successful woman is abducted from her doorstep, and Callanach finds himself in a race against the clock. Or so he believes … The real fate of the women will prove more twisted than he could have ever imagined.Fans of Angela Marson, Mark Billingham and M. J. Aldridge will be gripped by this chilling journey into the mind of a troubled killer.