by Helen Fields
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was a clear afternoon, the sky coldly blue. Callanach felt the turmoil of rage bubbling inside and knew he had to find a way to empty his head. He raced home, grabbed bags untouched since his move to Edinburgh, checked the documents in his wallet and climbed into his car. It was an hour, less if he was lucky, to Auchterarder. Taking the Forth Road Bridge out of the city, oblivious to the scenery, Callanach chased the M90 north.
The day’s events sat heavy in his stomach like too much fatty food. As if Sister Ernestine’s grotesque delusions and Felicity’s wretched disclosures had not been enough, a hand-delivered letter had been waiting on his desk. Callanach had read it three, maybe four times, and the words echoed as he drove. The thick cream paper on which much time had been taken with immaculate penmanship, was still clutched between his palm and the steering wheel, the ink staining his hand as it dampened.
My Dear Detective Inspector,
I had only the briefest chance to meet you at my daughter’s memorial service and wanted to thank you for all the efforts you have made to find the man who stole my darling Elaine from me. She was my only living child. Her younger brother, Charlie, died when he was just days old and I never found the courage to have more. Losing him was – I had naively assumed – the worst thing I would have to survive. Life plays tricks on us though. I have a better idea now of the limitless pain with which we can be tested.
It is a shame you will never meet my girl. She was shy, surprisingly so for a lawyer, with no appetite for conflict, war or horror. To have met with such a violent death – and I pray that she left this life swiftly with little idea what was happening – is too great an injustice for me ever to come to terms with. Her friend Michael who spoke so beautifully at the church told me he was in the process of obtaining a divorce. His plan had been to move back to Scotland and find Elaine again who, in his words, had been his lifelong sweetheart, years, continents and doomed marriages notwithstanding.
So there we are. If I could change places with her I would, a million times over. I don’t know if you have children, but it is a cruel fate to love another person so much that you spend your hours wishing their gruesome death had been yours instead. I know you have tried to find him. I write only to ask that you not give up. The public’s consciousness of this nightmare will weaken, I know. But the monster who did this never will. For the sake of my baby, for the sake of the other mothers who will ache to hold their missing girls if he is not stopped, please do not give up.
I believe you are the right man to bring him to justice and I remain gratefully and hopefully yours,
Annabelle Buxton
He gritted his teeth. It would have been easier to bear if she had lashed out, complained or questioned his competence. He wished she’d used those neat, simple words to unload her grief. He was failing. There was no relief from the frustration of passing days and the dearth of progress.
Callanach flicked on the radio, tuning it until crashing music made clear thinking impossible, and stared at the greenness beyond the motorway. Hills rose to the west of him, and the traffic faded away as he turned off and followed increasingly windy lanes. A single-engine Cessna 206 flew overhead, its engine sounding bee-like several thousand feet above the road. It was precisely what Callanach had been waiting to see. The Strathallan skydiving drop-zone was operating.
The Centre’s chief instructor met him at the reception desk.
‘April Grady,’ she said, holding her hand out to him. He shook it with his right hand and held his documents out to her with his left. He knew the drill. He’d be stuck going through kit and docs check before getting anywhere near an aircraft and he didn’t want to waste any time.
‘You’ve not skydived here before?’ she asked, although it wasn’t really a question. She was sounding him out.
‘No,’ he said, ‘but my licence is current and I have British Parachute Association membership.’
He released the small red book to her that contained his passport photo, signature, medical certificate and licence information.
‘Forgive me for asking if you have any alternative identification with you. It’s just that you booked in late and I like to know who’s going up in our planes. Do you mind?’ He did. It was another delay and he was already irritated but reached into his wallet.
‘Whatever you need,’ he responded.
His passport and driving licence were at home. The only document he had on him was his police identification. April Grady checked it without comment before moving on to his log book.
‘You’ve got two hundred and forty jumps,’ she said. ‘Where did you do most of those?’
‘Mostly France. My closest drop-zone was Lyon-Corbas.’ He handed over the documents relating to his rig. Skydiving had been a passion of his for years although he didn’t jump as often as he liked. He checked his watch, knowing it would take another half hour to inspect his kit, go through flight line procedure and get manifested onto a load. Finally he was left alone to change.
He got his jumpsuit on quietly and waited for the noise inside his head to settle as it always did when he was waiting to board the plane. Skydiving was a remedy for all troubles. Once the plane left the ground nothing else mattered except getting back down alive. In many ways it was an alien experience – the only sport in which death was the inevitable result when you left the plane until you opened the parachute and took control of your descent. It went against every instinct, was completely contrary to human nature and should never have been conceived as a sport. Yet here he was, about to throw himself from a plane for the two hundred and forty-first time, paying for the privilege, knowing he’d be back on the ground again a matter of minutes later and nothing would have changed. Except that everything he was currently feeling would have been obliterated for that time, overridden by adrenaline. That was all he wanted. To feel something other than frustration and anger for a few minutes.
At the twenty-minute call Callanach went to the flight line area. More checks, endless checks, on skydiver and kit. It was all vital and Callanach had never minded before. But today was different. He was terse with the instructor, not making any friends and he knew it. Jumping with him were two other men and a woman. The men were both in their twenties, full of testosterone and machismo, loudly comparing past jumps, outdoing one another with boyish tales. The woman was slim and eye-catching in a black and white jumpsuit. He couldn’t figure out her age but she was in good shape and confident about walking over to take a seat next to him in the plane.
‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ she said smiling, making steady eye contact, leaning close so they could talk above the noise of the engine firing up. The Cessna turned onto the runway, gaining speed and making a swift take off.
‘I haven’t been here before,’ Callanach shouted, returning her gaze, his mood making him rash, letting his eyes wander obviously over her body.
‘You’re not Scottish,’ she said. He grinned at her, knowing what that smile would do, how she’d react. She laughed and blushed. ‘That was a stupid comment,’ she said. ‘Where are you from?’
‘France,’ he replied. ‘Let me get your helmet for you.’ He checked the tightness of the strap under her chin, brushing her skin with his fingertips, making her redden again. He leaned closer than was necessary, making sure their legs made contact. ‘There, now you’re ready.’ He clicked down the visor on his helmet and double-checked his straps.
The jump-master tugged his sleeve. They’d reached the correct place and altitude. The two younger men made their way to the door and tumbled together from the plane. The woman was next, giving him a shy smile as she went, leaping into the bright sky. Standing at the door, the jump-master made sure he was fit and ready to dive, did a visual check below to make sure the others were clear and gave him the go-ahead. Callanach let himself fall.
It would take about ten seconds to reach terminal velocity. He counted slowly, checking the altimeter on his wrist, keeping still on his
belly, arms out, legs wide, watching the horizon. He tried to capture the moment, yearned for the falling sensation to spike inside his body but there was only flatness. Twenty seconds gone and the earth was closer, but not looming. He tried to clear his mind but in the fields below he saw only Elaine Buxton’s face. Where there should have been nothing but the wind rushing in his ears, her mother’s words whispered until he screamed to drown them out. Thirty seconds, at three thousand feet from the ground, he reached his right arm back and pulled the chute. A brief wrenching sensation and he was floating. He waited to feel what he’d come here for. The gentle flight, the calm of solitude, the utter freedom of slowly meeting the world again without fear.
But Jayne Magee screamed inside his head. Callanach closed his eyes. She couldn’t be there. Whatever cases he’d investigated before, whatever stress he’d felt, was always banished in those airborne minutes. How could it not be working this time? He shook his head, tried to focus on the looming ground, pulled the toggles to steer into the wind, and bent his legs up ready to land.
He should have felt invincible. That was how he always felt when he landed. A little victory over death each time. The knowledge that he’d controlled both fear and physics. Today there was only a hard bump, a short run because his timing was off and the sensation that nothing in his life was going the way he wanted. Anxiety had got the better of him, invading every aspect of his life like a silent disease. He spent ten minutes packing up his chute before making his way back to the hangar. There was more than an hour to wait until he was due to jump again.
His head was a mess. Nothing was as it should have been – not in his mind and certainly not in his body. That was what was throwing him off-course. The lack of release. The constantly building pressure that he couldn’t switch off.
‘Great jump,’ a voice said. It was the woman from the plane. Callanach didn’t slow his pace, letting her hurry to catch up with him. ‘I love skydiving at the end of the day. The light here is so beautiful. We didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves inside the plane. I’m Penny.’
Callanach stopped walking for a second. He almost told her to leave him alone, knowing that was the right thing to do. He wanted to explain that he wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but didn’t. Instead, ignoring every message the rational, reasonable side of his brain was sending, he held out his hand to shake hers.
‘Luc,’ he said. ‘You’ve obviously jumped here before. I have some time to kill. Why don’t you tell me about the place?’ Her smile was answer enough. Callanach pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. They walked back making small talk and eye contact, Callanach letting the process distract him from the cacophony battering his ears from the inside.
They stripped off their jumpsuits. Beneath the skin-tight nylon, Penny was wearing shorts with a strappy t-shirt. She had a flat stomach and great legs. He didn’t hide the fact that he was staring and she didn’t seem to mind.
‘It’s a shame to be inside when it’s so beautiful out there,’ he said. ‘Let’s walk.’
They each threw on some warmer clothing and Penny led the way. The airfield was set in stunning countryside and, although chilly, the views were worth it. In every direction the landscape was a hundred different shades of green as new leaves emerged with the onset of spring, hedges lining the borders between fields, sheep dotting distant slopes. They walked for ten minutes, scaling two fences, invading land they had no right to, leaving the hangar and prying eyes behind.
Callanach took her hand as they approached a copse of trees in the middle of an uninhabited field. Her face showed no surprise. It was what she’d been waiting for, he realised, banishing the guilt at what he was about to do. Slowly, deliberately, he walked backwards until he was leaning against a tree, pulling Penny towards him. It wasn’t all that unusual to end up in a compromising position with a fellow skydiver. Plenty of people did it – the result of a heady combination of danger, fear, bliss and a massive rush – although it was fair to say that doing it in a field next to the drop-zone was a little rough and ready.
‘I’m not sure we should be doing this,’ she mumbled. ‘We’ve only just met.’ They were familiar words that years of experience had equipped him to deal with. If a woman was having real doubts, she would say she didn’t want to do it. If she wanted a little further persuasion, on the other hand, she would start with the words ‘I’m not sure’ or an alternative with the same meaning. It was a sexist view and he knew it, hating himself, testing himself, unable to stop. He had to feel something, anything, could only think of trying to feel alive again.
‘But it feels right,’ he whispered, ‘out here, after what we’ve just done?’
She didn’t answer, closing her eyes as he ran his lips down her neck to the base of her throat, sliding his other hand up under her clothing from waist to breast, making her draw a slow breath in and melt against him. It was too easy, he thought, feeling guilty, telling himself he wouldn’t be there if she hadn’t wanted it too.
He wound his fingers through her hair and tilted her face up towards his. Her pupils were spreading, her lips parted. When he kissed her, he knew she wouldn’t bother to pretend any more that she had doubts. He felt the whole weight of her body slide against his and pushed his thigh between her legs, rubbing his thumb across her nipple, waiting for the reaction that meant he could move his hand downwards. The moan and thrust that followed were consent enough. He ran his fingers down her stomach to the button at her waist, sliding his tongue into her mouth and pulling her more firmly against him. Penny didn’t protest as he undid her trousers, letting them slip down to her ankles.
Callanach tried to feel what she was feeling. He closed his eyes and pressed against her, crushing their bodies together until she moved back slightly to put her hand against his groin. That was when he froze. Penny moved her head to the side, her question more than apparent from the tiny movement. He tried to force it, fighting his own rising panic and self-loathing, easing his fingers into her knickers, touching the softness and wetness of her, telling himself he could get there too. Willing himself, cursing himself. She cried out and opened her legs more fully, letting him go where he wanted, do what he wanted. Still he felt nothing. When she fumbled for his zip he twisted his body away, wanting more time to conquer his lack of response, refusing to give in.
‘Is something wrong?’ Penny asked. ‘Am I doing something you don’t like?’
‘It’s fine,’ Callanach muttered through clenched teeth but the moment was gone and he knew it, drawing his hand from her underwear and looking away as she pulled her trousers up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Is there something else you want me to do?’
He should have reassured her. She was obviously mortified at her inability to arouse him. The fact that she wouldn’t stop apologising was making it worse. At the very least he should have been able to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but all he could hear was another woman’s voice. His body wouldn’t respond to a woman’s touch any more. Nothing stimulated him. He hadn’t been hard since his world had fallen apart twelve months earlier.
‘I’m just not in the mood,’ he told Penny. ‘And I should repack my chute more carefully. Let’s go.’ He started the walk back, keeping it brisk, staying a step ahead of her.
‘We could go for a drink after your next jump,’ she said. ‘Maybe try again?’
‘I’ve got work to do,’ Callanach snapped. Penny took the hint. At the hangar she walked quietly away, leaving Callanach relieved to be alone.
He put his jumpsuit back on, repacked his kit, checked his phone for emails and messages, grateful when the twenty-minute call came and he could go back through the procedures that meant he would soon be back on the plane. The knowledge of his body’s failure kept resurfacing in his mind like putrid gas. He couldn’t keep the thoughts down. The same checks were made again before he boarded the Cessna. The two young men who had jumped with him the first time were back. Penny did
n’t join them, whether to avoid Callanach or because she’d finished for the day, he didn’t know and didn’t care.
‘Callanach,’ the jump-master called.
Callanach looked up sharply. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘You all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ he replied.
‘I had to call your name three times. Get your head together before you jump.’
Callanach stared out of the window as the plane took off and the wind began whistling through the doorway, drowning out everything but the sounds inside his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to banish the clamouring noise, but Elaine Buxton was screaming as she burned in a stone hut in the stone-cold Cairngorms and Jayne Magee cried out as the first drops of chemical hit her skin in a barrel in a deserted warehouse. It wasn’t real. There was no evidence that either woman had suffered those fates alive, but his imagination was determined to play out the worst-case scenario.
Before he knew it, the plane was at altitude and the two younger men prepared to jump.
Callanach heard a woman screaming his name, panting, swearing at him, then finally he heard Penny’s ragged, excited breathing, gasping as he touched her, sighing disappointedly as he pulled away, limp and useless.
He moved to the open doorway, held on to the frame, looked down to an Earth that seemed so distant it wasn’t real. The view made the fields below appear soft and yielding, the grass a never-ending bed that would soak up his pain. Callanach jumped.
At once there was blissful silence both outside and within. The voices were stilled. The darkening blue of the sky swallowed him. He counted as he fell. One, two, three … the seconds were the passage of time, the movement of his body through space, a constant as he fell ever faster. Four, five, six … here he could control his body, make it do whatever he commanded – roll, plunge head down and back upwards again, spin left or right. Seven, eight, nine, ten … terminal velocity … rushing towards an Earth where his body would cease to be his to command, where he would be rendered impotent once more.