Perfect Remains

by Helen Fields

  Once he’d consumed his meal, followed by green tea in a china cup, he’d showered. He had the water hotter than he usually liked, soaping and scrubbing his skin, to minimise the transfer of physical evidence at the crime scene. What few hairs he still had, he combed obsessively for ten minutes before leaving the house, ensuring as far as he could that there were no loose hairs left to fall. The male-pattern baldness was a hand-me-down from his father, a sick joke really. His parents had regularly expressed their disappointment that he had inherited so few of his father’s traits. At least they had this one thing in common. King always wore a hat when he was out collecting a woman, but he brushed his hair anyway, better safe than sorry. On this occasion he’d been anticipating the pounding of the scorching water on his skin. He knew it would bring his blood to the surface, invigorate him, infuse him with a cocktail of relaxation and readiness. He conjured Natasha’s face in his imagination. She was crying. As he looked up into the shower stream, he saw her tears falling on his face and body. He ran one hand over his full belly and felt the softness of her skin. He longed to hear Natasha sobbing. She would sob once the night was over. She would sob and scream and curse and plead.

  He dressed in clothes that had been inspected, cleaned with a sticky roller to remove stray fibres and hung in his closet. Finally he polished his shoes. It was his finishing touch. It signified that he was ready, that everything was perfect. If his shoes were shining then his preparation was complete. He’d left food for the other women and prepared a makeshift bed until he could reduce his staying guests to only two. That might take a week but he was clear in his own mind that it was necessary. Elaine had learned nothing, contributed nothing, wouldn’t speak any more, and as for Jayne … she spent every moment he was there praying. Last night he’d washed her mouth out with soap. She’d gagged and spluttered then carried on. When he’d hit her, the lower denture he’d fitted the previous week went flying. He’d waited for her reaction. When she’d begun to pray again he’d had to leave. He’d wanted to throttle her, to squeeze the piety from her with his bare hands, but he wasn’t ready for that yet. If he chose to sacrifice her from their number, the task had to be discharged with fitting ceremony.

  Tonight was a risk. He had to believe he’d laid the groundwork with sufficient skill that it would proceed according to plan. He knew where Natasha would be, that precautions were being taken to protect her. He had an escape route if needed. Her road was free of CCTV cameras and would be quiet as a graveyard after midnight.

  ‘You can expect a new colleague to be joining you,’ he’d told Elaine and Jayne. At least that had silenced the chanting reverend. ‘Make her feel welcome and don’t scare her with unpleasant tales. You’ll find her most impressive. Help her settle in so we can begin the next phase of growth together.’ There was electricity in the air. He could feel it. This was what he’d been steering towards all along. It was as if he’d been holding a part of himself back, honing his technique on the first two. Strange how the human brain chose its moment to reveal its true purpose, he thought. His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was time.

  Dr King drove to the corner of Natasha Forge’s road, pulled up at the far end and checked his watch. It was one in the morning, dark but not raining, and the two street lamps cast an orange glow without shedding light into the shadows. Her car was where he’d expected it to be. He began to congratulate himself on his good fortune, then stopped. There was no luck, no chance. He’d formulated and schemed. This providence was entirely of his own making. It was proof of his prowess.

  Through the dark, he watched. She was her usual poised self in spite of the drama of the night, in spite of the threat. His heart was hammering in his chest. The intoxication rose like a surfacing whale, engulfing him, astounding him. His initial reaction was to quell it, but why should he? Wasn’t this all part of the experience, a reward in and of itself? He waited, settled himself, let his equilibrium rebalance at its own pace. At last, he prepared to take his prize.

  He drew the bottle of chloroform from his bag, using a dropper to withdraw the precise amount required into a clean, white handkerchief. He looked up and down the length of the road. King knew the exact distance from where he’d parked to the outside of Natasha’s home, had walked it so many times he could cite the number of footsteps. He released the catches to flatten the back seats, knowing his hands would be too full to do so later, made sure the picnic blanket, gag and cable ties were handy, and slipped noiselessly from his vehicle.

  A few steps up the road, he knocked on the window of an occupied car. ‘Detective Inspector Turner,’ King panted. ‘Thank goodness you’re here.’

  Ava Turner had parked in the darkest section of the road under a tree, in a spot neither visible from Natasha’s house nor obvious to any passing police officer. King put on his most benign smile. There would be no perceivable threat. He looked to the world like a man winding down to retirement, who had only cardigans and easily digestible food to look forward to. She jumped. If he hadn’t been watching for it, he might not have noticed how well she covered it. He stepped back to allow her to open her window without anxiety. DI Turner, so sure of her ability to look after herself and therefore so easily duped by the man in his well-ironed shirt and unfashionable tie, dropped the glass a fraction.

  ‘I was on my way to Natasha’s,’ King said. ‘She called my mobile. I recognised you from the lecture you gave …’ She was opening her door already. Her expression was mixed, partially unreadable in the shadows, but he saw flickering uncertainty replaced by concern for her friend and that made her careless. As she unlatched the door he yanked it fully open, shooting his right arm in, covering her mouth with the handkerchief. He pressed his left arm against her throat so her instinct was to gasp for air. She was obliging, gulping in a cloud of chloroform as she thrashed. She fought longer than the others, better aware of how to deal with the attack, her hands grabbing his face rather than her own throat, turning her head left and right to shake off the drug, losing the battle. More than anything else, she kicked her legs. He could hear them thumping the underside of her seat, as if they were trapped. It took longer than he liked but there it was, that instant of softness when she swooned in his arms, not so fully unconscious as the others. King needed her to be able to walk, but not talk coherently. She was as compliant as a teenager drunk on snakebite for the first time. He hauled Ava’s body out, hoisted one of her arms around his shoulders and manoeuvred her the short distance to his car. He’d rehearsed his speech to imaginary passersby.

  ‘Too much to drink, the temptations of Edinburgh on a Friday night,’ with an expression of long-tested tolerance, was what he would say. It was unnecessary, in the event. His car would be as untraceable as ever. He’d even dyed his hair a silvery grey for the evening and worn glasses from a charity shop. The gloves were a necessity but then, it was Scotland. When did the wind not blow? King tipped Ava’s body across his back seat, smiling and shaking his head like an irritated but loving uncle dealing with a wayward niece, covered her in the blanket then climbed into the front. From there he fastened the cable ties around her wrists and ankles, slid the gag over her mouth and flipped the blanket over her face. Ava Turner was his.

  Natasha was losing someone she loved and didn’t that feel good? So good he was dizzy with it. So extraordinarily fulfilling to know how much pain she would experience. And she didn’t even know it yet.

  He reversed, performed a quiet three-point turn and went back the way he’d come. There was no point driving past Natasha’s house. DI Callanach or, more likely, one of his underlings might still be awake and watching. King had bet everything on Ava being unable to stay away, the disciplinary investigation that the press had announced with such grim satisfaction notwithstanding. How could she keep her distance from her best friend’s house when the threat was so imminent and so credible? He’d even dug the knife in to accelerate her suspension with that letter to the Herald, complaining about her outspoken criticism of the Roman Cat
holic Church, under a false name, naturally. It wouldn’t have worked if he’d been unable to get inside and leave his ridiculous trail. Natasha was slapdash with her keys at work, often leaving them in her pigeonhole. It had been child’s play to have a copy of her house key made. There was a key cutter within a two-minute walk of the department.

  King drove carefully, ensuring there were no traffic infringements for which he could be pulled over, hat low, shielding his eyes from prying CCTV cameras. He could hear snoring in the back, as if they were taking a Sunday afternoon ride. It allowed him to imagine an alternative scenario with her. Perhaps, if Natasha hadn’t whisked her away when he was about to introduce himself, things could have ended differently. Ava would have held out her hand to shake his and smiled sweetly. A dimple formed at one side of her mouth when she smiled. He’d seen it as she’d settled the audience at the start of her lecture. Her face might have lit up when he’d spoken to her.

  ‘Dr King,’ he would have said. ‘Call me Reginald. I’m on the departmental staff in the Philosophy Department. Let me fetch you a drink, save you from the great unwashed.’ He’d have nodded his head at the milling students and Ava would have shared a knowing smile.

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ she would have said. ‘It’s been quite a day.’ He might have guided her out of the crowd and towards the bar with the lightest of hands in the small of her back. She would have noticed but not objected. There would have been eye contact, fleeting, hers shy, his confident.

  ‘So you’re an old friend of Natasha’s?’ he would have asked silkily, handing her cold champagne, heads bent towards one another so they could talk without being overheard.

  ‘More an acquaintance to be honest. You know what it’s like, you grow apart over time,’ Ava says inside his head, raising one eyebrow so he couldn’t mistake her meaning.

  ‘I see,’ he would reply knowingly. ‘Yes, she can be a bit …’ He would leave the end of the sentence hanging subtly.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she would agree, giggling at their private joke.

  That was when the banging started.

  He jerked his head round. They were paused at traffic lights next to a mass of bodies exiting a nightclub, bouncers herding the rabble. Ava was shrieking through the gag, kicking at the inside of the rear passenger door with both feet, thrashing under the blanket.

  ‘Shut up, you stupid bitch,’ King swore through clenched teeth. He revved his engine to drown her out until the lights went green and saved him. It was taking too long. Furiously he fiddled with the radio, a nightmare of buttons and dials in an unfamiliar dash. At last, music filled the car, not a bad match for the rhythm of her feet bashing the door. The youths going past peered in to see what was going on but looked away, full of contempt. He was too old, unfashionable, out of place. Loud music and revved-up engines belonged to the young in their arrogance and disbelief that the passage of time would never affect them. The traffic lights finally released him from their derision.

  ‘Too close, why couldn’t she stay still?’ he hissed. ‘Got the chloroform dose wrong, maybe she didn’t breathe as deeply as I thought. Maybe the bitch was pretending. Were you pretending?’ he shouted. ‘Are you that deceitful?’

  A screech from the back was indication enough that she was conscious and understood him.

  ‘You have to be a good girl for me, Ava,’ he cooed, self-control only a matter of breathing deeply and remembering the greater plan. ‘If you’re good, there’ll be rewards. You’re doing this for Natasha, so she can learn humility. She needs some loss to humanise her. I’m taking you somewhere safe. You won’t be alone. I have friends for you. Dr King has thought of everything.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Natasha woke Callanach to say that the uniformed officers were changing shift again.

  ‘Seven o’clock and all is well,’ she boomed with a smile. ‘You were sleeping like a baby.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Callanach asked, but she looked rested and refreshed.

  ‘All my limbs are still attached and none of the windows are smashed, so I’d call that a successful operation, Detective Inspector. Why don’t you use the bathroom while I make French toast. House specialty.’ He was going to insist that she not bother but his stomach said yes. Twenty minutes later he’d changed his clothes and retaken his seat from the night before.

  ‘I’ve texted Ava to let her know I’m fine. No response yet. She’s probably sulking because you insisted she couldn’t be here last night.’

  ‘In her best interests,’ Callanach said through a full mouth. ‘The sooner the Chief can put this complaint to bed, the better. What are your plans? We’re still following up the list of departmental staff so you probably shouldn’t go in to the University yet.’

  ‘As fond as I am of sitting at home, I have work to do. I’m bored of being scared. I’ll be sensible, nothing risky, but I have to go in to my office. There’s work building up. You can phone me every ten minutes if that helps.’

  ‘Certainly, I will,’ Callanach said. ‘If anything happened to you, Ava would never forget it. I can’t lose her as a friend. She’s the only one I’ve made since I got off the plane.’

  ‘Oh, I think Ava would forgive you almost anything,’ Natasha said. ‘All right, maybe not that, but anything else. Can we talk about how our conversation ended last night?’

  ‘I have to go,’ Callanach said, shoving his arms into a jacket. ‘Do what the police officer tells you and don’t speak to any strangers.’ Callanach put his plate and mug in the dishwasher then picked up his mobile. ‘I’m glad last night turned out okay.’

  ‘Luc!’ Natasha shouted as he dashed out of the back door. He looked back. ‘Ava’s not the only friend you’ve made since you arrived. You have at least two.’

  Outside was a blue sky and the absence of rain. Even the wind was taking a day off. It was far from sunny but Callanach decided he’d happily settle for not freezing. His car was parked opposite Natasha’s and he started the radio before putting on his seat belt, adjusting it to make room for the enormous amount he’d eaten in the previous twelve hours. Pulling away, he gave the house one last external inspection, checking up and down the road. That was when he spotted the silver Mercedes parked under a tree at the far end of the street.

  ‘Just couldn’t stay away, could you?’ he said through his open window, slowing down, expecting to see Ava waving at him. He’d have no choice but to tell her to go straight home. Daylight wouldn’t make her presence at Natasha’s any more acceptable to DCI Begbie. Callanach was parallel to her car when he saw there was no one inside. He parked and got out.

  The Mercedes was unlocked, the driver’s door not quite fully closed. Convinced he must have missed her on foot as he’d been getting into his own vehicle, he called her mobile. There was silence, then ringing. With a growing wariness he realised it was coming from the passenger seat of Ava’s car. He reached in to pick it up, instinct stopped him and he withdrew, phoning Natasha as he stepped away.

  ‘Natasha, I know this will sound strange but is Ava with you?’ he asked as lightly as he could manage.

  ‘No, you know that, you just left,’ Natasha said. A pause. ‘Why?’ Callanach couldn’t reply. Lines were forming to make a shape inside his head and he didn’t like what he was seeing. ‘Luc? Say something.’ She slammed her phone down hard. He heard it hit what he guessed was the kitchen table. Seconds later Natasha was running down her pathway into the road, looking left and right for him along the street. When she saw him she froze, then she spotted Ava’s car and began to sprint. It wasn’t far and running would achieve nothing but she raced towards him as if to stop a child from falling off a cliff.

  ‘Where is she?’ she screamed. ‘What’s happened? Tell me what’s happened!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Callanach said, catching her before she could tear through the vehicle. ‘You mustn’t touch it, Natasha, please.’ The uniformed officer was behind her, puzzled, out of breath.

  ‘Call the st
ation,’ Callanach ordered. ‘Get a location for Detective Inspector Turner. Tell them her car and mobile are here. I want officers at her home immediately. Contact her family and ask if they’ve heard from her in the last twelve hours.’

  Natasha collapsed to her knees. ‘She’s gone,’ she cried. ‘Oh God, we were in there eating and drinking while she was being taken.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ he said. ‘Ava could be anywhere. She could be up a tree in your back garden for all we know.’

  ‘No,’ Natasha sobbed. ‘No, she’s not. Her keys are in the ignition, Luc, and her handbag’s on the back seat.’

  Callanach stared through the window. Natasha was right.

  He wanted to believe there was a better, more rational explanation. He wanted to explain where she might have gone. In the end he knew the simplest explanation was the most likely. The woman he had claimed just minutes ago as his only friend in Scotland, had been abducted.

  The sirens could be heard coming from every direction. The forensics team arrived in tandem with the Chief Inspector. Out of nowhere, a press van followed before the road could be closed and constables hastily formed a line around the car to block the camera’s view. Not that there was anything dramatic to see. It was what was missing that was so damning.

  Callanach wanted Natasha to go back inside but she refused, stubborn, furious with grief and panic. Instinctively and without hesitation he put his arms around her shoulders and held her tight as she fought back tears.

  ‘What was DI Turner doing here last night?’ the Chief demanded.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Callanach replied quietly. ‘As far as I was aware she was at home. She must have been keeping her movements quiet because of the suspension.’