Perfect Remains

by Helen Fields

  In the office, the girl giving her statement was none the wiser as to the relevance of the letters scattered across her desk. An officer photographed them, then went off to take pictures of the door where they’d been stuck. Callanach retrieved the envelope from a bin, placing it and each letter carefully in an evidence bag and labelling it.

  DS Salter was out locating two of Natasha’s ex-girlfriends who might still have keys. Natasha, watched over by a uniformed officer, was at home compiling a list of anyone who might hold a grudge against her. A forensic team was working its way around her house checking for fingerprints, but it was a reach.

  Callanach approached the officer coordinating the University crime scene. ‘Speak to each staff member individually, see if anyone saw anything suspicious, anyone they didn’t recognise in the building, and establish a time frame. I’d like to know when the envelope appeared on Professor Forge’s door.’

  The incident room was buzzing when he got back to the station.

  ‘What’s going on, Salter?’ he shouted through a mass of bodies.

  ‘One of the three Buxton/Magee suspects has been released. He was on a probation assessment during the relevant period and his alibi checked out immediately. Of the other two, one isn’t talking and has lawyered up, the third has apparently made some admissions. Professor Harris is observing while DS Lively conducts the interview.’

  ‘Get Harris out of there, this second,’ Callanach said.

  ‘But the Chief said …’

  ‘I don’t want to know. Just do it. And get me the file on the suspect who’s with them now.’

  Callanach made his way down to the interview suite, flicking through paperwork as he went, reading up on Rory Hand. At fifty-two years of age with previous convictions for rape and using threats to procure sexual activity with a person suffering a mental disorder, he wasn’t someone you’d want to share a lifeboat with. Hand had served eight years for the rape and then, after five years trouble free, or at least without getting caught, he’d served another four.

  In both cases he’d been working as a carer, the first time in someone’s house, the second time under an assumed name in a care home. Callanach glanced through the glass in the interview room door. DS Lively and Harris were packing up their notes. There was only one other body in the room. Hand was red faced, an oily sheen of sweat across his skin, breathing faster than normal but he was a big man.

  Harris was first out of the room. ‘Well, Detective Inspector, we’ve a lot more work to do but I’d say this was a major breakthrough. And the sexual motivation was as I’d suspected.’

  ‘How much did you give him?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Harris said. ‘DS Lively conducted an entirely professional interview. In my experience, offenders like these often want to be caught. The interview is their big moment. They fantasise about it. Their confession and the horror they cause by revealing the details of their crimes is the ultimate high.’

  ‘He had no lawyer with him,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Hand was cautioned and urged to get representation,’ Lively said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘I want to see the tapes.’ Callanach walked into the media control room. A technician rewound the video record of the interview and pointed at a monitor.

  The usual introductions and legal necessities completed, Callanach saw Hand twitching slightly in his chair, fingers scratching at the surface of the desk, frowning as he was asked repeatedly if he wanted legal representation. He certainly couldn’t argue that Lively hadn’t done his job properly on that score. That was when Professor Harris had dramatically pulled a bundle of A4 photos from his lap and dropped them one by one in front of Hand.

  ‘Elaine Buxton,’ Lively had said. ‘This is what was left of her.’ The photos showed the charred bones in the dust of the bothy. Pictured in another were the baseball bat and tooth. Callanach studied Hand. His body had relaxed and Callanach could have sworn that Hand’s pupils had dilated. ‘And this is Jayne Magee,’ Lively continued. More photos were placed before the suspect. ‘Did you ever meet either of them?’

  Hand rocked in his chair. His shoulders had relaxed out of their hunched position, the nerves were gone. Instead, there sat a man struggling to restrain the physical urge to reach out and touch the photographs.

  ‘See how excited he becomes at the sight of his victims. I imagine it would have been too great a risk for him to photograph them himself, so when he’s finally faced with the imagery he’s tried so hard to reconstruct in his mind, he can’t control his physical reaction.’ Harris was triumphant, bordering on smug.

  Callanach turned to the technician. ‘Rewind it a minute please,’ he said.

  The video went back to the point when the photos were first put before Hand. Callanach stared at Hand’s face as the images hit the desk. There was a slight frown as the suspect worked out what he was seeing, then Lively said the victim’s name. Hand’s eyes widened suddenly and sharply but only for a fraction of a second. His mouth formed a tiny ‘o’ and Callanach saw the intake of breath.

  ‘He was surprised,’ Callanach said. ‘Genuinely surprised.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t think he was going to get caught. I’ve never yet met a suspect who says, “I’ve been waiting for you, I figured you’d be arresting me today.” The whole point is to take them by surprise, or is that not how you did it in France, sir?’ The title on the end of Lively’s question was pure acid. The sergeant was so defensive that Callanach guessed Lively was equally worried about how easily the interview had produced results.

  ‘These deaths have been all over the news. The papers have released every detail they could uncover. This suspect will be familiar with times and dates and places. If he gets gratification from this kind of thing, and it’s fairly obvious from his state that he does, he’ll have read every tabloid and watched every second of television coverage,’ Callanach said to Lively. Harris stepped forward to insert himself into the conversation.

  ‘I understand that it’s hard to accept, but sometimes profiling gets these sorts of results. You’ll not be the first investigating officer to have their nose put out of joint, but I assure you the whole team will get the credit for this arrest.’

  ‘This is not about fucking credit. This is about you making assumptions then turning them into self-fulfilling prophecies. The man in there had no idea what he was about to be shown!’ Callanach shouted.

  ‘You’re not qualified to decide that,’ Harris came back at him.

  ‘Maybe I’m not, but this is still my investigation. Lively, get back into interview. Ask him where he held and killed the women. I want locations. Get a team there and find me some tangible, evidential link. Then we’ll talk.’

  ‘I’m about to charge him. He’s made a full confession,’ Lively said but the bullishness was dissipating.

  ‘You charge him and the investigation into other suspects is dead in the water. Is that what you want?’ Callanach asked.

  Lively was, for once, silent.

  ‘Sergeant, the Reverend Jayne Magee’s killer is sitting in that room. You and I have brought this case to a successful conclusion. Surely you’re not going to allow yourself to be swayed at this point,’ Harris said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  Lively’s hand crept towards his neck, stopping just below his collar. Underneath his shirt, Callanach suspected, was an item the sergeant shouldn’t have been wearing on duty for safety reasons. Silver, he thought, small and plain. A crucifix Lively was so attached to that he couldn’t bear to take it off, even at the risk of having it twisted around his neck in a brawl. Callanach knew then that he was fighting a losing battle.

  ‘I’m going to get the Chief’s authority to charge him. I’ve done everything by the book. The team will start gathering evidence.’ Lively’s voice was unusually quiet.

  ‘Rory Hand just confessed to two murders without being presented with any evidence against him. That means he cannot continue k
illing. Serial killers crave their next kill, don’t they, Professor Harris? It’s why they work so hard not to get caught. This makes no sense,’ Callanach said.

  ‘You’re neither a psychiatrist nor a psychologist, Inspector. The complexities of these men’s brains are never singular in terms of motivation or behaviour.’ Harris had one arm around the back of Lively’s shoulders as if to shield the sergeant from any more persuasion. Lively looked as uncomfortable as Callanach had ever seen him.

  ‘And they rarely evolve from rape in a care home, with victims who are specifically targeted for their reduced mental capacity, to kidnapping, torturing and killing high-profile women in one move,’ Callanach replied.

  ‘You can’t be sure what he’s been up to in the intervening period. It may be that he’s been progressing slowly over a number of years.’ Lively backed Harris up, but didn’t seem to be taking any pleasure from it.

  Callanach turned his back on them. Hand’s identification and arrest had been neat, quick, simple and completely contrary to everything his years of experience had taught him to expect. The Chief would be under pressure to release a statement to the press, and if he didn’t it would have leaked before the end of the day anyway. Rory Hand was undoubtedly scum. He was clearly getting off on the carnage in the photos. Callanach had not one ounce of pity for him. It beggared belief that anyone would admit to offences carrying a life sentence just for the notoriety that would come with the conviction. In addition, Hand would have to be given access to all the evidence – photographs, videos, autopsy reports, forensics, details of the women’s lives. He was sick and the world would certainly be a better place with him behind bars. What worried Callanach was the possibility that the real murderer had just been gifted more time to kill again with the hunt called off. If, as he believed, arresting Hand was a mistake then it was going to be a costly one. Callanach left a message on the Chief’s phone telling him exactly that.

  Tripp was waiting in the incident room.

  ‘What’s happening with the scrap-yard owners?’ Callanach barked.

  ‘Not getting much. Does it matter? Word’s out that a suspect has confessed.’

  ‘And I’ve just won the lottery. One of those online competitions where I didn’t buy a ticket but a nice man from Nigeria emailed to say I’m owed three million pounds.’ Callanach stood with his hands on his hips. Tripp handed him a coffee and opened a file.

  ‘The first scrap-yard owner wasn’t bothered at all, so laid back he barely answered anything but it seemed genuine. Nothing to hide but not a particular fan of the police, if you know what I mean. The second has served time in three different prisons, all petty offences, handling stolen goods, burglary of commercial premises twenty years ago and benefits fraud. He was more interesting, slightly on edge, thinking before he answered every question. I got nothing from him but I’d say there’s something he’s not telling us.’

  ‘Get some ammunition, anything he’s doing wrong even if it’s health and safety. Find an excuse to shut down his yard while we investigate. Every offence he’s committed was motivated by money so that’s how you’ll get him talking. Move fast and under the radar. There’ll be an announcement later today that will shift all our resources elsewhere.’

  Callanach was at Natasha’s house half an hour later. He was avoiding the Chief and letting every call go to voicemail. He should have expected Ava’s car to be outside. She was never going to be told what to do. He rang the bell and waited. Natasha opened with an altogether brighter face than he’d seen earlier at the station.

  ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I was just making coffee. You want some?’

  ‘Am I French?’ he asked in response.

  ‘Actually, you’re half-Scottish, so by rights I should be putting a dram in the top. I’m guessing you’re still on duty though.’

  ‘I am,’ he said, ‘and you’re not supposed to be here,’ he directed at Ava who was sitting at Natasha’s kitchen table eating a biscuit.

  ‘I’m suspended,’ Ava said through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘What better opportunity to spend time with my oldest and best friend?’

  ‘I need to go through a list with you, Natasha, to get more information. We have forensics working on the new letters and envelope but it’ll take time to process. Are there any students we should be aware of as suspects, anyone you’ve failed or a kid with a crush on the teacher?’

  ‘All right, but I think it’s ridiculous. I hope you won’t say I gave any names out.’

  ‘We’ll say we’re talking to everyone, don’t worry,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Giles Parry, second-year student, went through a stage of bringing me gifts. I had to formally write and ask him to stop. He hasn’t spoken to me since. Marcus Turnbull, I caught taking photos of me during lectures. When he followed me into the toilet I warned him about his conduct. He said he just wanted to discuss a paper, but it was creepy. And there’s a first-year student, permanently wrapped around one male or another, big opinion of herself but she stares at me, waits in corridors, looks at my legs so that I’ll notice. There’s something just not right about it. Her name’s Jaclyn Best. I’d love it if you gave me a reason to get rid of her.’

  ‘Great,’ Callanach said. ‘Now, staff and faculty. We’ll need to check each one, but any information will help. Stop me if anything strikes you. Anthony Allardice, Simon Cordwell, Clare Edgerton,’ Natasha held up a hand.

  ‘Clare was given a verbal warning last year for calling in sick then being seen at a music festival. No biggie but she was disgruntled.’

  ‘Naomi Fuller,’ Callanach continued. ‘Edgar Groves.’

  ‘He wanted my job,’ Natasha said, ‘and spread a few nasty rumours about me when I was appointed instead. He was also suspected of having an affair with a student last year and got quite antsy when I asked him about it. He hates me,’ she finished simply.

  ‘Delia Inman, Reginald King,’ Callanach went on.

  ‘Hopeless,’ Natasha said. ‘Thinks he’s God’s gift to academia but couldn’t get beyond an admin position. He’s snooty and irritating, but that’s as bad as it gets.’

  ‘Vera Lesley, Dean Oppenheim,’ Callanach went down the list.

  ‘This is being taken very seriously,’ Ava said, as he came to an end. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m all in favour, but what exactly did that last note say to pull you away from your murder investigation?’

  ‘I’m not being pulled away from anything. There’s a suspect at the station being charged with the Buxton and Magee murders as we speak,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d got him?’ Ava asked, standing up.

  ‘Because I’m not convinced we have,’ Callanach answered. ‘And as for the note, I’m here because it’s become more specific. It said TOMORROW.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Callanach chased up the three less than exemplary students the next day. He hadn’t turned on the television or radio, had refused to take part in the media madness following the announcement that Hand had been charged, and had spoken to the Chief only briefly. Rory Hand had finally requested a lawyer and the Chief wanted all available resources dedicated to documenting the previous few months of Hand’s life. Callanach had made it clear he wasn’t convinced and that was how it had been left. There was no argument, no orders were given that would prevent him pursuing his own leads, only the fact that charging Hand had been unavoidable. What followed was that pursuing other suspects would give Hand’s defence team a stick to beat the police with if Hand changed his plea. Callanach hated it when the lawyers got involved. It made decisions tactical, evidence double-edged and the most innocent of actions and words became fodder for cross-examination. He was, to all intents and purposes, acting alone.

  Natasha’s troublesome students Marcus Turnbull and Giles Parry were unlikeable but pathetic. Jaclyn Best was a piece of work with a huge opinion of herself and an impressive ability to lie but Callanach’s gut told him she wasn’t involved. The letters were the work
of someone careful and committed. The students were all about quick gratification and reactionary behaviour.

  By then it was eleven in the morning. If the threat against Natasha was real, then the sand was already falling through the hour glass. Tripp’s name appeared on his ringing mobile.

  ‘What’s the progress?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘We got the scrap yard closed down by the Health and Safety Executive. The owner’s buying time saying he needs to go through his records, but he can’t stall much longer. He’s losing money by the hour.’

  ‘And what’s happening with …’

  ‘That’s not why I called, sir,’ Tripp interrupted. ‘DCI Begbie wants you back here straight away. Rory Hand’s lawyers are making demands. There are uniformed officers with Professor Forge and the Chief says that’s all the personnel we can afford at the moment.’

  ‘I made it clear last night that I’m not prepared to have anything to do with Rory Hand. It wasn’t me who arrested him.’

  ‘The Chief said you’d say that.’ Tripp’s voice was quiet on the end of the phone.

  ‘And?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘The Chief said he didn’t give, well, I don’t need to repeat it. He just said you’re on the clock so get back to the station.’

  Callanach climbed into his car. In the rear view mirror he saw his bloodshot eyes and wondered why he was so shocked at the sight. He hadn’t slept for … he gave up calculating the hours. He’d lost count of the days. There was no choice but to return to the station. That was what jobs with hierarchies were all about. You could complain or question but ultimately you did what you were told or the whole system fell apart. If you couldn’t stomach it, you were in the wrong profession – and Callanach wasn’t. He was right where he was supposed to be, doing a job he loved. He needed to remind himself of that occasionally.