Perfect Remains

by Helen Fields

  Callanach heard it in Ava’s voice. A mistake had been made. There was no way this girl had recently given birth.

  ‘What day was this baby supposed to have been born?’ John Costello asked.

  Ava provided the details while Mary Costello clutched her daughter.

  ‘Lucy was on a school trip then at a residential outward bound centre. Before you start interrogating my child, I’d appreciate it if you’d check your facts.’

  Ava nodded at one of her team to go inside and make the necessary enquiries.

  ‘Do you mind allowing Lucy to accompany this doctor for a quick check-up? It will only take a couple of minutes, nothing invasive. Your wife can be present.’

  The expression on John Costello’s face said that he did mind very much, but his wife nodded, appeased him and Lucy was taken to the school matron’s office to be examined.

  ‘I’d better go and smooth matters over with the head teacher. I’ll have your job for this, Miss Turner.’ John Costello strode away.

  ‘There must have been an error processing the DNA. Contamination at the lab or a software issue,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Have you heard the saying, if something seems too good to be true then it usually is?’ Ava answered. ‘I should have known it wouldn’t be this simple.’

  A constable confirmed that Lucy had been away from Edinburgh the previous week. Not only that, but the girl had spent her time kayaking, rock climbing and hiking, with photos to prove it. It was no shock when the doctor verified that Lucy had not given birth days earlier. Ava went to make her apologies to the family.

  ‘Lucy, Mr and Mrs Costello, thank you for helping with our enquiries. I apologise if it’s been upsetting. Lucy’s DNA came up as a match and that’s what brought us here.’

  ‘From that drug thing, I suppose.’ John Costello frowned at his daughter, teeth gritted. It seemed to Callanach to be a harsh way to treat a girl who’d just been seen by a police doctor and who would face no end of gossip at school.

  ‘It was obviously a mistake and I can only say how sorry we are. I hope this doesn’t cause you any problems, Lucy.’ Ava climbed back into her car and Callanach followed. She managed to keep her composure until they were on the main road.

  ‘God, what a balls up!’ she shouted, thumping her steering wheel. ‘I’ve wasted time and resources, I’m going to be on the receiving end of a complaint and we’re no further forward.’

  ‘You were acting on the information given. What else were you supposed to do? Lucy fit the case – young girl, old enough to be sexually active but still vulnerable – local to Edinburgh. You just have to start again with the forensics.’

  ‘And I’ve got to give a bloody lecture this evening. I’ll be lucky if the press doesn’t invade the place with questions about my incompetence. Shit!’

  ‘Pull over,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just pull over and get out.’ Ava turned the car into a side road. Callanach opened her door and pointed her towards the passenger seat while he drove.

  ‘I’m not so upset that I can’t be trusted behind the wheel.’

  ‘You have twenty minutes before we’re back at the station. Stop wasting your energy, get on your mobile and order every test done again. That’s what they taught us at Interpol. Screw calming down when there’s a problem. Work it out while you’re still so angry that you’ll light a fire under every other person in the chain of command. Get on with it!’ She started dialling.

  By the time Callanach had parked the car, there was nothing left for Ava to do but explain the situation to the Chief.

  ‘Don’t apologise, just tell Begbie what you’ve done about it,’ Callanach advised. ‘Make sure he expects a complaint from Lucy’s father and warn him what type of man Costello is. No surprises. Then come and find me. I’ll accompany you to the lecture so you can avoid having a uniform following you around.’

  ‘Right, because you’ll really blend in.’

  ‘If you’d rather go with the uniformed option.’ He held his hands up in surrender.

  ‘No, sorry, I appreciate the offer. But I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your evening. You know the Chief won’t pay overtime,’ she laughed.

  Callanach found DC Tripp hunting through files in the incident room.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he asked his hassled-looking constable.

  ‘Missing persons files,’ Tripp said. ‘I’ve extended the search to cover all the other major cities and I’m matching genders, ages and similar persons. There’s not much to go on, to be honest.’

  ‘Nothing similar to our cases?’

  ‘Not really. A couple of women of the right age who left home unexpectedly, but not high profile like Magee or Buxton, and in both cases there was evidence they were depressed. No sign of abduction, no bodies turning up. Apart from that, a known Glasgow pimp claims a girl is missing, but she doesn’t fit the type,’ Tripp said.

  ‘All right. Get the details on those cases and compile them into one report for me. I’m leaving in an hour to accompany DI Turner to a lecture at the University. Is there any news about the threat the inspector received?’

  ‘Forensics came back blank. No prints, widely used paper and ink types, no trace evidence. Whoever sent it knew how to keep the job clean. They can’t find any unauthorised entry into the building. CCTV showed nothing.’

  The lecture hall was packed and Ava’s fears that the press would discover the day’s events proved unfounded. They were met in the foyer by Professor Natasha Forge who seemed more forbidding than the night before, until she winked as she handed him a sherry.

  ‘Is Ava all right?’ Natasha whispered. ‘She seems distracted.’

  ‘Tough day,’ Callanach replied. ‘But she’s remarkably resilient.’

  Natasha stared at him, head tilted and he knew she was appraising him. ‘Yes, but she’s not unbreakable, so be careful.’ She led Ava into the lecture theatre and they took to the stage.

  Callanach got his first glimpse of his colleague’s genius. Ava moved with ease from the history of Scotland’s legal system, to comparative international punitive frameworks and on to the morality of punishment. The lecture hall remained silent throughout. No one fidgeted, or dropped their pen or made their way out to the toilets. When she’d finished, the students got to their feet and showed their appreciation. Next to her, Natasha looked unsurprised.

  ‘That was impressive,’ Callanach whispered to Ava as she was ushered into the foyer.

  ‘Shut up,’ she replied, reddening.

  DC Tripp emerged through the crowd with a uniformed officer in tow. ‘I tried to call, but you weren’t picking up,’ he said. Callanach sighed. He’d put his phone on silent for the lecture. ‘Something’s been found at Granton Harbour. You need to come to the scene. The Chief told me to leave a constable here to accompany DI Turner.’

  ‘Is it a body?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Not exactly. To be honest with you, nobody’s sure yet.’

  Callanach went to Ava, bent his head down close to her ear to speak without being overheard, explained the situation and left. Next in line to be introduced to her was a man of average height, rather overweight, with clean shoes and a well-pressed suit. Callanach didn’t notice him at all.

  Reginald King noticed Callanach, though. He noticed the way he was even more cocksure of himself in person than he’d been on the radio. He noticed the way women didn’t flinch when Callanach went near them. He saw that Natasha’s good friend seemed very intimate with Callanach indeed. King watched Natasha. If only she’d look at him the way DI Turner had looked at the Frenchman. If only King could whisper in her ear, congratulate her on her brilliance, share a private moment in the middle of such an adoring throng. He looked at Natasha for a long time and the urge to hurt her became almost overwhelming.

  Chapter Nineteen

  There was no body because there literally was no body. When Callanach walked into the warehouse, his eyes started watering
immediately. A forensic technician handed him an anti-contamination suit, glasses and mask.

  Tripp began talking as Callanach put on his gear.

  ‘The security guard who came on shift tonight was doing his rounds and smelled something bad. By the time he’d found the source, he was worried enough to call for help and got a mate over from the harbour master’s office. The two men opened the barrel and found a red-brown liquid.’

  ‘How is it possible that the smell is so strong from just one barrel?’ Callanach asked, gratefully adjusting the mask so it fit snuggly over his mouth and nose.

  ‘They panicked. There was a tangle of human hair caught in the top of the barrel where it had been sealed. They realised there was something nasty inside, one of them tried to grab the crow bar back out, only it was stuck under the rim. Pulled the whole lot over.’

  ‘Morons. Where are they?’ Callanach wasn’t in the mood to be sympathetic, however shocked the men were at their find.

  ‘With medics. They splashed the chemicals on their clothes and both need to go to hospital. Uniforms are with them taking statements. This way, sir.’ Tripp pointed to a metal walkway over a below-ground area. On the far side, the scene was what Callanach could only call carnage.

  The liquid had spread across a huge area and technicians were trying to preserve what elements of the crime scene hadn’t been obliterated. An empty barrel was being lifted from the middle of the puddle and a photographer was capturing the details.

  ‘Can you identify the chemical?’ Callanach asked a man scooping up samples and writing labels on test-tubes.

  ‘Sodium hydroxide, most likely. Given how thoroughly it’s broken down the bones, I’d say it’s been watered down a bit. Makes the process faster and more effective. More commonly known as lye. Easy to get hold of in small quantities. You only have to provide identification if you’re buying bulk.’ Callanach watched him pick up an object with tweezers and hold it in the light for closer inspection.

  ‘What is it?’ Tripp asked.

  The technician rotated it a few times before answering. ‘There’s some damage but I’m pretty sure it’s a human tooth. We’ll refer it to the forensic odontologist to be sure.’ He bagged the tooth and took it to the police officer who was logging evidence.

  Callanach didn’t need to be told that finding the offender’s footprints was going to be impossible. The scene was a stinking, glutinous mess. He was more interested in the security guard.

  Outside, the clean-up team had arrived to neutralise the environmental threat. Callanach saw the ambulance moving off and sprinted towards it, rushing into its path and making the driver swerve.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing, but we’re on our way to the hospital …’ the paramedic began.

  ‘Just stay put until I’ve spoken to those witnesses,’ Callanach shouted, holding up his badge. ‘Open the back.’ The door swung open to reveal two men in oxygen masks and blankets.

  ‘Security guard?’ he asked. The man on the right nodded.

  ‘Is there any CCTV on site?’ The man shook his head. ‘What about daytime security? Who was on duty before you?’

  He removed his oxygen to speak. ‘No money for that, pal. They only bring us in at night to keep away the kids and druggies when it’s dark. I kept telling the company something would happen. Didn’t bloody listen.’ He began to cough and replaced his mask. Callanach stepped out of the ambulance and slammed the door.

  ‘Tripp, check every CCTV camera around the harbour area. Roads, car parks, private security systems. Find out where that barrel came from. I want a conference with the pathologist the second they’ve finished processing the scene.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tripp said, scribbling in his notebook. ‘And I thought we’d do a foot search for abandoned trolleys.’ Callanach raised his eyebrows at the young constable. ‘He can’t have used his wheelie case this time. There must have been a trolley and I couldn’t see one in the building.’

  ‘You’re assuming it’s Jayne Magee’s body. There’s no evidence of that. This could be completely unrelated.’ Callanach was testing his constable as a means of testing himself. He’d felt it too, the sense that this was what they’d been waiting for, but it was completely different to the first body.

  ‘It just seems like he’s doing it again, getting rid of the body, destroying the evidence. What are the odds?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘All right. Get a couple of men searching for trolleys. Check with workers in the neighbouring buildings, see if anyone saw someone out of place. If it is our man, I’m not sure he’ll have blended in.’

  The warehouse was typical of those used to store goods before shipping or inbound distribution. It had long since been stripped of the cranes that would have been situated outside but there were large doors for easy goods access, walkways on various levels and an office area with toilets and a staff room. Getting into the site wouldn’t have been taxing. The surrounding wire fence was easy to lift and several smashed windows offered access from which a fire door could be opened. Getting the barrel in would have been the issue. It couldn’t have been rolled for fear of spilling such dangerous cargo. But why the warehouse? The space was empty save for a few crates and long-since-retired machinery. It wasn’t a chance dumping. You’d have to know where to park, how to get in and the security detail’s hours. Callanach wished the crime scene hadn’t been so dramatically damaged. Any evidence they did recover was certain to be successfully challenged by the defence at a trial. He couldn’t shake the feeling that fate was doing everything it could to stall the investigation. The tipping of the barrel just added insult to injury. The press would be all over it. Sooner or later, a journalist would track down one of the security men and publish a tell-all, eyewitness account of the carnage on the warehouse floor. And all he could do was watch and wait. Taking a few last photos of the outside of the building, Callanach retreated to his office.

  The station should have been quiet when he got back. The work that could be done overnight was being taken care of either at the crime scene or the labs. What he hadn’t expected was to see Detective Sergeant Lively holding court in the incident room, surrounded by just about every member of the team and a few faces he didn’t recognise. When Callanach walked in, the silence was as solid as a brick wall.

  ‘Is it her?’ Lively asked. Callanach wondered if taking the official line was better than sharing his own views. He opted for middle ground.

  ‘The victim has not been identified yet, although there is evidence that it was a human body in the barrel. The laboratory will be processing the remains tonight and trying to salvage what DNA is feasible. Until the forensic investigations are complete, speculation is unwise,’ Callanach said.

  ‘They found hair the same colour as Jayne Magee’s.’ Lively’s voice was high-pitched and his fists were clenched. Callanach wanted to stop the meeting and get him somewhere they could have a private conversation.

  ‘The hair colour cannot be confirmed because of the chemical. We’re not even sure that the victim is female. There’s nothing more to do tonight. I need everyone on this first thing tomorrow so go home, get some rest and be back for a detailed briefing at eight a.m.’

  ‘In the meantime it’s another night wasted when we should’ve been finding Jayne’s murderer. I’m not sitting around waiting for something to happen. There are people who can help.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant, you need to consider that this might not be Jayne Magee before you do anything,’ Callanach cautioned.

  ‘Oh, do I?’ Lively was too loud and too close to Callanach. Everyone else in the room was holding their breath. ‘Maybe, sir, if you hadn’t done that press conference goading the fuckin’ murderer to act, Jayne Magee wouldn’t be dead now. Perhaps it’s you who should be considering your position here.’

  Callanach knew Lively was grieving but even so he was grossly out of order. In spite of his desire to vent some frustration by giving his DS the fight he wanted, losing control in front of the sq
uad wasn’t worth the hassle it would cause. He took a step away.

  ‘Lower your voice when you speak to me, Sergeant. Like I said, get some rest. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll remember what chain of command means. If you’re still struggling with that in the morning, we’ll have another conversation about it.’ Callanach went to his office without looking back. The last thing the investigation needed was for emotions to be running any higher. He followed his own advice and went home.

  The next day brought a 7 a.m. text alert to say that the pathologist would be available to see him at half past nine. Callanach was impressed. The forensics team had obviously worked through the night, although that meant the Chief would be frowning at the overtime figures again. A second text came through as he was scrambling eggs in preparation for what he assumed would be a long day with no lunch. He ignored the beeping and buttered his toast. If it was urgent he expected a phone call rather than a text. Before eight in the morning he should be able to get a peaceful meal in his own home.

  He ate, glaring intermittently at his phone, before looking at the text. The sender was DS Lively. As tempting as it was to delete before opening, the need to find out what was happening prevailed. He hit the text icon. Lively was notifying him about a meeting between DCI Begbie and what had mysteriously been called ‘other interested parties re Jayne Magee’s murder’. Callanach felt a surge of irritation that the victim had been named before it was official, then forced himself to consider DS Lively’s perspective. It wasn’t a huge leap to think that the reverend’s remains were in the barrel.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he said to the coffee cooling in front of him. ‘I don’t need this crap.’ Callanach’s first thought was that he’d begun thinking as well as speaking in English much sooner than he’d imagined. After his father’s death, his mother had insisted that they should use both languages throughout his childhood, but even so it had seemed like a huge hurdle to move away from a French-speaking country. His subconscious mind had apparently made the move more easily than his stomach. The thought that followed was how the things people said aloud were rarely lies when they didn’t realise they were talking. He reflected on how Jayne Magee’s abductor, likely turned murderer, had been overheard on the street by a cyclist. Callanach made a mental note to pull the cyclist’s statement out of the file once he got to work.