Perfect Death

by Helen Fields

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘That isn’t Jeremy. You’ve got the wrong picture,’ Randall insisted.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Tripp said. ‘Perhaps there was a mix-up at the police station. Sometimes people put things in the wrong file.’

  ‘Yes, that must be it,’ Randall murmured.

  ‘Who is it then?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘It’s my friend.’ Randall smiled. ‘I met him at The Fret, the club where I play.’

  ‘Play?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘Guitar. It’s what I want to do. I’m going to go professional. Everyone else thinks it’s a joke but I know I can do it.’

  ‘What’s your friend’s name?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘Why?’ Randall said, looking up from the sketch suddenly.

  ‘We’ll need to speak to him anyway. It looks as if there’s been a mix-up,’ Ava said.

  ‘What are you trying to do?’ Randall asked, his voice raising a pitch.

  ‘Randall,’ Ava said softly. ‘The man in this picture was also friends with a girl called Mina Eustis. Her sister, Lily, died in tragic circumstances up at Arthur’s Seat. Maybe you heard about it. She was given a high dose of cannabis oil, lost consciousness and was left alone to die in the cold. Your friend is the link between the two cases.’

  ‘It’s all a mistake,’ Randall muttered.

  ‘Maybe, but it’s only fair that we give your friend a chance to put the record straight, don’t you think?’ Tripp said.

  ‘It’s not him,’ Randall repeated, his voice a low whine that made Ava’s heart ache. It was as if the boy was pleading with himself, so similar to Mina’s disbelief when she’d first seen the likeness of the man who’d befriended her. Cadogan was a master manipulator, able to cloak himself in different personalities, become whatever his victims needed most.

  ‘Mina’s friend’s name is Christian Cadogan. That’s the man in this photo. The people your mother worked with provided us with his description. We have to find him, Randall. Other people may be in danger. I know you want to protect your friend and I think that’s admirable, but the best thing you can do is to tell us what you know,’ Ava said.

  ‘You think he killed my mother, don’t you?’ Randall said.

  ‘I think he needs to answer some questions about why he was volunteering in your mother’s office and why he gave a false name and address. It’s important that we establish what his relationship was with Lily Eustis. Can you help us, Randall? You may be the only one who can,’ Ava said.

  ‘I’ll help. Of course. Whatever you need,’ Randall said. ‘Will you give me a moment? I need to use the bathroom. Then I’ll tell you everything I know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ava said, leaning forward and taking his hands between hers. ‘I know this is terribly hard. Losing a parent is devastating. I can’t even start to imagine how you feel, but I want you to know that you’re not responsible for any of this. Whoever is guilty of your mother’s death, you couldn’t have foreseen it and you couldn’t have stopped it.’

  ‘That’s a very gracious speech, DCI Turner,’ Randall said, adopting the language he’d heard his mother use so often.

  Ava flinched. The boy’s words had been kind and softly spoken, but buried within them was a steel she hadn’t expected. His sister entered with a tea tray and began handing out cups and saucers as Randall, humming a lullaby, began to ascend the stairs.

  Lance Proudfoot became aware of the car parked next to his garage only once he’d lifted the door to wheel his beloved and ancient motorbike inside. He’d spent the afternoon at his office updating his news website, not that having access to one of Edinburgh’s senior police officers was winning him any exclusives. He was reduced to just feeding through whatever Police Scotland chose to tell the press, as and when it suited them. The trip to Glasgow had been fun, though, woken him up. He should look up a few more of his mates from the days before his knees got too creaky to play rugby and his bank balance got too low to go drinking every weekend. He still hadn’t heard back from the voicemail he’d left Luc Callanach, but nothing new there. Getting him to return calls had been an uphill struggle since the day they’d met.

  Closing the garage door, he clocked the fact that there were two men sitting inside the vehicle. A window was open issuing smoke and a radio was emitting sounds best reserved for personal headphones. Lance was making a mental note of the licence plate – you could never be too careful, there were plenty of burglaries in the area – when the driver’s door opened suddenly.

  ‘Are you Mr Proudfoot?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Why would you be looking for him?’ Lance replied. The man asking the questions wasn’t all that physically imposing but he had a face that suggested an uncanny ability to find trouble and maximise its outcome.

  The second door opened. The man who climbed out of that one was a giant. That was Lance’s first thought. The second was that they had his address. They didn’t just happen to be sitting outside the correct row of garages by chance. And if they had his address, it was just a short walk to his front door and to his son who was sitting, oblivious, probably playing a computer game inside.

  ‘That’s a nice motorbike,’ the man mountain said. It was a Glasgow accent, no question. ‘Taken any fun trips on it lately?’

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ Lance said.

  ‘What sort of trouble were you anticipating?’ the driver asked.

  Lance tightened his fist around his keys, keeping one key poking out between his fingers ready to strike a blow that might give him enough time to run away screaming for help. He was tough and he wasn’t anybody’s fool, but this was a quiet back-alley. The line of garages covered the view to one side, walls at the rear of the apartment blocks to the left and right provided cover from overlooking windows. Unless someone else drove in right now, no one would ever know what had happened to him. He was prepared to fight, but he was no match for two men at once. Perhaps in his twenties he had been, at a stretch in his thirties. At this age, these lads would just laugh at him.

  ‘The problem with you holding your keys like that is that it makes me nervous,’ the big one said, walking to stand behind him whilst the driver stood in front. ‘When I’m nervous I get a bit twitchy.’

  ‘If you just tell me what you need to know, I’m sure this can be resolved easily,’ Lance said, trying to figure out which pocket of his motorcycle jacket he’d zipped his mobile into.

  ‘Oh, okay, that’s fine then. What we want to know is why you were nosing around the back of The Maz taking photos. What our boss wants to know is what type of food you like?’

  Knuckles and Perry, Lance thought. I am most royally fucked.

  ‘What type of food I like? Why would your boss care about that?’ Lance asked, wondering how fast he could run with his adrenalin boosting him, and whether or not his heart would pack in before they caught up.

  The cosh connected with the back of Lance’s head before he had time to finish the risk assessment. ‘Because you’re coming for dinner at ours,’ Knuckles laughed, tucking the stick under his arm as he and Perry took a leg each and dragged Lance the few metres to the back seat of their car and the waiting roll of gaffer tape.

  Chapter Fifty

  Randall fixed a smile on his face and began to ascend the domestic mountain before him. He reminded himself to grip the handrail, and how his leg muscles needed to relax then tense to mount each step. He nodded at the photograph of his mother and father that watched his progress from the adjacent wall.

  ‘Goodnight, Mum. Goodnight, Dad,’ he said quietly as he passed them.

  From the lounge below came the clinking of cups and saucers, the tinkle of tea spoons making their progress around the cups. It was strange. He’d never been so aware of sound before. Or of the knife-edge shadows the lights cast just below the rim of each stair. The scent of furniture polish drifted from the bannister as he ran his hand along it, courtesy of his sister who had embraced cleaning to scour the grief from her
skin. He drank it all in. It tasted of loss.

  In the time it took him to arrive at the top of the stairs he had been able to conjure Christian’s face in his mind, his real face, not the flat, loveless monstrosity the police had recreated. Why they had him wearing glasses in the sketch was curious, unless he needed them for reading. That might explain why Randall had never seen him wearing them. And the police had missed the inch long, pale scar to the left of his mouth, so faint he could understand why they’d failed to see it. The scar had made him more human, less difficult for Randall to like. It had made the blonde hair and strong jaw easier to take. Christian’s eyes were deeper set than the sketch portrayed. How had his mother’s employees spent so much time with him and seen so little, when Randall had been deprived of those hours, having the most cursory glimpse into Christian’s world and yet had noticed so much.

  His mother’s bathroom was pristine. The drawers through which he had rummaged had been carefully rearranged. Fresh flowers adorned a vase. Taps shone as if no fingerprints had ever marred their surfaces. His sister needed counselling, Randall thought, for when she ran out of things to clean and simply had to sit and mourn.

  The mirror called; there was only so long you could stand in a bathroom without looking at yourself. Randall had lost weight. His cheekbones were a cruel slash across his face. His hair had grown longer, and it suited him. Perhaps that was what Nikki from The Fret might have found attractive. The version of Randall that was more wild, more edgy. Oddly enough, he thought, it was a version that better resembled Christian. How long had he known him? A few months, he guessed. Longer than the time his friend had allegedly – that was silly, why lie to himself now? – longer than his friend had been volunteering at his mother’s charity.

  Therein lay the problem. Randall could ride the magic carpet of medication and float above the almost certain knowledge that Christian had been involved in his mother’s death. He could wipe away the tears he’d shed when his friend had stopped returning his calls after the hospital admission. But he couldn’t ignore the facts. Randall opened a drawer and let his fingers drift across the vanity detritus within. Christian had found him, befriended him. Christian had even listened to him moaning about his home, life, about the restrictions his mother had imposed on him.

  Randall found what he’d been looking for. He undid his trousers, let them fall to his ankles and sat down on the toilet seat, making himself properly comfortable.

  Christian had bromanced him, that’s how social media would report it. He had made Randall feel understood, buddied up, cool, been exactly what Randall had needed just when he’d needed it most. He laughed. There was a song in there somewhere, from a generation ago.

  The pain that medication had not dulled – that no amount of pills would ever be able to diminish – was that Randall had felt the truth from the second he had seen Christian’s face on the police woman’s lap. Randall had all but sent Christian to his mother. His weakness and neediness, those things he had so ridiculously thought Christian had somehow been sent to assuage, were what Christian had been looking for. In pouring out his heart, Randall might as well have poisoned his mother himself.

  There were different types of pain. He hadn’t appreciated that before, but now he could write a paper on the subject. There was the pain of loss. There was shocked pain, where every word was a physical blow. There was the slow, dull ache of reality as it leaked inside every time you made the mistake of waking up, followed by that mewling baby, self-pity. Then there was a gulf. Randall thought he’d fallen into it once, but even that had been a false sense of security. He was finally at the bottom and it wasn’t as dark as he’d hoped. Sadly, he could still see the faces of his mother and father staring down at him from the top, disappointed half-smiles on their faces. He might have been stupid before but now he was gifted with the most outstanding clarity. This feeling, this self-loathing, would never leave him. Not for one single second. And still it played second fiddle to his guilt.

  He took the razor blade in his hand. His sister had hidden them well, but not that well.

  The worst of it all, the bullet wound in his soul, was that Randall still missed Christian. Where there should have been hatred, vitriol, rage, there was only the sad knowledge that his friend would never sit with him again, never slap him on the back. The low, vile creature he was still craved Christian’s attention. He did not deserve one single additional breath.

  Randall looked downwards, careful to ensure that his inner thigh was positioned fully over the toilet bowl. It hardly seemed fair on his obsessed sister to leave mess where she had created order. With the blade between his fingers, he slashed hard and deep across the inside of his thigh, careful to ensure that he worked his way through both skin and muscle to expose the artery. This, surprisingly, was not painful at all. The life flowed from him without drama. No one could label it a cry for help. No one would worry about his future care. Christian could mourn his loss, or not. It didn’t matter now. Randall had been told it would only take a minute or so if he did it right. That was the ridiculous benefit of being committed with other similarly-minded teenagers. There was plenty of good advice on hand for those with tough enough constitutions.

  Randall hoped his sister would be able to forgive him. He had failed at existing as his family had wanted him to. He had failed at protecting the mother he had not known was the centre of his world until he was without her. He had even failed at making a friend.

  The sob that had been threatening to leave his mouth became a croak. Randall closed his eyes and recalled the last time his mother had hugged him. She had kissed his temple and put her love into clean, clear, beautiful words.

  The water beneath him bloomed red. He collapsed.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Ava was on her feet first, as if she’d been expecting it, only that was hindsight speaking. She sprinted up the stairs, hammering her shoulder into the locked bathroom door. Down in the lounge a woman was shrieking. They had all known, the second they’d heard the thud of Randall’s collapsing body. There was no mistaking some sounds, even if you’d never heard them before and never would again.

  She kicked the lock, splintering wood and sending a shard of pain from foot to knee. The sensation dulled when she saw Randall. There were few recently dead bodies she would not have attempted to revive, but Randall had emptied himself of life by a method that was utterly irrevocable. The toilet bowl spoke a story she wished she had never served in the police long enough to see. He had been strong and brave, holding himself in place until almost all was spilled. There was a puddle on the tiled floor, but new grouting would fix that. All in all, there was remarkably little to see for a scene shot through with so much horror.

  She raised a hand to Tripp who was sprinting upwards towards her.

  ‘Keep everyone downstairs,’ she said. ‘Call Ailsa.’

  ‘No ambulance?’ Tripp tried, the desperation clear in his voice.

  ‘Too late,’ Ava said, kneeling down and checking hopelessly for a pulse, for something to do. ‘Christian Cadogan, you fucking bastard,’ Ava muttered to herself.

  Tripp was silent for the journey back to the station. Ava kept herself busy listening to the radio, but the noise in her head was louder. Randall Muir’s death was their fault. The psychiatrist may have declared Randall fit to be questioned, but Ava had known better when she’d seen his blank eyes. In her need to achieve a resolution, she had caused another death. A seventeen-year-old boy had been pushed too far. That’s what the inevitable investigation would conclude. And rightly bloody so.

  ‘That was nothing to do with you, Tripp,’ she said, pulling up to park.

  ‘Ma’am, you can’t take responsibility,’ Tripp said.

  ‘That’s exactly what I have to do, Detective Constable,’ Ava said. ‘I need you to type up the notes of our meeting with Randall. Then I need you to make a statement because there’s going to be an enquiry into how I handled it. You are not to soft-soap, minimise or deflect.
Do you understand me?’

  ‘Ma’am, I …’ Tripp tried again.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Ava said, climbing out of the car and walking away.

  Ava made it to her office before fury took her. The mug a college mate had bought her years ago proclaiming her to be the world’s best friend flew to a corner of the room, raining pottery shards across the floor, stagnating coffee showering her desk with droplets. The chair on which visitors sat became a weapon, destroying the already dying yucca plant, fracturing its pot, and leaving a jumble of debris in its wake. The photo of Ava taken the day she had been promoted to Detective Chief Inspector proved the ideal place for her fist to vent its wrath. Callanach approached from behind, kicking the door closed as he strode across to grab her, wrapping his arms around hers, lifting her feet off the ground as she fought him.

  ‘Ava,’ he said softly. ‘Ava, Tripp told me. Let me help.’

  He lowered her to the floor, sitting with her, holding her tight against his chest until the shaking subsided.

  ‘Nothing you say will make any difference,’ Ava said. ‘That boy bled out above my head while I drank tea and made small talk about biscuits. If I’d been vigilant, I’d have known he wasn’t in a fit state. Randall Muir would still be alive now.’

  ‘You’re trying to solve two murders,’ Callanach said, ‘and prevent another, maybe more than one, from taking place. You know enough about killers with this profile to know Christian won’t stop until he’s caught. What were you supposed to do? Wait a week, even just a day, to ask Randall Muir what he knew? You’d have been swapping one dead body for another.’

  Ava pulled away from him. ‘I’m not up to this, Luc. I don’t want to do it anymore. It’s too hard. Now I know why Begbie always looked so exhausted, why he ate too much crap and hid a bottle of whisky in his desk. When the pressure’s on it’s like quicksand. I thought I could make a difference, but all I’ve done since I was promoted is lose the people I’m supposed to protect.’