Perfect Crime

by Helen Fields

  ‘When we were having coffee the evening before, I held both of his hands in mine. They were perfect. Why?’

  ‘Just below his fingernail, it looks as if there’s part of a boot tread print and the finger was fractured. He didn’t mention any accident when you spoke to him on the phone?’

  ‘No, he was upbeat, said he’d had a good day,’ Rosa replied, beginning to cry again and folding a tissue daintily to press against her cheeks.

  ‘One last thing. We haven’t been able to find Stephen’s mobile. It wasn’t at Tantallon Castle, in his car or at his flat.’

  ‘The guy who helped him at the Queensferry Crossing – I can’t remember his name – was holding it to try to call me when Stephen slipped. He grabbed Stephen’s hand but dropped the mobile. We’d been speaking on the landline. He hadn’t got a new one.’

  ‘That explains it,’ Callanach said, making a note. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss and I apologise for asking you to come to the station to speak with us. I know it’s the last thing you’ll have wanted.’

  ‘Actually, it’s good to talk about him. Because we’d already split up, some of my friends and family have been telling me how lucky I was to get out of the relationship and how much better off I am. None of them seem to understand that I left him because I couldn’t stand the idea that he might kill himself. Now, I spend every day wondering how I could have stopped it. If it was a murder, at least I can be sure there’s nothing I could have done.’

  ‘Whichever it was, there’s nothing you could have done. You’re not responsible. We all walk a thin line between coping with life and it becoming too much for us. Stephen sounds like a good man. The last thing he’d want is to think he’d left you feeling guilty about his death, however it happened.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she smiled vaguely. ‘Thank you for saying that.’

  ‘I’ll find an officer to show you out,’ he said. ‘When there’s an update, we’ll be in touch, whatever our conclusion.’

  He walked to the door and opened it just as Ava appeared on the other side.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘If you’re done, we need to talk.’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Your office or mine?’

  ‘Neither,’ Ava said. ‘We’re going out to lunch. I’ll meet you at Pret on Shandwick Place in an hour, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, wondering why she looked so pale.

  Lack of sleep, he suspected. Ava never had been very good at looking after herself. He asked Tripp to take care of Rosa then made his way back to his office to write up his notes. His laptop showed new emails in his personal account. One was from Lance, the other from his mother. He started with Lance’s.

  Luc, a food bank in Inverness has been in touch, reporting a woman who matches Alice Hawksmith’s description as being a regular visitor. She has the Saltire flag tattoo on her left shoulder as shown in the photo you gave me. I’ve forwarded their email, below. Hope this is what you were looking for. Also, I understand Tantallon Castle has been closed to the public and is being treated as a crime scene. Anything you can share with me?

  Callanach scrolled down to read the email from the food bank then picked up the phone to Inverness police and gave them the details. They’d have to station an undercover officer in the area until they could talk with Alice Hawksmith. If nothing else, she needed to know what had happened to her mother.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the email from his mother, half expecting her to ask for more space and time before he contacted her again. However much he understood why she’d disappeared from his life, the bruise still hurt when he pressed it.

  ‘Luc, darling,’ he translated. She always wrote to him in French even though she spoke fluent English.

  Sorry for the email confusion. Just a mistake. I had an email saying my account was insecure, but I was unable to change the password. I received no emails for a few days, but it seems to be working again now and your email finally reached me this morning.

  Callanach sighed, happy to have had an explanation, suddenly ashamed he’d doubted his mother without cause.

  I know I should be more forgiving, but the truth is I’m happy that Bruce Jenson is dead. It means I don’t have to think about him any more. Please don’t go looking for Gilroy Western. It will end badly, my darling, and you’ve suffered enough. It was a long time ago and while it’s still sometimes painful, the memories are diminished. Get on with your life. I so enjoyed spending time with you in Paris. Promise you’ll visit me in Monaco soon.

  All my love,

  Maman

  x.

  Lively put his face around Callanach’s office door.

  ‘Got a minute?’ he asked casually.

  ‘A couple,’ Callanach said. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘We’ve had a call from the vehicle investigation unit. A car crashed into the cheesemongers on Kerr Street, one fatality. The vehicle was a hire car. Turns out its brakes had been cut. They’re asking us to take over the investigation. I said I’d go down and go over their findings before opening an MIT file. Can you spare me? We’re not making a lot of progress on the Hawksmith case and the forensics from Tantallon Castle won’t be back for a couple more days.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Callanach said. ‘You cover the car crash, leave Tripp in charge of the Hawksmith investigation and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave a message for Superintendent Overbeck about the new case. She’ll want to know if we’re about to add another murder to our current caseload.’

  ‘You taking the piss?’ Lively demanded.

  Callanach stared at him, confused.

  ‘What exactly did DCI Turner tell you?’ Lively asked.

  ‘Sergeant, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What did DCI Turner tell me about what?’

  Lively frowned, paused, dug his hands hard into his pockets.

  ‘Sorry. I might have misunderstood. I’ll get right on it.’

  ‘Are you sure everything’s all right?’ Callanach checked as Lively made his way to the door.

  ‘Nothing you’d understand,’ Lively muttered. ‘I’ll check in later.’

  Shaking his head, Callanach grabbed his jacket and car keys. It wouldn’t have done any good to force an explanation from Lively. The man wasn’t exactly a sharer on his best days and when he decided to be stubborn, he could run a masterclass for spoiled sixteen-year-old girls denied a shopping trip. Better to ask Ava what was going on, he decided, especially given that she was already waiting to talk to him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  10 March

  It wasn’t Osaki Shozo’s day. He’d woken up in the morning to find his wife and her lover sleeping on the couch, contemplated throwing a bowl of cold water over them both, then decided he didn’t want to make a scene. They would write that on his tombstone, but not any time soon. Instead, he was going off the grid.

  Further research had revealed that his wife would be able to file for divorce on the grounds of desertion after two years. There weren’t any assets to make the financial settlement bothersome. No joint bank account, no loans. His parents would have to put up with him disappearing from their life rather than him ending his. It was a compromise of sorts for the dishonour he’d brought upon them.

  He’d showered, shopped for lunch and returned home, by which time his wife and her close friend had vacated the apartment. He managed to resist the temptation to pick up the couch cushions that were scattered across the floor. A week ago he was still cleaning up after them, washing their coffee mugs and putting down the toilet seat when it had been left up.

  At first, it had hurt that she’d chosen to go with the sort of man who couldn’t even put the seat down. Now, Osaki had decided she was getting exactly what she deserved. Sooner or later, the honeymoon period would wear off and then she’d realise what she’d lost. Or maybe not, but by then he’d be far enough away that he could believe whatever he liked.

  Finding systems-based work in Edinburgh had been impossible, but getting a position on a fish
ing trawler setting sail for Iceland had proved incredibly easy. He wasn’t there to fish, the captain had laughed at him when he’d asked to join the crew for those purposes, but they’d needed what amounted to a housekeeper on board. He’d be cooking, cleaning, washing and doing the lowest of chores for the rest of the crew, who needed to eat, sleep and haul the catch from the sea into the hold, and not be bothered by anything else.

  His cooking skills were good enough that he could cater for twelve and what he didn’t know he’d learn. The one issue the rest of the crew would grapple with was precisely the reason Osaki had agreed to go. Not coming into close contact with a female for the next four months was no hardship at all.

  The trawler left in three days. He could take one large bag of clothes and personal effects, so whatever was left after he’d packed, he was planning to take to a charity shop. Then he had to empty what little was left in his bank account and close that down. His final task was to spend some time reading recipes and figuring out what sort of things he should be cooking. It all seemed fairly obvious: pies, casseroles and pasta looked to be the easiest way to feed a dozen ravenous men. Keep them full of protein and carbs.

  He had a library card from his days attending workshops to get his CV up to scratch and had contemplated taking out a selection of cookery books, then his overactive conscience had kicked in and he’d been unable to proceed, knowing he’d never return them. Certainly not in a fit state for anyone else to read after months surrounded by stinking fish and stinking men who wouldn’t think twice about using the books as coasters for wet-bottomed mugs.

  Osaki hung his head. Some day, good manners would do more than just lose him a wife and make him a laughing stock. On a fishing trawler with a bunch of claustrophobic, testosterone-laden men, they might actually get him killed.

  First, he took out the new spanner and washer he’d bought from the hardware store. He’d promised to mend the leaking kitchen tap and such maintenance was required under the lease. It only took a few minutes and he was pleased with the job he did. Making good was satisfying. He couldn’t mend his marriage, or be less disappointing as a son, but he could leave the flat in the state it was when they’d moved in. What his wife did with it once he’d gone was a matter for her.

  After that, he decided which clothes he’d take and which would go to charity, not that there was a vast amount to be given away. He’d arrived in Scotland with three suitcases, so one full bin liner was all that was needed to be delivered to the hospice shop around the corner. Its contents were clean and neatly folded, and he’d attached a small label providing collar, waist and leg sizes to make life easier for the people who’d have to sort and rack the items. He was depositing the bin bag next to his front door, when a knock came from the outside. Osaki opened up.

  The fist slammed hard and fast into the centre of his nose, then there was blood pouring down his throat and his eyes were on fire. He didn’t remember staggering backwards, but he found himself on the floor in the middle of the lounge area, spluttering as he tried to draw breath and coughing blood onto the rug his wife had so desperately wanted. Osaki wasn’t the only thing she’d grown tired of.

  ‘Lean your head forwards,’ the man instructed, providing assistance by taking Osaki by the hair and pushing his face until it nearly touched the floor. ‘Now, spit out as much blood as you can.’

  Osaki did so, more by instinct than willingly.

  A strip of gaffer tape was slapped hard across his mouth.

  ‘You’ll need to stay in that position, or you’ll choke on your own blood. Stay still while I help you out a little.’

  He pushed scissors towards Osaki’s mouth and snipped a tiny hole in the tape, just enough to allow an additional whistle of air through, but not enough to allow his mouth to open and issue sound.

  ‘We’re going to make this quick, before your lovely wife comes back. Not that I reckon she’d stop me. What do you think? Do you think she’d make a run for it, try to alert the police, or would she secretly be pleased by what she found?’

  Osaki stayed on his knees, forehead balanced on the rug, the room spinning. The man’s words were unclear. The air entering his lungs was wet. Nothing made sense. Gloved hands were rolling him onto his side, pulling his hands behind his back. He could no longer move his arms, connected at the wrists by a painfully thin thread of plastic. He breathed in what oxygen he could through the slit in the tape then blew hard from his nose. A stream of thick blood spattered the lower section of the sofa, but it did the trick. He breathed more freely, blinking hard.

  His attacker’s back was turned and he was fiddling with a bag. Osaki seized the moment, thrashing like a fish out of water towards the nearest wall, knowing if he could only bang on it hard enough with his feet, his constantly irate neighbour would be hammering his door in seconds. It had been a curse since they’d moved in. Now, it was a lifeline. One thump was all he managed before he was hauled back into the middle of the room.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he was admonished. ‘Bravery doesn’t suit you. You don’t deserve it. Too little, too late. You’re weak.’

  Osaki nodded unenthusiastically.

  ‘But I’m not.’

  He pulled a box from the bag and ripped it open, his gloves slowing the process slightly but not enough to give Osaki hope. What came out was a gleaming new toaster, not a smudge on it. The man set it down on the floor.

  ‘I’m going to take what you were willing to throw away. I’m going to use it and feed it, and relish it.’ He leaned across to the nearest socket and pushed the plug into the wall, switching the power to live. ‘Do you know what I think of men who contemplate suicide? You can’t speak, I know, so I’m going to tell you anyway.’ He grinned. ‘I think they aren’t men at all. They’re … sorry to use such a demeaning word – feminists hate this – but they’re pussies. You know what I mean? Limp-dicked little whiners without the backbone to survive the shit life throws at us all.’

  He moved down to take hold of Osaki’s ankles and bind them together like his wrists, then dragged the heavy old armchair across to wedge his legs between the chair and the sofa. If Osaki’s brain had been working slowly at first, now it was on overdrive. He foresaw endless possibilities for pain, none of which ended well. Picking up his head, he tried banging it on the floor, but a carefully slid cushion put paid to that.

  ‘You stay there quietly. No running away.’ The man grinned.

  A tap ran in the kitchen for a few seconds and Osaki had time to wonder if it was the cold tap he’d fixed earlier. There were few ironies as poignant as having potentially made your murder run slightly more smoothly than it otherwise might have done. He had time to regret not leaving for the boat earlier and time to wish he’d stood up to his wife. Even so, he was still sorry she’d have to return to their flat to find him dead. As a child, he’d found his grandfather after a stroke, his face a contortion of pain, and the image had haunted him for years. His wife, he assumed, would make a speedier recovery.

  The man returned carrying a full jug and humming the theme tune from a 1970s TV programme he’d seen reruns of, about American army doctors during the Korean War. He couldn’t remember the name of it now. And he couldn’t feel his legs, or his face. Everything was suddenly cold, as if he were outside in winter. His legs were wet.

  ‘Well, look at that, I went out to get some water in case you couldn’t do what I needed and you’ve gone and done it before I even asked. If you’d just applied that sort of enthusiasm to the rest of your life, I’d never have had to visit you today.’

  He pulled on heavy-duty black rubber gloves before kneeling down and undoing Osaki’s trousers, sliding them down, along with his underwear, to leave his genitalia bare.

  ‘I thought long and hard about how to do this and it seemed to me that as you’ve effectively neutered yourself, the most fitting ending would be to represent that in the flesh. It’ll be quick, I promise. Faster than anything you’d have done to yourself. Any last words? Don’t wor
ry, I can imagine them. That way you won’t embarrass yourself by begging. Are you ready?’

  He positioned Osaki’s body exactly as he needed it, emptying the jug of water from head to foot then stepping away and drying the gloves on his jeans. He stretched his arms in the air, taking several deep breaths as if about to attempt some Olympic feat. The man looked towards the ceiling, palms upwards, taking a moment.

  Osaki watched him, mesmerised. It was as if an audience of thousands was watching and he was about to pull off the greatest magic trick of the century.

  Finally, he took a thick wooden stick from his bag and held it directly over the toaster lever. As he pushed it down, allowing a lethal amount of electricity to flow, not a moment too soon, Osaki Shozo passed out.

  Chapter Twenty

  10 March

  ‘So, Bruce Jenson left all of his money – every penny of it – to a charity supporting victims of sexual violence. His son said he has no idea why, and I believe him. He’s instructed solicitors to challenge the will; although Jenson had the presence of mind to get a psychiatrist to declare he was of sound mind at the date of the alteration.’

  ‘The money should go to the charity,’ Callanach said, pushing his lunch away and nursing a black coffee instead.

  ‘I’m guessing it would help the charity if your mother stepped forwards and explained that the bequest was purposeful. The only problem is that it would create an additional link between you and Jenson, including a motive to have murdered him. It would be in the public domain, too. No possibility of keeping it quiet,’ Ava said, abandoning her own lunch out of sympathy.

  ‘I should have told the truth in the first place,’ Callanach said. ‘Now I’ve dragged you into it and the prospect of helping a charity that deserves financial support has become a question of them or me. How did it all get so complicated?’

  Ava covered his hand with her own. ‘What will your mother want to do?’

  ‘She’s been fiercely private about the rape for so long, I think it’d hurt her to have to go into the details now, but she’ll want to help other victims and survivors. I’ll talk to her about it. If she wants to tell her side of it, I’ll explain the history to DI Graham and take the suspension while he investigates.’