Perfect Death

by Helen Fields

  ‘Ava,’ he called, catching up with her as she hustled out of the exit into the carpark. ‘You were a bit tough on Ailsa back there.’

  ‘I was assessing the cases,’ she said.

  ‘I know that, but Ailsa worked with the Chief longer than almost anyone in MIT. If she thought there was reason for suspicion, she’d be pursuing it.’

  ‘You finished?’ Ava asked. Callanach didn’t bother to respond. ‘Good. Now I’ve got work to do and you’ve had a difficult day. I suggest you go home. Follow up with Lily Eustis’ parents tomorrow morning. Leave an update on my desk.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Callanach replied. This time Ava didn’t bother to correct him as she climbed into her car and sped away.

  Chapter Nine

  Leaning against a pile of props backstage, he checked out the group of wannabes preening, flexing their necks and warming up their voices. It was pitiful really. So many young men and women clamouring to build a career in pretence. Acting was simply professional lying. He allowed himself a smile then checked a non-existent text on his phone to avoid conversation. The truth was that he would probably have been ideally suited for the part. Play-acting was, after all, a skill he had honed to perfection. He glanced over at Sean O’Cahill – youthful, brimming with enthusiasm, shimmering with nerves – who was next in line. Forcing himself to concentrate, he did what he was there to do. Sean’s height he estimated at 5’9”, and the would-be actor was slim, probably weighing no more than nine and a half stone. Those measurements were well within what he could deal with.

  Taking lives was more complicated than people imagined. You didn’t just blunder in unprepared. He had to know he was capable of carrying Sean. A daily work out with dumbbells ensured that would be possible, and the exercise had the added effect of keeping his body toned and desirable. He wasn’t vain, but there was no point in false modesty. Good looks and taut muscles made life easier. Then there was fight or flight. Life was unpredictable. Better to imagine potential conflicts and prepare for them. He liked a fight though. Dominance. Exertion. But he knew when to run. The first lessons of his childhood – when to run, when to hide, when to remain silent. Staying in shape reduced the chances of capture.

  Watching Sean warm up, he saw a man who prided himself on being jovial. There was a smile for everyone around him, one of those ‘what a wonderful world’ smiles too, nothing fake about it. Sean wanted to like and to be liked. That would make approaching him much easier. Manipulating him would be almost no challenge at all. A shame, really. Sean’s height and weight were the key to knowing how much sedative he would need for incapacitation. He didn’t want to kill him too quickly. That would give no satisfaction at all. Grief was best enjoyed slowly, a drip-drip-drip of emotion, and he wanted to be there to lick every tear from the face of Sean’s best beloved. There was more to do yet. Trust to be built. A fire to kindle. That made him think of Lily. He shut his eyes, willing himself not to be distracted by the memory. He studied Sean instead. There was something vital about him. Utterly intoxicating. His hands itched to hold him.

  ‘Sean O’Cahill?’ a young man called. Sean stepped away from the mirror and waved his hand in the air. ‘You’re up. Good to go?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ Sean blustered, trying to enjoy the moment. ‘No audition was ever a waste.’ That was his agent’s mantra. It was all one continuous learning curve. Sometimes there would be failures, less often successes, but every time you stepped onto a stage was a step closer to where you wanted to end up. Sean wasn’t convinced that was right. He’d had plenty of days when stepping onto a stage was simply a short cut to rejection. Being an actor was hard. Not hard like being a surgeon or a soldier, he knew that, but the constant disappointments were an ointment that thinned the skin, and his felt worn through.

  ‘Sean, right?’ a woman called from a few rows back in the small theatre. ‘Tell us a bit about yourself.’

  ‘Sure, well I’m Northern Irish. I moved from Belfast to Edinburgh quite recently.’ He remembered to smile.

  ‘Why Edinburgh?’ the woman – he assumed she was the theatre company director – interrupted.

  ‘Obviously because I couldn’t afford the air fare to Los Angeles,’ Sean said. There was an immediate laugh from the group of note-takers surrounding the woman in charge, echoed from the wings where a line of other hopefuls waited to audition. ‘And because I was at The Fringe last year. I saw the production your theatre company put on and decided this was the place I wanted to be. Also tartan really suits me and in Scotland I can get away with wearing what feels like a skirt when I go shopping.’ Another laugh, bigger this time, more ready to engage with his style of humour. He began to relax.

  ‘How old are you, Sean?’

  ‘You want the age on my passport or the answer my agent tells me to give?’ He grinned.

  ‘Closest to the truth,’ the director said, still laughing.

  ‘Thirty-five if I’ve been drinking Flaming Pig, twenty-eight when I wake up without a hangover, and more like twenty-six when I’m in make-up.’

  ‘Okay, we have your song choice here and a monologue. If you could start with the musical piece then run straight into the acting, that’d be great,’ the director said. The pianist began to play.

  ‘That was really good, Sean. Where did you train?’ the director asked.

  ‘Ulster University,’ Sean said.

  ‘Well, it was great. These are open auditions so we’re seeing a lot of people. We won’t have the call back list available until Friday but we’ll be emailing the successful people and asking to see them again next week. Thank you for your time today,’ she finished.

  He hadn’t been cut short. That was all he could think about as he left the stage. He’d finished his song, nods all round, and had actually enjoyed performing the monologue, which made a pleasant change from being wracked with nerves throughout. Reaching for his mobile, he began texting Bradley before picking up his coat, got halfway through writing the text then deleted the draft. It would jinx it, he was sure. There could be no self-congratulatory words at this stage. He’d have to play it down. Since they’d moved in together he’d lost track of how many time-wasting auditions he’d attended, but he had a good feeling about this one. If he got the call back, he’d talk to Bradley about it then. By that stage he’d be one of just a handful going for the job. It wouldn’t pay much, but to be part of a company, working on a show, would be the start of something real.

  He smiled at the man in the doorway, presumably awaiting his turn to audition.

  ‘Good job out there,’ the man said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Sean grinned, taking in the dirty blonde hair and open smile. ‘I’m Sean.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Jackson,’ the man replied, shaking it.

  ‘Great name, I like it. You waiting to go on?’ Sean asked as he did up his coat against the sub-zero temperatures outside.

  ‘Not sure there’s much point,’ the man said good-naturedly. ‘Looks like you nailed it.’

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ Sean said, hoping beyond hope that the stranger was right. ‘Anyway, break a leg,’ Sean said, bustling past him. The man smiled once more as he left, his eyes on Sean’s back as he exited. Nice guy, Sean thought.

  Bradley was itching to phone his boyfriend Sean. They were both starting to give up hope that Sean would get work although neither wanted to be the first to voice such a negative opinion, but this audition played to Sean’s strengths. The theatre company wanted an actor who could both sing and dance, able to ‘make comedy work’ was how they’d phrased the advert, and Sean could certainly do that. He didn’t have film actor looks, and was never going to be cast as the hero, the hard man or the icy-stare bad guy. He was, however, good at improvising. He could deliver a killer punch line. And he was easy to be around. If he could show that off, then he should finally make it to call backs.

  Bradley dialled Sean’s number, cutting the call off before it could connect. He didn’t want to put too much pr
essure on. He needed to make Sean feel good about himself, to let him know that if not this time, then one day. A decent bottle of wine, albeit within their limited budget, would be good on the way home. They could talk about the audition over dinner, brought up casually. That would be better.

  Brad shut down his computer, tidied his notes and put on his coat. Life as a junior actuary was lacking the drama and thrills of the stage, but he loved it. At least it brought in a steady wage, which was nothing to be sniffed at. Sean was the sort of partner who would sit and listen to Bradley talk about his day as if it was the most important thing in the world, and for the most part Sean even managed to look convincingly interested. If there was a downside to their different careers, it was that Sean’s world was so much more dynamic that occasionally Brad felt like the boring hanger-on. Every one of Sean’s dance classes and physical training sessions was full of gorgeous muscled men with regular bookings under the sun lamp. Not that Sean ever deliberately made Brad feel insignificant, but as an entertainer Sean naturally drew people to him. Everyone they met remembered Sean’s name immediately, social media friendship invitations came flooding in. Sometimes, just sometimes, Brad thought, it would be nice if he could be the centre of attention for a change. On his way out, he washed up his coffee mug in the work kitchen sink, chiding himself for being so ungrateful. Life with Sean was wonderful. So what if Brad sometimes felt blinded by the brightness of his lover’s personality? It was a fair exchange for the moments of intimacy and sweetness. He wouldn’t change what they had – not much of it, anyway – even if he could, Brad told himself as he wrapped a scarf around his neck and set off into Edinburgh’s chill evening air.

  Chapter Ten

  A week had passed since Lily Eustis’ death and Callanach was no further forward in ascertaining who she’d spent the evening with before her fateful trip to Arthur’s Seat. She hadn’t been seen at any of her usual haunts. Friends had been contacted, CCTV had been checked, her mobile activity and social media were blank. A few of the numbers in her mobile contacts database were dead numbers that didn’t check out, but that was par for the course.

  Ailsa had spoken with Lily’s parents again to explain the need to hold the body until the toxicology screening results were back in case further investigations were needed. Callanach had visited them, too, intruding on their terrible grief with more questions than answers, sensing the ghost they could all still see in their house. The chair Lily used to sit in to read, the way she always took the stairs two at a time, the way she sang incomprehensibly whilst cleaning her teeth. These were the little things Lily’s mother had told Callanach about. He had drunk tea, nodded, and let the words come. They might not help him resolve the questions over Lily’s death, but if it helped her mother to tell him then he would listen.

  Lily’s sister Mina had sat listless on the couch, biting her nails and tugging at the few strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail.

  ‘She would never have thought of going there herself,’ Mina had said. ‘Someone was with her.’

  ‘We’re working on that basis,’ Callanach had told her. ‘But no one’s coming forward with any information. As the Chief Pathologist explained, there are no injuries and no evidence of any crime having been committed.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ Lily’s father had barked from an armchair in the corner, so shrouded in darkness with all the curtains closed that Callanach could barely see him.

  ‘Until there’s any further forensic evidence or witness testimony, yes. It’s possible that the Procurator Fiscal will ask for a sudden death report, but the Major Investigation Team won’t play any further role. A police liaison officer will be in touch today so you know who to contact with any questions.’

  No one had said anything after that. Callanach had expected outrage, some display of frustration at the least, but the family was numb with loss. Callanach had stood up quietly, said his goodbyes and made his way out. Only Mina had followed him into the hallway as he’d put his shoes back on.

  ‘When will we get her things back?’ Mina had asked.

  ‘I’ll contact the city mortuary about that for you,’ Callanach had said. ‘Anything on her body or in her pockets will be in evidence, but if it’s of no significance we can release it to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she’d whispered, opening the door for him, and closing it again before he’d had a chance to turn around and say goodbye.

  Callanach had been trying to get five minutes with Ava all day. It was hard getting used to her being so elusive. The days of wandering into her office and expecting her to be available to talk theories or Police Scotland politics had disappeared with her promotion. He’d left two messages on her voicemail then been reduced to emailing her.

  Eventually, late Friday afternoon, she appeared at his office door.

  ‘You busy?’ she asked.

  ‘What’s the right answer?’ he replied, closing his laptop.

  ‘Dim sum,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking about it most of the day. I think dim sum may be the only thing that will make this crappy week feel marginally less awful.’

  ‘Get your coat,’ Callanach said.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s how you’re supposed to speak to a senior officer,’ Ava said over her shoulder as she walked away. Ten minutes later they met on the street, both electing to abandon their cars for the evening in favour of alcohol. ‘I’ve called a cab,’ Ava said, ‘and booked a table at the Cantonese restaurant in Abercromby Place.’

  ‘You did all that while I was putting on my coat?’ Callanach asked. The cab pulled up as they were talking.

  ‘I might have already booked the table before I came to find you,’ Ava said as she climbed in.

  ‘Almost as if you knew I’d have no plans on a Friday night,’ Callanach muttered as Ava told the driver where they were going.

  ‘Don’t be over-sensitive,’ she said turning back to Callanach. ‘I had a shortlist of five people I was considering inviting to dinner. I figured at least one would be free.’

  ‘Now I wish I’d played a bit harder to get,’ Callanach laughed.

  ‘Date night is it?’ the cabbie interjected. ‘Me and the missus used to do that every Friday ’til I got this job. It’s not the same trying to be romantic on a Tuesday evening. You two married?’

  Ava looked at Callanach, opened her mouth to answer and ended up spluttering helpless laughter instead.

  ‘Actually, the lady’s my boss,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Pretty much the same as being married then,’ the cabbie winked. Five minutes later, he pulled the cab over and they climbed out. ‘You’d make a nice looking couple though, maybe you should think about it. You two have a nice evening,’ he said, pulling away.

  Ava stared after the car, hands on hips. ‘Do you ever go anywhere without people telling you how good looking you are?’ she asked.

  ‘That was directed at you, too,’ Callanach responded. ‘Can we please go and eat now?’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t tipped him,’ she said.

  ‘You really can’t just take it as a compliment?’ Callanach grinned.

  ‘What, someone thinking we’re married? If I didn’t need a drink before, I certainly do now. You’re buying, by the way, because I know how painful the next hour’s going to be with the waitresses flirting with you.’

  ‘I have a way to deal with that,’ Callanach said. ‘Come on. Let’s see if we can improve your mood with some saturated fat.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for a man to say those words to me all my life,’ Ava said, striding past him into the restaurant, hanging her coat on a peg without waiting to be asked and taking the best table in the front window.

  ‘Excuse me madam, that table is laid for four. I wonder if you’d mind moving to the table at the back, please?’

  Callanach watched Ava’s face change as she peered towards the back of the restaurant, checking out the smaller table between the kitchen door and the corridor to the toilets. Whilst Ava was usually the lea
st pretentious woman he knew, tonight was probably not the time for anyone to mess with her. He stepped forward.

  ‘Do you mind?’ He smiled at the waitress.

  She beamed at him, giving a small giggle for no particular reason. ‘Yes, sir. How can I help?’

  ‘It’s mine and my wife’s anniversary,’ he said, motioning towards Ava. ‘We really wanted this particular table. Could you accommodate us, do you think?’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were together.’ The waitress moved aside and pulled a chair out for him. ‘And yes, of course, as it’s a special occasion. Champagne, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Naturally,’ he replied, trying to ignore Ava sitting with her hands over her face. The waitress hustled away to fetch a bottle and the appropriate glasses.

  ‘You see? No one’s going to flirt with me now that I’m with my wife, celebrating – how many years is it?’ he asked.

  ‘If it wouldn’t hit the press in the morning, I’d think I’d prefer you to have said I’d hired you as an escort,’ Ava said, glaring at the menu. ‘I really don’t care what I eat. It all looks good.’ The waitress put glasses on the table and began pouring the champagne. ‘My husband will order for me,’ Ava simpered. ‘He’s wonderful at that!’

  ‘We’ll take a selection of the dim sum,’ Callanach said. ‘Whatever the chef recommends.’ As the waitress disappeared, he raised his glass. ‘To lost friends,’ he said gently. ‘How are you doing? You’ve been hard to find this week. I was worried about you.’

  Ava tried to paint on a tough smile, lost the battle halfway through and looked down at her lap. ‘It hasn’t been great. I thought it was hard losing my mum last summer. Now the Chief has gone too and I feel like a fraud sitting at his desk, hearing his voice telling me to buck my ideas up and get on with it. I spent so much time with him over the years. I suppose we don’t always appreciate it, but the police force is like family. You don’t like everyone, wouldn’t choose half of them, but they’re always there, good or bad. Begbie was one of the good ones.’