Perfect Remains

by Helen Fields

  ‘Are you all right?’ Callanach asked automatically.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ she said in a small voice. ‘How did you know her?’

  It was a question he had no idea how to answer. The truth seemed too repugnant. ‘Friend of a friend,’ was what he opted for. ‘And you?’

  She smoothed the baby’s few hairs against the ruffling wind. ‘This is Victoria. She’ll be six months old on Saturday. She’s Jayne’s baby.’ The woman kissed the child’s plump cheek and wrapped her arms around the bundle as Callanach stared. That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. The girl carried on before he could say anything. ‘That’s how my husband and I think of her anyway. We tried for years to have children but couldn’t get funding for IVF treatment. There was no way we could afford it ourselves. We used to attend Jayne’s church before she moved to St Mary’s. When I told her about it, she offered to pay. We said no at first, but with each year the pain of wanting children became less bearable. Eventually I went back and asked if she would help.’

  ‘She could never have afforded it on her salary,’ Callanach spoke his thoughts aloud.

  ‘The money came from a trust fund. Her father was something to do with the stock market. She said she couldn’t bear to spend the money on herself but that helping us have children was the best possible use for it.’ She tried to smile at her baby but the expression couldn’t hide her devastation. ‘Who could kill someone like that? It’s senseless. And you know what? She would tell us to forgive him. Well, I can’t. I’ve prayed to put my hatred aside but it’s never going to happen.’ The baby began to wail, perhaps sensing her mother’s distress. ‘And the police seem to have done nothing,’ the woman continued. ‘How many more women have to die before the authorities make this a priority?’

  He felt like an impostor, unable to comment, wanting to defend himself, knowing it was impossibly late to disclose his real purpose there.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, stepping away, feeling the woman watching him even as she comforted her baby and dried her own tears, perhaps seeing more in his face than he’d wanted to give away.

  Callanach took a last glance at the tide of grief and gratitude, then walked from the warehouse to where the trolley had been ditched. It was a short stroll in a quiet area. There was no discernible link between the chosen methods of disposing of the bodies, nor the locations in which they had been left. Buxton and Magee had no relationship that his team had been able to identify, yet here they were. Two individuals who had drawn the same man – both hard-working, well-respected, dedicated to their own profession. Elaine Buxton had a close relationship with her mother, although the revelation that Jayne Magee came from a seriously moneyed background was news to Callanach. Each was an achiever. They were women to admire. And the Reverend Magee had left quite the legacy. Under any other circumstances Callanach might have thought the woman’s language – calling her child ‘Jayne’s baby’ – overblown rhetoric. But shocked grief brought out peaks and troughs of human emotion that tinged every memory with poignancy. Magee’s good deeds might have gone unnoticed by the general public had her life followed a more normal course, but now there was scrutiny that would cast her in a near saintly light.

  Callanach looked around, the breeze whipping in from the sea, bitter spray leaving its salty residue on his face. It was a starkly dull place. No one lingered longer than necessary. Only the hardiest would walk the walls for pleasure. And yet the murderer must have visited the harbour several times to have chosen the warehouse, to have decided where to park his car, where best to tip the trolley into the water. The man who had killed two women at the peak of their careers, in the prime of their lives, had stood here, gazed out over the same water, dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s. Callanach watched the waves. What multitude of sins had the water washed from that same spot since Edinburgh had become a thriving international city? He stared down at the mud that had captured what scant evidence of Jayne Magee’s death he had to work with. Along the shore line were other tidal trophies – a deck chair, a licence plate, hub caps, the obligatory shopping trolleys, metal skeletons of umbrellas taken by the unforgiving Scottish wind, even a pram.

  ‘He must have looked down here more than once,’ Callanach said to the sea below, ‘and at some point, during some visit, the tide would have been low.’ The waves didn’t answer, but they did deposit another object, a dented old lobster pot that might have been adrift for years. ‘How could such a scrupulous murderer have missed the fact that the evidence he was trying to dump might well wash straight back up?’ Callanach wondered. A gull landed next to him and squawked loudly enough to make him start. If he’d been given to flights of fancy, and he wasn’t, Callanach would have thought the bird was telling him how stupid he’d been. Callanach got out his phone and called DC Salter.

  He went home, remembered there was no food in his fridge, considered getting a takeaway and contemplated eating it alone in front of the television, before sending a text. An hour later Ava Turner walked into the Jamaican restaurant he’d found ten minutes’ walk from his apartment. They’d agreed no work talk for the evening. She looked tired, worn down, which was how he felt. Her hair was loose, brown curls tumbling at the sides of her face. Pale with no trace of makeup, Ava Turner was the sort of woman who didn’t care about impressing anyone. It was a relief to be with someone so lacking in pretence. Callanach had already ordered her a gin and tonic, handing it to her before she sat down. Half of it was gone by the time she slipped off her coat. Ava asked him to order for them both. Twenty minutes later they were tucking into jerk chicken with rice and peas.

  ‘This may be the best food I’ve ever eaten,’ Ava said through a full mouth. She swallowed. ‘God, sorry. My manners. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. I don’t think I’ve eaten a proper meal for a week. And where are the peas?’

  ‘They’re red beans. I don’t know why they call it rice and peas. I discovered Jamaican food when I was posted there to liaise with local police about a drug lord suspected of killing numerous competitive dealers across Europe. Sometimes I dream about a shack near the beach, warm weather and this food every day.’

  ‘You’d be fifteen stone and your skin would be leathery. Also, you’d miss the constant stress and insane bastards we work with.’ Ava waved her empty glass and caught a waitress’s attention.

  ‘Are you talking about the suspects or the police officers?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Both, but we agreed no work talk. Did you catch him then, your Jamaican drug lord?’

  ‘I had to return to France shortly before local police arrested him. Of course, as soon as he was out of the picture, he would inevitably have been replaced by an equally evil man, commanding people happy to do whatever they’re told to escape the dreadful poverty they’re living in.’

  ‘Why did you have to return to France?’ Ava asked, finally throwing her fork down once her plate was clean, no trace of the piles of food that had been there.

  In Callanach’s mind, he saw his ranking Interpol agent getting out of the car that had brought him unexpectedly from the airport. The drawn expression on his face had been a warning that something was terribly wrong.

  ‘Luc, forgive me. You’re being transported directly back to Lyon,’ his boss had said. Callanach frowned as he recalled it.

  ‘I’m sorry, let’s change the subject,’ Ava said. Callanach realised he’d let his discomfort show. ‘Did you want coffee?’

  ‘Not unless you do.’ Callanach drained his glass. ‘But a walk would be good, yes?’ He handed the waitress a credit card.

  They walked in silence to the North Bridge, stopping halfway by unspoken mutual agreement to stare out across Waverley station. During the day it was an industrial eyesore. At night it became a river of light. Callanach leaned against the bridge wall and took a battered pack of Gauloises cigarettes from his pocket.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ Ava said.

  ‘I don’t light them any more,
but I can’t stand on a bridge at night without having one in my mouth. It’s the only part of the habit I can’t break.’

  ‘How very French of you,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll make coffee at mine. Even by Scotland’s standards, this wind has enough bite to do permanent damage.’ They walked back towards Albany Street with Ava pointing out a variety of landmarks and telling tales of Edinburgh’s stormy past as well as any tour guide. The city’s blackening bricks and imposing structures lent it the feel of a gothic film set. But it wasn’t the castle or the churches, or even the grand and stately buildings that intrigued Callanach. It was the side passages. Shadow-infested alleyways appeared unexpectedly in his peripheral vision, trailing off into pitch dark when he peered into them, enclosed and even ceilinged by the surrounding structures. Late at night the walkways might have been a time machine – the streets so little changed over the centuries. It was both inspiring and disconcerting. Edinburgh was a grand old onion, losing nothing of its insides, only layering newer buildings and modern architecture around its heart. For the first time as Ava chatted, Callanach thought that this might be somewhere he could grow to love. Not so different, after all, from the French towns and cities he called home.

  Callanach unlocked the outer door and let Ava in. She was in his kitchen putting on the kettle before he could remove his coat. She handed him a coffee, slipped off her shoes and folded her legs underneath her on the sofa. It was funny, Callanach thought, how women were so much sexier when they weren’t trying to be. He looked at Ava’s sensible boots on the floor, at how she’d curled into a ball, wrapped around her mug, utterly unselfconscious and at ease.

  ‘So what about you?’ he asked. ‘You’re not married, not engaged. Is there no one you share your life with?’

  ‘A couple of hundred police officers, about twelve hours a day. I’d say that was quite a lot of sharing,’ Ava joked.

  ‘No, seriously. You go to the cinema alone, you’re at work more often that you’re at home. There must be more to your life than that.’

  ‘Friends,’ she said. ‘There have been boyfriends, of course, but they didn’t understand my work. Not just the hours but the fact that your mind never stops working a case, not in the shower, not watching TV, not even when you sleep. The only realistic option was to hook up with another police officer and that would be a recipe for disaster. Dating is such hard work. To start with I was too busy to try, then I got out of practice. I usually got called away or let people down. Now I think I’ve forgotten how. Or I can’t be bothered. Not sure which. Good coffee, by the way.’

  ‘Are you never lonely?’ Callanach asked. He was on dangerous ground and he knew it. He’d kept everyone at arm’s length for so long that part of him dreaded having to let down his guard. Another part of him, though, was calling time on the endless solitude.

  ‘You sound like my aunt,’ Ava laughed. ‘Having the time to be lonely would be a luxury. Maybe I should call in sick for a few days and try it.’ She put her mug down. ‘My turn. Word is that you came highly recommended from someone several rungs up the ladder at Interpol. It isn’t easy to join a police force in another country, however impressive you are. What’s the story?’

  Callanach sighed and shrugged. ‘It’s part truth and part wishful thinking. I’m sure a conversation took place. Even I was surprised to have been accepted here. But the recommendation was as much to get rid of me quietly as to assist me. What’s the phrase? It was a win-win situation. Then again, it could have turned out much worse.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  King wasn’t bothering to restrain Elaine any more. She didn’t climb off her bed except to use the bathroom and then she dragged herself along, holding on to whatever furniture she could. He had abandoned his initial caution upon entering the room, only briefly concerned that she might suddenly find the spirit to stand behind the door and attempt an attack. He’d broken her. Entirely and comprehensively. Elaine was a puppy kicked too often, who had long since given up snapping at the foot. He hadn’t intended to damage her so dramatically, and was surprised at how easily it had happened. All the trouble he’d gone to for her and she’d ended up a whingeing, shrivelled wreck.

  The Reverend Jayne Magee was different. His judgment of her had been better. Was it her faith or genetic roulette that made her more resilient, he wondered. Perhaps there was an experiment he could do to test both theories. Not tonight, though. Tonight he was going to see how well they’d learned their Russian. He had lapsed terribly in attending to their ongoing education, but he couldn’t be too hard on himself. He felt as if he was trying to run a puppet show with both hands tied behind his back.

  Natasha had been over the moon after Detective Inspector Turner’s lecture. King couldn’t remember seeing her so animated. Her face had been flushed and she’d been delighted with the compliments her friend had received at the reception afterwards.

  He dropped a stream of vegetables into a liquidiser and added chicken stock. It wasn’t very imaginative but it would have to do for the ladies tonight. At least they wouldn’t be consuming too many calories. King was trying not to think about how he’d pushed between students to introduce himself to Ava Turner. He didn’t want to think about it because Natasha had upset him again. She seemed to have turned making him feel worthless into a fine art. If he thought about it, he’d end up taking it out on Elaine and Jayne and he didn’t want to be reduced to that.

  He put the soup in the microwave, singing loudly along with the radio, pushing the memory away, testing regularly to ensure it was no more than warm. Jayne’s gums were still sore and heat would make them worse. As it was, he was having to administer huge doses of antibiotics to prevent an infection. He was pleased with himself, though. His dentistry had been much improved compared to his work on Elaine. Not that he was blameworthy for his early maladroitness. Learning the skills dental surgeons took years to perfect, from only a book and a series of clumsy online tutorials of questionable origin, was no small order. But still, it was amazing what a small amount of practice could do. He only hoped the same could be said of their Russian that evening. He needed them to begin to exercise their intellects again. Elaine was already on borrowed time. King decanted the soup into cups with straws and went to the cellar stairs. Standing still he listened carefully, hearing nothing and pleased that the sound proofing he’d installed was working so effectively. In the main body of his house he’d never heard a single sound from the concealed area. It was as if they didn’t exist.

  ‘Well, technically they don’t,’ he said, unlocking the door. ‘Legally speaking they’re both dead. I wonder what the group noun for corpses is.’

  Elaine had moved, which he supposed was progress. Jayne was sitting up on her bed, one hand cuffed to a post so she could swivel her body round to a commode he’d thoughtfully purchased. Elaine had left her own bed to lie with her head on Jayne’s lap, the latter stroking her hair. They grew still as he took them their supper.

  King helped Elaine to the table and put the soup in front of her. She’d long since ceased resisting and began sipping the soup straight away.

  ‘I’ve put clean night clothes on your bed. Leave the old ones in the basket by the door as I’ve shown you,’ he said. ‘And you must wash more thoroughly. As I’m allowing you the freedom of the room, I expect you to use the facilities effectively. Showering once a day would seem appropriate. Or if that’s too much for you, at least use the sink to wash with a flannel.’ Elaine didn’t look up, concentrating on her supper, as mute as ever. He handed Jayne her beaker which she put down on the bedside table without touching it.

  ‘My mouth hurts,’ she said. ‘I need painkillers.’

  ‘Open,’ he said. She was right, clusters of ulcers covered her lower gums. The antibiotics weren’t strong enough.

  ‘What did you do with my teeth?’ she asked.

  ‘I put them with Grace’s body, to replace her own. The world needed proof that you were deceased.
That tiny bit of blood you made such a fuss about my taking, I sprinkled over your clothes and left them within a locatable distance of the body.’

  ‘They’ll know it wasn’t me,’ she said. ‘Forensics is more advanced than that.’

  ‘I didn’t leave enough for them to work with,’ he said. ‘Do you think I’m that sloppy? I’ve researched this for months. I know precisely when they can and cannot get DNA.’

  ‘Science progresses at unpredictable speeds. You don’t know what tests they’ll be able to do a month or a year from now.’ Jayne was feisty tonight. He rather enjoyed her when she was argumentative. It made her so much more alive, like the first time he’d seen her, engrossed in a lively public debate.

  ‘But there’ll be no reason to test your remains again. You’re dead. There’s been no funeral yet but it’s public knowledge.’ King dropped two soluble aspirin into a glass of water and gave it to her. She wanted to throw it back in his face, he could see that, but she wouldn’t. The pain was too intense for her to behave so rashly. He respected her ability to keep a cool head. ‘Let go of your past life, Jayne. You’ve hit rock bottom. Accept it. Embrace it. There’s nowhere to go but up. Life here with me could be so rewarding.’

  ‘This is no life,’ Jayne said.

  Elaine began choking. He could hear the rattle deep in her throat. The liquidiser hadn’t done its job thoroughly enough. Reluctantly he got up from Jayne’s bed and began slapping Elaine hard on the back. With one enormous wallop she brought up a chunk of grey vegetable matter that landed on King’s shoe. He grimaced and kicked it onto the carpet, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping furiously at the gleaming leather.

  ‘You hideous creature,’ he hissed at her. ‘Pull yourself together or you’ll leave me no choice but to get rid of you.’

  Elaine began to sob, her arms clasped around her body.

  ‘Ignore him, sweetheart,’ Jayne said.

  There it was again. That suggestion. That word. King’s world was awash with red.