Perfect Remains

by Helen Fields

  ‘No, I went straight to sleep. That’s what happens when I stay somewhere without a television in my room. Probably good for me,’ Salter said.

  A car beeped as it passed them and Jonty Spurr’s face could be seen momentarily.

  ‘Let’s go, Constable, we’re late,’ Callanach said.

  The pathologist was parking his car when they reached him. He got out carrying a file and a bottle.

  ‘DI Callanach, didn’t think we’d be seeing you back here. Shall we get started?’ Spurr bellowed good-naturedly. They followed him into the police station where a few chairs had been dragged around a table. ‘What was it you wanted?’

  ‘The scarf,’ Callanach said. ‘What do we know about the blood on it?’

  ‘Definitely Elaine Buxton’s, no doubt about the DNA. The blood was very dry but then I’d expect that with the heat from the fire. The material only escaped because it was wedged so fast under the stone, as you know. There’s a photo.’ He took out an A4 sheet of photographic paper. On it was the image of a flowery scrap of material with frayed edges, a brownish stain marring one corner.

  ‘The blood has a pretty regular shape around the edges.’ Callanach ran a finger around the outside of the stain on the photo. ‘What does that tell us?’

  ‘That it didn’t get there as a spatter. It’s a single small pool of blood on the end of the scarf which was either dripped onto it from above or the scarf got dropped into a pool. It’s not the sort of mark you’d see if it was being worn during a shooting, for example.’

  Callanach nodded. ‘And this, round the edge of the piece of scarf. The fibres are the same colour as the rest of the material,’ Callanach noted.

  ‘It’s not burned, not at all,’ Salter said. ‘You were right.’

  ‘Right about what?’ Jonty asked, inspecting the photo more closely.

  ‘That the scrap of material, just like the baseball bat and the tooth, were arranged for us to find. If it had got caught under the stone by accident and the remainder had burned, the edges would be blackened. These edges are frayed, probably cut. That means he chose a scrap of Elaine’s scarf with her blood on it and planted it for us to find.’

  ‘Clever boy,’ Jonty Spurr said.

  ‘He is,’ Callanach agreed. ‘Too bloody clever for us, apparently.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about him,’ Spurr said. ‘Sometimes in my job I find that I look so closely at the details that the bigger picture becomes obscured. Was there anything else?’

  ‘Only the teeth,’ Callanach said.

  ‘They’re definitely Miss Buxton’s. We cross-referenced her dental records. Teeth degrade slightly in high temperatures but they don’t burn and the one near the baseball bat still had soft tissue firmly attached. DNA told us the same story.’

  ‘Could you have the forensic odontologist take another look at it? Call it desperation, but anything you can find that we weren’t looking for the first time, like scraps of food that might tell us what he fed her, chemicals on the tooth that suggest what environment she’d been kept in. Things that might have been overlooked when we were only trying to confirm the identity.’

  ‘I’ll get on to it,’ Spurr said. ‘Could you return the favour when you’re back in Edinburgh?’ He picked up a gleaming bottle of single malt whisky. ‘Give this to Detective Inspector Turner from me.’

  The label bore the name Lagavulin. It shone like dark gold honey and claimed to be sixteen years old. Callanach was tempted to open it right there.

  ‘I didn’t realise you knew Ava,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve not met her in person,’ Spurr said, ‘but I saw her speech at the televised press conference last night. All I know is she’s got some guts and I admire her for expressing her point of view. Unfortunately I’d say she’s headed for trouble with the brass. Thought the whisky might help.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘You didn’t see it?’ Jonty raised his eyebrows. ‘Your colleague has singlehandedly taken on the Roman Catholic Church. It’d be an understatement to say she didn’t pull her punches.’

  It took an hour of driving though unrelenting rain before they reached the camping ground. There was nothing permanent there, no toilet blocks or showers. It was unmanned, and only signposts warning campers not to leave litter or start fires in the National Park marked the area. Callanach and Salter began the hike without bemoaning the weather. It was a bad day for walking and they both knew it. There was no gain to be made from stating the obvious. It took them more than three hours to reach the valley across which the remains of the bothy were just visible in the far distance. Even then the pouring water splashed its own mist back, limiting visibility. Callanach checked the position against the witness statements, wondering at the dedication and single-mindedness of the murderer. He was driven, obsessive, almost as if it was the planning rather than the killings themselves that was his object.

  ‘It’s not about sex,’ he said to the vast valley between them and the bothy.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir?’ Salter asked, pausing between taking photos and making notes.

  ‘Sexual crimes usually contain high levels of impulsiveness. Even when the victim is chosen for a particular reason, often the assailant gets to a point where they lose control.’

  ‘Are you saying he doesn’t rape them?’ Salter asked.

  ‘I’m not saying that, but I’d be surprised if it was his primary motivation. It’s too long in the planning to be the usual type of rapist. Too clinical, too clean. Let’s get back to the car. We’ve still got to drive across and check the other end of the trail. We won’t get to Edinburgh until late as it is.’

  The outdoor pursuits centre looked deserted. A mobile number on a note stuck inside the glass door looked old, but it rang when Callanach stood on a rock to get a signal.

  ‘Yes?’ a voice answered. Callanach introduced himself and explained where he was. A couple of minutes later, the lock turned and a girl’s head poked out.

  Salter explained that they were investigating the fire at the bothy. The girl had the sensitivity not to say Elaine Buxton’s name but it was obvious she knew.

  ‘This is a long way away from there,’ she commented. ‘I’m not sure how I can help.’

  ‘We’re looking for a visitor who might have stood out, either because of his clothing or the way he was behaving. It would have been some time in the weeks leading up to the fire. He would have had binoculars, probably, and a camera.’

  ‘Everyone who comes here has binoculars or a camera,’ the girl said. ‘When it’s busy we have hundreds of people through each week. Sometimes there are coach parties who get dropped off then the coach picks them up at the other end of the pass.’

  ‘This man would have been on his own, middle aged, maybe not dressed as you’d expect for hiking.’ The look on the girl’s face was enough for Callanach to know that she had something to tell them. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hikers on their own,’ she said, opening a cupboard and pulling out a log book. ‘We keep a record, names and licence plates. It’s unusual for people to walk this trail alone and if anything happens to them we may not be alerted for a long time. If a car isn’t moved after forty-eight hours we check the log and give the police a name. It’s a steep enough drop in places to attract suicides.’

  Salter opened the log book and flicked through the previous few months.

  ‘There aren’t that many names,’ she told Callanach. ‘It won’t take long to check them against the licence plates.’

  ‘I hope you catch him,’ the girl said. ‘It usually feels so safe and peaceful here. It’s ruined it a little bit.’

  Salter smiled at her. For the first time since the investigation had started, Callanach saw something other than worry on his constable’s face. ‘We will,’ DC Salter said. ‘Soon.’

  In the car they set the SatNav for Edinburgh. Salter drove as Callanach phoned in the names that predated Elaine Buxton’s death, going back six months.

&nb
sp; ‘At last, some real progress. You were right about following the research rather than the bodies. You’ll be a bit more popular with DS Lively, at least, sir.’

  ‘The murderer will have used a false name,’ Callanach said. ‘It’s not going to be all that easy. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

  He switched on the radio and scrolled through until it picked up a news channel. The baby death case would be headline news, especially if the details of St Gerard Majella school had got out. He’d not even had a chance to pick up a newspaper. Callanach glanced at the bottle of single malt he was ferrying back to Ava. Her failure to answer his calls last night was a bad sign. Sure enough, the media was reporting the offences in as much detail as allowed, given that the girls were minors. He turned up the volume when the reporter mentioned the Church.

  ‘No representative from the Roman Catholic Church has been available for comment in person today,’ the news announcer informed them, ‘but a written statement has been released by the Vatican condemning remarks made by Detective Inspector Ava Turner at a press conference yesterday evening.’ There was a momentary buzzing while a tape recording cut in, then Ava’s voice came through so clearly she might have been in the car with them.

  ‘It is beyond comprehension in this day and age, that any religion should force its doctrine upon children and deny them access to proper, balanced medical advice and care by professionals not tainted with pre-existing biases. What happened to these girls, being imprisoned at their parents’ behest in a school with the sole purpose of preventing them from exercising choice about their pregnancies, amounts to torture. The Roman Catholic Church should answer for this at the highest level. We’re not living in the dark ages. What was happening at St Gerard Majella school was no more godly than the Inquisition burning women accused of witchcraft.’

  The presenter’s voice cut Ava short. ‘The police have revealed that one nun has been charged with assault and that another male is being interviewed in relation to a suspected rape. Three girls are also helping police with their enquiries.’ Callanach clicked the radio off and sighed.

  ‘DI Turner is amazing,’ Salter cooed. ‘I’d never have had the guts to say something like that to the press.’

  ‘She’s going to pay for it,’ Callanach said.

  ‘But she was right,’ Salter protested. ‘How can she be in trouble for telling the truth?’

  ‘Being right isn’t always enough,’ answered Callanach. ‘You have to maintain the appearance of having no personal views. Take me straight to the station, Salter. I need to catch up on what’s happened.’

  Salter drove like a demon and they hit no traffic. Two hours later they were at Edinburgh’s outskirts and they already had confirmation that half the names in the log book matched their registration numbers. DS Lively had texted to say he was personally overseeing the checks and would stay at the station all night to finish the job.

  Ava was behind closed doors with DCI Begbie when Callanach arrived. Not prepared to wait for an invitation to join the party, and in no mood to be silenced, Callanach stormed straight in.

  ‘Chief,’ Callanach said before the door had even swung shut. ‘You weren’t there, you didn’t see what we saw. Everything DI Turner said at the press conference was fair comment.’

  ‘Welcome back, Callanach,’ the Chief said, hands on hips, teeth clenched. ‘I don’t recall requesting your attendance at this meeting.’

  ‘It’s eleven o’clock at night,’ he replied, ‘so it doesn’t seem to be a formal meeting, especially as Ava doesn’t have a representative with her.’

  ‘Don’t quote disciplinary procedures at me, Detective Inspector. I’ve been round this particular block a few more times than you,’ Begbie shouted.

  ‘It’s all right, Luc, I can look out for myself,’ Ava said.

  ‘I’m looking out for you, too, in case you’d forgotten. I’ve got half the Roman Catholics in Scotland baying for blood. They’re saying you overstepped your mandate,’ the Chief blustered.

  ‘So sack me,’ Ava said. ‘I’ll even admit it, I was expressing my personal view. I ignored my training and my position. Can I go?’ She looked exhausted and fed up. Callanach held the bottle out to her.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a gift from Jonty Spurr, the pathologist on the Elaine Buxton case. For every person you’ve offended there will be a dozen more who are pleased you spoke out.’ Callanach forced his voice down a pitch. ‘Sir, you can’t let public pressure sway you. It was a well-executed case that will save who knows how many more girls from the same torment. DI Turner deserves a promotion, not a reprimand.’

  ‘I’ve got to do something,’ Begbie sighed, ‘or I won’t be able to protect you, Ava. It’ll end up going over my head. The letter in the Herald this morning was nothing short of a religious call to arms, raising issues about falling police standards and prejudices. I’m sorry, but I need you to accept a fourteen-day suspension during which I can conduct an official investigation and draw up a report.’

  ‘And what good will that do?’ Callanach yelled, knowing he was out of line but too enraged to stop.

  The Chief got to his feet. ‘It’ll give everyone some breathing space, let things cool down. And it means I’ll have followed procedure so that hopefully, when I find DI Turner handled the investigation in an irreproachable manner without victimising the Roman Catholic Church, the story will be about the abuse carried out at the school and not about us,’ he said, punctuating his final three words by slamming the tip of his forefinger down on the desk.

  ‘What about Ava’s professional record …’ Callanach was raising his voice.

  ‘Leave it, Luc,’ Ava said. ‘The Chief has no choice.’

  ‘The Catholic Church is kicking up to take the focus off themselves,’ Callanach continued.

  ‘So I should have seen it coming and not handed them my head on a plate. My mother always said I was my own worst enemy. Can’t believe I finally proved her right.’

  ‘And another thing,’ Begbie interrupted them. ‘The department received a package today addressed only to “The Detective Inspector”. It was a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne which I’m sure I haven’t pronounced correctly nor will I ever be able to afford. Apparently it was delivered by hand, signed in under the name Joe Smith, by someone wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. The note inside said, “What is life without pleasure?” although the sender neglected to leave their name. That little caper wasted an hour of my time having it checked out as a security risk, so whichever one of you is conducting your love life through my department, I’d be grateful if you’d tell your secret admirer where to get off.’

  ‘Same as the roses,’ Callanach muttered. ‘I said you should have reported it.’

  ‘Enough already,’ Ava whispered. ‘All right, Chief. Point taken. See you in a couple of weeks.’

  She pulled Callanach away, shutting Begbie’s door quietly and regrouping in Callanach’s office.

  ‘You should have told him,’ Callanach said once they were out of earshot.

  ‘You don’t think my life just got complicated enough already?’ she replied.

  ‘One anonymous gift might have been a joke, two is harassment. And what if they’re from the same person who sent the death threat?’

  ‘Not exactly the same modus operandi, is it, or were you sick that day at Detective School? Look, I’m tired and my day is not yet over, so could you save the lecture for a more opportune moment?’

  ‘Do you want me to drive you home?’ he asked.

  ‘Actually I need your help. I’ve been stuck here dealing with this, but Natasha phoned earlier really shaken up. She thinks someone’s been in her house. I promised I’d call round and take a look. Given that I’m suspended I can go as a friend but if any action’s required, I’m useless. Would you come?’

  ‘Only if you bring the single malt,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Natasha met them at her fron
t door looking worried. Not for herself, Callanach thought. She was bright and worldly enough to know that her best friend was facing a furore.

  ‘Come in,’ Natasha said. ‘Luc, good to see you again.’ She caught his eyes. Was Ava all right, she was silently asking. Callanach gave a small shake of his head. ‘You two didn’t need to come rushing over this evening, you know. It’s really nothing that dramatic. Let me get you both a drink.’

  ‘We’ve come prepared,’ Ava said, holding up the Lagavulin. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get here any earlier. What’s happened?’

  Natasha handed round heavy crystal tumblers. ‘Nothing that can’t be fixed with single malt,’ she joked. ‘You’ll think I’m being paranoid. Nothing’s broken and I can’t see that anything’s gone but the perfume bottles in my bathroom have been moved. A couple of my drawers weren’t quite shut and I’d swear I left them closed. I had a pile of paperwork on my desk that’s out of order. And one of my pillows is slightly indented. I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of freak but I always make my bed and I have a way of doing it.’

  ‘Was your alarm not on?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘I don’t have one,’ Natasha said. ‘It kept going off and I had to leave lectures a couple of times in the middle of the day to reset it. In the end I disconnected it. There’s no sign of a break-in. Either I’ve been burgled by a ghost or I’m going crazy.’

  There was nothing to see as far as either Callanach or Ava were concerned, but Natasha’s house was sufficiently well-ordered that it was easy to understand how she’d noticed things out of place. Callanach checked the doors and windows for signs of tampering but found none.

  ‘Could I have some ice? This is a little stronger than I was expecting,’ Callanach said, swirling the liquid around his glass.

  ‘I thought you were half Scottish,’ Natasha teased. ‘Apparently the French part of you needs to toughen up!’ She opened the ice box at the top of the fridge and stuck her hand in to retrieve an ice tray. What she pulled out was a semi frozen, red mass.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ she screamed, throwing it onto the kitchen tiles. It landed with a wet thump, fragments of red ice splattering around it. Ava knelt on the floor and poked it with a fork.