Perfect Remains

by Helen Fields

  At the station, Hand’s lawyer was waiting for him.

  ‘My client has confessed to the murders,’ the lawyer said as if it was the most boring case in the world. Callanach wanted to arrest him just for being so disrespectful to the two dead women. ‘He will give a full statement with details only when his conditions have been met.’ Callanach was obviously supposed to chip in at that point and ask what the conditions were. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and waited. The lawyer tutted at the pause and carried on. ‘He wants to visit the site where each woman was abducted and the warehouse where Magee’s remains were found. He wishes to be taken there today to refresh his memory or he will be unable to make a full statement.’

  ‘I wonder why that might be,’ Callanach said.

  The lawyer raised his eyebrows. ‘What are you suggesting, Detective Inspector?’

  Callanach very much wanted to answer but self-preservation kicked in.

  ‘Just that it seems to be a common feature among murderers that they have recollection problems only when it suits them. I’m sure your client’s memory will improve when he has what he wants.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Begbie said you’d be leading the visit. I shall be with my client and require your officers to keep a sufficient distance from us that we won’t be overheard.’

  The day was wasted. Not so for Rory Hand. He had a gratuitous tour of crime scenes that Callanach knew would feed his sickened mind for years to come. Hand was given all he needed to add colour and texture to his confession. There would be nothing more to link him to the crimes. Forensics were already drawing a blank. It was six o’clock before the most recent addition to the list of Scotland’s infamous murderers had had his fill, sucking out what little life remained in the atmospheres of the dead women’s homes. By the time they were done, Callanach was almost hoping Hand would be convicted of the crimes. He deserved a minimum of twenty-five years in payment for the thrill of the afternoon.

  DS Lively didn’t show his face during the crime scenes visit. Callanach wondered where he was but decided against asking. It was better that he and his sergeant remained separated. Once Hand was back in his cell, it was close to seven and dark. He was eager to get to Natasha’s house. Although he’d had uniformed officers stationed there and reporting to him every hour, Callanach had the unremitting impression that these weren’t hollow threats. They were too plain for that. Natasha had insisted upon remaining in her own home in spite of multiple warnings. Perhaps it was better to keep her there and see what happened. The best-case scenario was that they caught the stalker trying to get in. At least it would ensure her future safety.

  He grabbed his overnight bag from the boot of his car. Natasha had asked him to stay before he’d suggested it, not that he’d have given her any choice in the matter. As backup, there would be a uniformed officer to the rear of the house and the fire service had been alerted, too. Nothing would be visible from the front of the property.

  Callanach breathed in roasted garlic and beef, and for a second he forgot why he was there.

  ‘Hello, darling, good day at the office?’ Natasha joked, taking the coat from his hand and replacing it with a glass of merlot. She was more collected than he’d expected, wearing a crisply ironed white shirt and black jeans, an apron over the top.

  ‘I can’t drink, Natasha, I’m on duty,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘You can have one, make it last all evening if you like. Dinner’s in half an hour. Why don’t you put your bag in the guest room?’

  He did so. On his way back downstairs he checked the windows were locked, closed the curtains, looked in each cupboard and under every bed, then rang Ava.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘At home, like a good girl,’ she said. ‘Is Natasha all right?’

  ‘She’s cooking. Nothing to report here. I wanted to make sure you were being sensible, only if you get involved the Chief will have to do more than just suspend you for a fortnight.’

  ‘I know that and I also trust you’ve got it in hand,’ Ava responded breezily.

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ Callanach replied, wondering why she wasn’t pushing harder for the security details and demanding hourly reports by phone. Somehow he’d expected Ava to find it harder to separate herself from the action.

  ‘I don’t intend to. I’m watching The Magnificent Seven, eating a takeaway chow mein and drinking ice-cold beer. As tempting as it is to race over and watch the clock with you all night, I’d rather have some alone time with Yul Brynner, Charles Bronson and Steve McQueen, who in my humble opinion may be the best-looking man who ever lived. Have a pleasant evening,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe the Chief should extend that suspension anyway,’ was all Callanach could come back with as she ended the call. The truth was that he wished she was there with them. He dismissed the thought. Ava Turner was a colleague and unimpressed by him at the best of times.

  In the lounge, he picked up the remote control and flicked through channels until Yul Brynner could be seen biting the end off a cigar with McQueen brandishing a shotgun next to him on top of a funeral coach.

  ‘He’s not that good-looking,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Natasha asked as she entered the room.

  ‘Just having a long-distance disagreement with Ava. Dinner ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she gave a mock curtsy. ‘Hope you’re hungry.’

  The food was good. It reminded him of France. If they hadn’t been waiting for a dangerous criminal to break down the door, it would have been almost perfect.

  ‘Talk to me,’ Natasha said as she rinsed plates before loading up the dishwasher.

  ‘About what?’ he asked.

  ‘Ava told me about the girl who accused you of raping her.’ Callanach took a breath, trying to get a handle on how he felt about having his private life discussed. He was surprised to discover that rather than annoyance, he felt a sense of belonging and acceptance. Whatever Ava’s motivation for sharing had been, it certainly wasn’t malicious. ‘I know you didn’t do it,’ Natasha continued. ‘I just don’t see how that can happen. Surely there has to be evidence for the police to charge a man with sexual assault?’ She flicked the kettle on and got out a cafetière. Callanach waited for her to ask if he minded talking about it, but she didn’t. It was her way, that straightforwardness. From anyone else it might have seemed intrusive. From her it was genuine curiosity. Callanach could see why Ava liked her so much. Natasha Forge obeyed no one’s rules but her own. No doubt that had helped draw her stalker’s attention. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked.

  ‘Neither, thank you. Ava explained about my evening with Astrid?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But not what happened after you were arrested.’ She passed Callanach a mug and sat down opposite him at the kitchen table.

  ‘There was evidence, enough to charge me, anyway. She’d apparently seen a doctor the day after our evening out, although she didn’t report it to the police for some days after that. I think she was waiting to see if I would call her. When I didn’t, she had already laid the groundwork for the allegation. I’d pushed her to get away at her front door. She’d landed hard and the medical report noted bruising to her buttocks. Astrid had told the doctor that the bruising was caused when I’d forced her to the floor and climbed on top of her.’

  Callanach frowned. It wasn’t an easy thing to recall. The memory of how sick he’d felt when presented with the evidence was even worse than the moment he’d been arrested. At the start, he’d been so sure he’d simply explain the course of events and walk away. The reality was very different. The local prosecutor was investigating without any input from Interpol, so there could be no suggestion the complaint had been handled with anything other than absolute independence and fairness. They had a medical report, forensic analysis, photographs and statements ready on his return from Jamaica and took him through it piece by piece. His vision had blurred, he’d wanted to
vomit, it had been hard to talk. He knew he must have looked guilty but he couldn’t speak up to defend himself. That moment, when he’d realised he hadn’t simply been accused of a crime, he’d been set up with a skill and determination that left him entirely at the court’s mercy, was the single worst feeling he’d experienced in his life.

  When his father died, Callanach had been devastated but wrapped up in the love of his family. When he’d been arrested for drunk driving, he’d thought his life was ruined, but knew in his heart that he had it within himself to turn things around. But a rape charge? No one could protect him from it. No one could bail him out. He’d been powerless, and flat denial was his only option. The defence that he’d been the subject of a woman’s obsession sounded like so much bullshit he was afraid to make the case. He’d answered no questions at all during that first interview. Later he realised he’d been in shock, trying to process the wreckage of his life. By the time he was interviewed again, it could only have looked like he’d had time to rustle up a story that would explain away the evidence. He’d been paralysed and it had done nothing but seal his fate.

  ‘Surely the bruising to her buttocks wasn’t enough. That could have happened any number of ways,’ Natasha interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘That wasn’t all. She’d snapped a nail scratching my neck, had asked the doctor to photograph and keep it. My blood was underneath it. Astrid claimed she inflicted the wound on me when acting in self-defence. Her neighbour had seen me wiping the blood away and swearing at her as I left, and had caught a glimpse of her naked and crying.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Natasha whispered.

  ‘Yes, oh shit,’ Callanach echoed. ‘And I’d lied to my friend, Jean-Paul, said the scratch had happened during an accident at the gym. I’d tried to be a gentleman and keep quiet. It turns out that was a bad idea.’

  ‘What about more intimate evidence?’ Natasha asked quietly. ‘What you’ve listed is enough for assault but …’

  ‘That part I can only guess,’ he said. ‘The doctor, and I had no reason to think he falsified his report, said Astrid had bruising and scratching both outside and inside her vagina. She claimed I had used a condom and taken it with me which was why there was no semen. The injuries were more than enough for them to charge me. The only logical conclusion was that she’d been raped.’

  ‘She did it herself,’ Natasha breathed out hard. ‘Holy fuck. You must have wanted to kill her.’

  ‘I believe Astrid used her own nails or an implement and created those injuries after I’d left. And yes, I wanted to kill her and myself, a few times.’

  The photographs of the external scratches were as clear in his mind as when he’d first seen them. The skin between Astrid’s legs was a mesh of angry red lacerations as if someone had torn at her. If she’d done it herself, she must have been crazed. The image was like a sickness in his mind. The police had left that detail until last and he’d known then that he was hung. Claiming that a woman who held down a responsible job at Interpol was unbalanced enough to self-harm for revenge was not going to help.

  ‘She’d ripped her underwear and her dress, phoned a friend sobbing and incoherent. Even now it sounds like I’m guilty, doesn’t it? The detail was incredible. A few times, even I wondered if I had done what she’d said and simply blocked it out.’

  There was silence. Natasha had tears in her eyes and he was grateful for them. They made him feel less of a monster.

  ‘No one who knew you could possibly have believed her,’ Natasha said.

  ‘That’s the thing about rapists,’ Callanach said. ‘They can be charming, sociable, well integrated, boring, quiet or shy. There’s no type. Astrid said I made a pass at her but as it was our first date she’d refused me. She claimed that I’d become enraged and, I quote, “He told me that no woman had ever refused him, that he always got what he wanted, that I should have been flattered he wanted me,” and I guess there were people around who were happy to believe it. Jean-Paul and my other friends abandoned me and I don’t blame them. Guilt by association is real. Only my boss at Interpol stood by me. Even my mother …’ Callanach still couldn’t talk about that final, devastating blow. He opted for the most impersonal, understated summary he could give. ‘It was a lonely time. When Astrid finally changed her mind about giving evidence against me, it was too late to undo the damage. She pursued me for a while. Eventually I took out an injunction to prevent her from contacting me. She didn’t even turn up to court for that. I think she thought it was all just part of the game. My superiors at Interpol never prejudged the outcome of the trial, and I think they were genuinely pleased when I was acquitted, but there’s only so far you can go to repair a career following such a serious allegation. So they helped pave the way for my move to Police Scotland. It avoided the struggle of trying to reintegrate me into my former Interpol department. Leaving France felt like my only option. You never really walk away, though. It’s as if you’re left stained. And everyone can see it.’

  ‘Ava said when you told her about it she knew perfectly well you weren’t capable of such an atrocity.’

  ‘Ava is kinder than most people,’ Callanach said.

  ‘She’s more perceptive than anyone I’ve ever met,’ Natasha said. ‘And enough of that’s rubbed off on me to see you care about her.’

  ‘I have a huge amount of respect for her. She’s unafraid, principled and not interested in promotion politics. There aren’t many police officers like that around.’

  ‘It’s more than that, but you can play the work card if you like. Just don’t let what happened to you ruin your chance of a relationship.’

  ‘Natasha, my relationship with Ava is entirely professional. And you know she’d be incensed if she heard you talking like that.’

  ‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ she said.

  ‘There must be a thousand men who would happily lose a body part to go out with Ava. She deserves better than me,’ Callanach said.

  ‘She certainly deserves better than someone lugging that boulder of self-pity around with them. You may have been through a hard time, but you’re going to have to get over it sooner or later.’ Natasha stared at him, unabashed by his outraged expression.

  ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about. Just because I’m no longer facing a trial doesn’t mean I’m not still …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘You’re not still what?’ Natasha asked gently. Callanach breathed heavily, the edge of his temper only half a step away. ‘Luc? There’s very little in life that can’t be fixed.’

  ‘I can’t, all right?’ he shouted. ‘No matter how many weeks and months pass, whatever else I concentrate on, I can’t be bloody well fixed.’

  There were three loud blows to the kitchen door. Natasha jumped and screamed as the glass cafetière fell from her hands and smashed on the tiles. Callanach leapt to his feet and the uniformed officer ran into the kitchen.

  ‘It’s all right, sir, that’s just my replacement. I’m off shift. We agreed he’d come to the back door.’ He radioed through and the man outside confirmed his rank, name and that it was he who had knocked on the door. Callanach let him in as Natasha cleared up the shards of glass.

  ‘You should probably get some rest,’ Callanach told Natasha once the replacement officer had settled in.

  ‘We were talking,’ Natasha said.

  ‘We’d finished talking and I’d started shouting, which is not how I want to end the evening. My head needs to be clear for the night. I’m going to stay down here a while,’ Callanach decided. ‘Call if you need me.’

  ‘Luc, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Natasha put her arms up for a conciliatory hug. Callanach stepped away.

  ‘You didn’t,’ he said, busying himself with checking the settings on his phone. ‘It was my own fault. Forget it, okay? Sleep well.’

  They said subdued goodnights and Callanach settled on the sofa. He mulled over what Natasha had said about Ava, tried to dismiss it then considered it some more. Even if he’d been
capable of having a relationship, Ava was off limits. He shrugged the thought away and performed an unnecessary additional round of checks on the windows and doors. It was quiet. Eventually the sofa’s comfort was too powerful to resist and sleep took him.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  King was slumped low in the four-wheel drive he’d paid to use for the night. The weasel had charged him double for the late request but the vehicle was worth the money. The rear windows were darkened, the back seats would lie completely flat and the number plates related to a similar make and model of car long since written off.

  A ritual had evolved in preparation for this acquisition that he’d been unaware of with Elaine and Jayne. He’d cooked a meal during the day, preparing it exactingly. Pasta with paprika-baked salmon and bok choy. The pasta had been selected to give him the slow release energy he’d need to get through the evening and night. The kitchen clock had ticked steadily as he’d seasoned the fish and laid the table. The clock reassured him that time was absolute, that the floating sensation he felt with the passing minutes was an illusion. The routine stabilised the world around him. King’s car, the one he drove to work and to the supermarket, was parked in front of his house on the road. His replacement vehicle, the one in which he would make only four journeys and never touch again, was in his garage. He’d caught a bus to the weasel’s yard. Public transport was anonymous. He disliked the inescapable proximity to people who stared, coughed, sneezed and played tinny music through headphones – the scratchy sound set his teeth on edge – but it was a necessary discomfort. He always left the bus two stops away from the weasel’s. So careful was he that he called into a nearby bakery on each occasion and bought fresh croissants, providing an excuse for the journey. Planning, detail. It was all in the detail.