Perfect Death

by Helen Fields

  ‘He was involved in a car accident and now he’s missing. I’m trying to locate him. Information in your file has him down as a former associate. Did you keep in touch with him after you were convicted?’ Ava asked.

  ‘An associate? Is that what my file said? Louis the Wrench was no friend of mine. I’m guessing your information also noted that when me and Ramon got sent to our various fuckin’ government holiday camps, Jones miraculously escaped the attention of the Fiscal.’

  ‘I was wondering about that,’ Ava said. ‘How did that happen?’

  McGill leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘You wearing a wire, DCI Turner?’

  ‘No,’ she said opening her jacket. ‘Wouldn’t do me any good, as I’m sure you’re aware. You’re not under caution. I’m not taking notes, you haven’t got a lawyer, there’s no video or audio recording happening.’

  ‘So what little dance is it we’re doing? Louis Jones, the prison grapevine tells me, is keeping a slab warm and won’t be doing any more talking. I’m guessing you know that already, girl,’ McGill said. ‘Caskill, you got a light?’ The prison guard walked in, lit the roll-up McGill pulled from his pocket, and left again.

  ‘And why would that information, about a man you claimed not to remember, have reached your ears, Mr McGill? Was it you who ordered the hit?’ Ava asked.

  ‘I’m in lock-up. High security at that. I have neither the contacts nor the cash to organise such things, if it even was a hit. I rather like the concept that overcome by remorse at being a filthy fuckin’ rat, he nail-gunned his own mouth shut then put a bullet through his brain. Why don’t you try investigating that scenario, love?’

  ‘Your bosom buddy, Ramon Trescoe, has the contacts. No doubt there are a few people who have the cash and owe you two favours. You boys didn’t drag anyone else down with you at the trial, code of honour and all that. I’m sure enough of your former associates still exist to make your homecoming reasonably pleasant,’ Ava said.

  ‘What are you here for?’ McGill asked.

  ‘I want to know who killed Jones,’ Ava said.

  ‘Bollocks, do you. If this was on the record there’d be another officer with you, I’d have been forewarned and my brief would be here telling me to go no comment. But since we’re not on the record, and because I’m in a better mood than usual, I’ll help you out. Take your face while it’s in one piece, and get it out of my business. That goes for Ramon’s too. He’s served his time and as far as I know he wants to watch the satellite channels and eat takeaway. If Jones is dead, he had it coming. You don’t want to get mixed up in the big boy stuff.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that,’ Ava said. ‘I’m disappointed, obviously, but it’s not unexpected.’

  ‘Then why come?’ McGill asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I saw your file, thought you looked like an interesting chap and decided I just couldn’t stay away. Sorry to have disturbed you. Next time I come I’ll be sure to bring cigarettes.’ She called in the prison officer. ‘Mr McGill and I have had a really useful chat. He’s one of the good ones. Wish they were all like him.’

  Caskill raised his eyebrows and pulled McGill to his feet.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what the fuck you’re playing at, lady?’ McGill asked.

  ‘You know how this works, Mr McGill. You scratched my back, now I’ll scratch yours. I’ll have a chat with the Governor, see if I can’t get you some increased privileges as a thank-you.’

  ‘She’s fuckin’ crazy,’ McGill said to the prison officer. ‘Get me out of here. I’m missing lunch as it is.’

  Ava walked back to the processing centre to pick up her belongings. The actual content of her conversation with McGill had been irrelevant, although it wouldn’t do any harm if he repeated Louis Jones’ name to a few fellow inmates. Just the fact that McGill had sat in a cell with her – unaccompanied to boot – would be enough to make Ramon Trescoe twitchy, especially if McGill suddenly found himself on the receiving end of some unexplainably favourable treatment.

  The Governor was waiting for her in reception. ‘DCI Turner,’ he said. ‘We haven’t met but I’ve heard a lot about you. Did you get what you wanted today?’

  ‘I did,’ Ava said, ‘but I need your help with a couple of things.’

  ‘Of course,’ the Governor said. ‘Whatever I can do to assist.’

  An hour and a half later Ava was home, stripping off her suit and going through her wardrobe for something that would help her blend in that evening. She applied makeup more heavily than she could ever remember having done in her life, the only possible exception was aged eight and raiding her mother’s makeup case. With smokey eyelids and dramatic liner, she put a dark foundation on, adding blusher and finishing with cherry red lipstick. After that, she opened the packing on the hair straighteners she’d bought that day, took every curl out of her hair and pinned some of it up on top of her head. The effect was to make herself almost unrecognisable.

  When the doorbell went Ava was still staring in the mirror, trying to talk herself out of what she was about to do. She peered through the spy-hole.

  ‘Could you open up?’ Callanach said. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

  Ava opened the door a crack. ‘I’m just going out,’ she said. Callanach didn’t respond. His open mouth said it all. ‘You need me right now?’ Ava asked, rolling her eyes. She closed the door to disengage the chain, then draped a jacket over her injured hand to cover the bandage before opening up to let him in.

  ‘Anywhere nice?’ Callanach asked, still staring.

  ‘It’s a hen party. Themed. You know the sort of thing. What was it you had to talk to me about that required the use of communication other than by mobile phone?’ Ava asked.

  ‘Cordelia Muir,’ Callanach said. ‘I think she was poisoned.’

  ‘We’ve established that,’ Ava said. ‘All DNP deaths are categorised as poisoning. There’s no legal form of tablets containing dinitrophenol.’

  ‘No, I mean it looks increasingly likely that she had no idea she was ingesting them. I’ve been back to her offices and removed several items for testing,’ Callanach said as Ava disappeared into her bedroom, leaving him talking from the lounge. ‘Where exactly are you going?’

  Ava returned with a long raincoat over high-heeled boots, one hand in her pocket, bouncing keys up and down in the other. ‘Some club in town,’ Ava said. ‘You’re suggesting this is murder. Premeditated murder.’

  ‘I’m saying I need to investigate it with that possibility in mind. I’ll need to go through her house in the same way I have the office. The children aren’t obvious suspects but I need to rule out the possibility that the poisoning was happening there. I think the daughter will let me have access voluntarily but I wanted you to be aware of what I’m planning.’

  ‘All right. If you have grounds then go ahead, but if it’s one of the children they’ll have had ample time to get rid of any evidence by now. Listen, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk tomorrow. Briefing in the morning, okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ Callanach said, stepping out through the front door she was holding for him. ‘Whose hen party?’

  Ava fumbled with her keys as she secured the door.

  ‘A girl from my old riding club. I’m only going out of politeness. I’ll probably fake a headache and escape in an hour.’ She climbed into her car, throwing her handbag onto the passenger seat. Callanach opened the passenger door and leaned his head in. ‘Try not to get arrested,’ he said, slamming the door, noting the pepper spray amongst the contents of her bag.

  ‘Least of my problems,’ Ava muttered, spinning her tyres on the wet tarmac.

  Callanach stared after her, hating himself for not believing a word she’d said, but it wasn’t just her explanation that had made him doubt her. Ava had looked scared. Not just nervous, but deeply unsettled. He couldn’t help but wonder why.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Back at the station, Callanach cursed the rain that had turned to sleet, and the additi
onal traffic from late-night shoppers. It had taken half an hour to travel across the city, and a further half-hour to update his team and establish that Cordelia Muir’s daughter was happy to accommodate a new search. Even Detective Superintendent Overbeck had drifted through en route to an event, reminding Callanach of Ava’s out-of-character night out. Wherever Ava was going, it certainly wasn’t to a high-class dinner with the rest of Police Scotland’s brass.

  ‘You’re going to Mrs Muir’s house tonight?’ Overbeck asked Callanach.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘DCI Turner signed off on it. I’m briefing her in the morning.’

  ‘If she’s not still crying off sick. I had planned to sit her next to the Lord Lieutenant’s mother. Dreadful bore. Talks about her children incessantly. No wonder Turner decided to get a convenient bloody migraine. Now I’ll end up next to her. While I’ve got your attention, Detective Inspector, this doesn’t turn into a murder enquiry unless you are absolutely damned sure that’s what it is. I can do without another statistic showing how badly we’re failing, thank you.’ Overbeck clacked away on killer high heels, checking her lipstick in the reflections of the glass as she went. Callanach watched her go, quite willing to accept that Ava might have told a lie to get out of a stuffy dinner with her superiors, but less convinced that she wouldn’t be equally happy to have repeated the lie to avoid a fancy-dress hen party.

  By the time Callanach arrived at Cordelia Muir’s house, a body of officers was bagging and labelling various items, placing most in cold boxes for transfer to the lab. Lively was logging the items as they were processed, and Cordelia’s daughter was sitting on the couch, holding an open book but staring at the wall. Callanach had explained the police presence only in terms of ascertaining the source of any tablets that might have been overlooked at home. As he reassured the young woman that Police Scotland was putting its full investigative resources into the case, a thumping echoed from upstairs, followed by the slam of a door and the heavy scrape of dragged furniture.

  ‘Sir,’ DC Tripp called down the stairs. ‘There’s a bit of a, um, thing. Could you …?’

  Callanach excused himself from his conversation and went up. Three officers were stood between one bedroom door, which stood open, and another, which was closed.

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Muir’s bedroom has been disturbed,’ Tripp whispered. Callanach looked through the doorway. The bed sheets were hanging off, all the drawers and cupboard doors were open, their contents scattered. A trail of objects wound across the carpet towards the ensuite and back out to the hallway.

  ‘What’s happening in there?’ Callanach asked, motioning towards the closed door.

  ‘That’s the son’s bedroom, Randall. He’s locked himself in and won’t respond verbally. We’re hearing what sounds like sobbing and he’s barred the entrance with something heavy,’ Lively said.

  ‘Randall, this is Luc Callanach. We met briefly at the hospital. I would like to speak with you, to make sure you’re all right. I know this is difficult and the last thing I want is to invade your space. If you could open the door just an inch so I can see your face and talk, then I’ll ask my squad to give us some privacy.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Randall called, his words hitching with his breath.

  ‘I understand,’ Callanach said, ‘and that’s what we want to do. But I cannot leave someone who might be a danger to themselves without establishing first-hand contact. Would you rather talk to your sister?’

  ‘No!’ Randall shouted. ‘Fine, I’ll open it. But then I want to be left, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Callanach said, motioning for the other officers to step away from the door. There was heaving, some heavy breathing, then the door opened a crack. ‘Hello, Randall. Thank you for doing that.’

  ‘You’ve seen me, now get lost,’ Randall said, starting to push the door shut again.

  Callanach forced his foot forward just enough to prevent it from closing. ‘Absolutely, in just one moment. The thing is, we’re in what is now your house, so I need to explain what we’re doing here. I need to check your mother’s things for any tablets or other medicines, to confirm what she was taking. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Randall said.

  ‘Great, that’s good. A few things in your mother’s room have moved recently by the looks of it, and it’s important that we go through all of her personal items. Do you have anything of hers in there?’

  Randall cast an eye back over his shoulder, letting the door fall open another inch. Callanach caught a blast of perfumed air from the curtained gloom and took the opportunity to step closer to the doorway.

  ‘A couple of things, but they’re private. There were no tablets. I didn’t do anything wrong,’ Randall said.

  ‘Of course you didn’t. You had no idea we were coming, or what we’d need to do. But if you have items of hers in there, we will need to take a quick look to ensure that we’re being thorough. Is that okay?’

  Lively was calling additional men up the stairs.

  ‘No, it’s not okay. You’re not touching any more of my mother’s stuff. It’s mine now. You’ll ruin it all. You’ll mess it up,’ Randall shouted.

  ‘We’ll be very careful not to touch anything we don’t need to. You can stay there and watch us, tell us where everything came from.’ Callanach pushed the door gently, allowing more light from the hallway to penetrate the darkness, showing a mass of clothes, bedding and effects covering the floor.

  ‘No!’ Randall screamed. ‘I don’t want you here. You’re not coming in. No one’s coming in.’

  ‘Randy? What’s going on? Why won’t you let them in?’ His sister appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘You never wanted me to be close to her,’ Randall shouted. ‘Now you’re sending them in to take everything of Mum’s from me. Well, you can’t. You can’t take her away again. I won’t let you.’

  Callanach looked at Randall’s sister, pointing towards the door and gesturing to open it up. The sister nodded, stepping away, head slumped. He wedged his foot more firmly in the door as Randall tried to shove it closed. Callanach used his shoulder, dropping his weight to get better leverage. The door flew open and Randall dived backwards, scrabbling away. Tripp switched on the light and the squad readied themselves to deal with whatever was happening inside.

  Randall was curled in the middle of a chaotic mass of clothing, bedding, jewellery, books and papers. He was rocking himself, sobbing quietly, reaching out to stroke each object in turn, pulling an old dressing-gown over his head as he babbled.

  ‘I’ll call a doctor,’ his sister said quietly.

  Callanach oversaw the initial stages of retrieving items from what Randall was calling his nest, then left the Muir family doctor trying to administer a sedative. His mobile rang at 10pm just as he was preparing to leave.

  ‘Luc, this is Ailsa Lambert. Do you have a moment?’

  ‘I do,’ Luc said, stepping into the deserted kitchen. ‘Is it about the Louis Jones autopsy?’

  ‘No, that’s all finished. Actually, I was wondering if Ava was with you,’ she said.

  ‘She’s gone out for the evening. Is it urgent?’ Callanach asked. There was an extended silence from Ailsa’s end of the phone, until Callanach heard tutting. ‘Ailsa, what’s wrong?’

  ‘She was supposed to phone me this evening but I haven’t heard from her. I was concerned,’ she said, her voice vague and unsure, not at all like the Dr Lambert he was used to. ‘I still am concerned.’

  ‘I saw her earlier this evening, so I shouldn’t be too worried. She was dressed up to go out,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Did she say where?’ Ailsa asked.

  ‘She said it was a hen party,’ Callanach replied. ‘Some girl she knew from her old riding club has got her dressing up like a French courtesan, and that’s putting it politely.’

  ‘A hen party?’ Ailsa said. ‘We’re talking about the same Ava Turner, are we? Have you ever known that girl to do big crowds of women, particularly on
es given to mass silliness and costumes?’

  ‘Why was she supposed to call you, Ailsa?’ Callanach asked. ‘And why would she have agreed to call if she’d arranged to go out? I don’t understand.’

  A long sigh issued from Ailsa’s end of the phone. ‘I’ve been worried about her. Ava was attacked and her hand was badly injured. She agreed to keep in regular contact to stop me from over-reacting. Her phoning me at regular intervals was part of the bargain, only now she’s not answering her mobile.’

  ‘Do you have any idea at all where Ava might be right now?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t, but if it’s at a hen party I’ll book her in for a psych evaluation. Find her for me, Luc. I should never have agreed to stay quiet, and I won’t forgive myself if anything else happens to her.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ava proffered a twenty-pound note, only to have it waved away by The Maz’s reception staff. Apparently only the male guests had to barter their way in with cash. She checked in her coat but kept her bag, self-conscious in the lacy basque until she realised how much more she was wearing on top than most of the girls in the club. Her first stop was the ladies’ toilet, adding more eye-liner and redoing her lipstick. The drive to Glasgow had been peppered by thoughts of what could happen if Knuckles or the big man recognised her, but now that she was inside it was the last thing on her mind. She’d almost failed to recognise herself as she’d appeared in the mirror. Little chance of anyone else guessing who she was.

  Making her way to the bar, Ava ignored the looks she was getting from both men and women, glad of the low light and thick makeup that covered her embarrassment. Her only previous visits to clubs like this had been for drug busts or trafficking operations. This was less fun. With a gin and tonic in hand, she wandered slowly around seeking out the best place to sit and watch the comings and goings.