Perfect Remains

by Helen Fields

  First, he had to transport what was left of the girl whose life he was certain no one would miss. King pulled her more upright in the seat, lifted her hood as if she were sleeping, and did his best to wipe the mess off the window. If he could just make it home and into his garage, he could get properly cleaned up in private. For the first time, he was pleased that he’d been unable to hire a car. Whilst picking up the prostitutes or disposing of their bodies, he would usually have left his own vehicle at the Causewayside lockup and changed cars there, but with all the bodily fluids swimming around there was no way that would have been practical this time. It would take him two days to valet the car to acceptable standards. Two days he couldn’t spend with his women. At that moment, it seemed reason enough for the girl to die. An hour later he was home. It was eleven o’clock.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Callanach was on his mobile to the control room, as Natasha was on hers to University security getting out of hours numbers for other staff members. They finished their respective calls and regrouped with notes in hand.

  ‘Reginald Andrew King,’ Callanach said, ‘Scottish national, fifty-three years old, no previous convictions, not so much as a speeding ticket. Is he married?’

  ‘No,’ Natasha said, ‘no partner or children to my knowledge. But I have found something. Jayne Magee gave a lecture at the School of Divinity eight months ago. I just checked with the department head. I remember King raving about it the next day. At the time I hadn’t paid any attention to who the speaker was.’

  ‘What about Elaine?’ Callanach asked, grabbing trainers and frantically tying the laces.

  ‘She addressed Edinburgh Law School students a little under a year ago. It was an open lecture so he could have attended,’ Natasha said.

  ‘That’s one hell of a coincidence. All three of them.’ Callanach swiped his car keys off the table. ‘Do you have his address?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.

  ‘You’re staying here, Natasha. This might be nothing.’

  ‘Call it in,’ she said.

  ‘Not yet. I’ve reached this conclusion by leaping from hunch to hunch. Maybe it’s just what I want to believe. DCI Begbie is in the middle of a shit storm from the media. We’ve just released a man who confessed to the murders. There is no forensic or witness evidence linking King to the crime. Legally speaking, I can’t even justify searching his property. If I get other units involved and they handle it wrong, we’ll scare him off and we might never find those women. We might never find Ava.’

  ‘He’s five foot seven, pale skinned, heavy around the waist and he calls himself Dr King as if he’s the most important man in the world. He had access to my office and tried to introduce himself to Ava the night she gave a lecture. What else do you need?’ she asked. ‘If he’s going to answer the door voluntarily, it’ll be to me.’

  ‘I’m not taking that risk,’ he said.

  ‘You think he’s going to invite you in?’ Natasha asked, incredulous.

  Callanach held the front door open for Natasha, locking it behind her. They ran down the stairs and along the corridor, out into the night.

  ‘Here’s my car,’ Callanach motioned, starting the engine before he’d even closed his door. ‘Listen, we’re just going to take a look at the place before I make this official, all right? No heroics,’ Callanach said, pulling out into the traffic.

  Natasha punched the address into the SatNav.

  ‘How far away is that from Ravelston Park?’ Callanach asked her.

  ‘Ten minutes or so, if you don’t get caught in traffic.’

  ‘Or maybe twelve,’ Callanach mused. ‘Maybe exactly twelve minutes’ drive if you’re careful about the speed limit and allow for stopping at every traffic light.’

  ‘How could you know that?’ Natasha asked as she switched her phone to silent.

  ‘It’s what Jayne Magee’s abductor told her as he wheeled her along the pavement, I think. “I’m taking you back to Elaine, we’ll be there in twelve minutes.” He’s an obsessive planner and timer. Have you ever overheard your Dr King talking to himself?’

  Natasha stared at him. ‘Drive faster, Luc,’ she said. ‘Much faster.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  As he approached home and turned into his driveway, King opened the garage door with a remote clicker. It rose noiselessly – he was particular about keeping it well oiled – and he drove the few metres into darkness, closing the electric door behind him as soon as the car was clear. The lights inside the garage wouldn’t turn on unless he got out of his car to switch them on manually. He’d had an automatic system previously which he’d disabled when his life had become more complicated. There was no point attracting the attention of nosy neighbours.

  He was out of the car in the dark, hand searching for the switch on the wall when the girl bolted for the only door out of the garage. The one that led directly into his meticulously locked and sealed house. He’d assumed she was still unconscious. Apparently, her survival instinct had kicked in. He hadn’t bound her, unwilling to pull over with the car in such a state, certain she wouldn’t wake up for hours, if at all, given the ferocity with which he’d had to deal with her.

  King turned the light on and plucked a hammer off the tool rack on the wall. It was fortuitous really, he thought. At least he didn’t have to carry her inside. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to escape. He followed her, slipping off his shoes and padding inside.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he called softly, turning on lights as he went, checking each corner and cupboard. ‘It’s just business. I’m sorry I hit you, it was a mistake. Come out, let me clean up your face.’ There was no response. He hadn’t expected one. She, on the other hand, would be expecting him to say all these things and it was always an advantage to behave the way people supposed you would. It gave you more scope for surprising them. A door creaked in the hallway, a sound that could only have come from one place. She’d gone into the cupboard below the stairs. It was the one door he never oiled. He wanted to know if anyone went in there or, God forbid, came out unexpectedly. Hammer held aloft, King went to find her.

  ‘Are you scared?’ he asked as he walked. The toady little man who had pandered to Natasha Forge for so long was gone. He barely recognised his own voice, so full of confidence, with a lack of care he could embrace without analysis. The hand that had written so many notes, ripped them up, rewritten them countless times for fear they wouldn’t meet Natasha’s exacting standards, did not shake when it held a weapon. For the first time his feet were happy unclad, free of their polished shoes, feeling the wood beneath his feet, toes gripping, using the silence. And there was silence. He wasn’t talking to himself. He knew he never would again. The nerves, the desperation to impress, to be liked and accepted, had slipped away like excrement slithering down a drain. This was who he was. This was what Reginald King was always meant to be. No titles, no certificates, no pretence. Just this.

  Placing one unwavering hand on the door handle, he raised the hammer higher in the other. Filling himself with several deep breaths, drunk on the influx of oxygen, he yanked it open. She wasn’t there. He began to swing round to exit as a knife sliced the back of his arm, running across the rear of his rib cage. King clasped the hammer and smashed as he spun, bashing the knife away from his spine and sending it flying across the hallway. He kept on punching as he went, moving towards her, striking another hammer blow and watching blood fly, ruining wallpaper, carpet, ceilings. It was beautiful.

  ‘Come here, you little cunt,’ he raged. The hammer had knocked her off balance but she was coming back, going for the knife again, howling with a pain and fury that matched his own. ‘You want to draw blood?’ he growled. ‘You want to paint my house red with it? Come on then.’ He advanced on her, raining blows left and right as she ducked then fell and scrabbled sideways on hands and feet like a demented crab. Finally she stopped, her back against his front door, panting like the dog she was. Like a rabid, man
gy cur. ‘Get up,’ he shouted, hammer held in front of her face as his free hand explored the horizontal gash across his back. It should have been sore, would be in the morning, but it wasn’t dangerously deep and the truth was that he was finding the pain enlivening. It felt good to experience something other than shame and rejection, the sure knowledge that you were only ever second best.

  ‘You should have stabbed, not sliced,’ he told her. ‘If you’d put that knife in my lung I’d be dead. Stupid girl.’ He walked backwards, picked up the knife she’d stolen from his kitchen and tucked it in the back of his trousers. ‘Get up,’ he said. She didn’t move, tears streaking the blood that had spattered her face. ‘I’ll help you, then,’ he said, marching forwards and grabbing a handful of hair, wrenching it upwards, dragging her whole body weight through it. She screamed. ‘Do you not like that? It’s okay. You don’t have to like it. You just have to move.’

  King kept the hammer before her eyes so she was in no doubt what would happen if she attacked him again. He dragged her into the under-stair cupboard. It was tight for them both but it didn’t matter that she was dirtying the walls. Some redecoration was due anyway. Unable to release the girl or the hammer, he kicked at the door in the back to reveal the steps to the cellar.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me, I’m only fourteen. My mum makes me go out on the streets, she’ll pay if you take me back. I was scared, I didn’t mean to hurt you with the knife. Please don’t, please don’t, please.’ She went on and on. King felt the slice in his flesh burning as he dragged her down the cellar steps. It felt like immortality.

  At the bottom he threw her against the wall, took the key from his pocket and unlocked the door in the panelling.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t go up there. What is it? What are you going to do to me?’

  All bark and no bite, King thought. It was sad given how impressive she’d been earlier on. It had taken some guts to go for him rather than just hide.

  ‘You must have had a terrible life,’ he said. ‘Your own mother pimping you out on the streets. Does she give you drugs to make it easier?’ She nodded. ‘And you don’t go to school?’ The girl shook her head. ‘So what good are you?’ he asked. Her face showed confusion, then upset and fear again. ‘What good are you to me? To anyone, except your lowlife mother?’

  ‘I don’t want to die,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ King raised his eyebrows. ‘Nobody does.’ He took her by the hair again, let the weighted door swing shut behind him and jerked her, one thud at a time, up the last steps.

  Unlocking the final door, careful there were no unwelcome surprises waiting beyond, he thrust her into the room.

  ‘What have you done to that girl?’ Jayne asked breathlessly.

  ‘Don’t start,’ King said, throwing the hammer onto Ava’s bed, careful to avoid the area where her feet would be able to grasp it. ‘Where’s Elaine?’

  ‘Under my bed,’ Jayne responded. King could see a shivering ball of bedclothes at the very back wall, below the headboard.

  ‘Don’t hurt the girl any more,’ Ava said quietly. ‘She’s just a kid. I don’t mind if she shares a bed with me, we’ll look after her.’

  ‘Do you know what she is?’ King asked, turning up the classical music he’d switched on.

  ‘Young, vulnerable, innocent, terrified. That’s what she is. Leave her alone.’ Ava was straining against the ties around her wrist.

  ‘She’s detritus. This girl is living, breathing proof of what happens when poor genes meet poverty and an unwillingness to educate or work oneself out of the gutter. Can you see what she did to me?’ He lifted his arm and leaned to one side to give Ava a good view. She didn’t flinch.

  ‘She was protecting herself,’ Ava said. ‘It’s human nature. What did you do to her?’

  ‘Broke her nose, probably burst an ear drum, concussion for certain and a sore scalp. I brought her for you, but she’s not suitable. And I’ve ended up with a gash that needs stitches, a car to clean and a hallway to redecorate. Not to mention one too many house guests. Or maybe two too many. I seem to have created something of a harem.’ He laughed. The girl began to clamber towards the door. King kicked her in the ribs without breaking eye contact with Ava.

  ‘Do you like me, Detective Inspector Turner? No, you couldn’t possibly, stupid question. How about this then: do you think I’m fun?’

  ‘I’m not doing this,’ Ava said, concentrating on the winded, struggling girl.

  ‘Yes, you are. I’m not going to plead or cajole. You don’t have any choice. How does that feel?’ He ran a hand down Ava’s face leaving red streaks on her pale skin. He was unsure if the blood was the girl’s or his. He liked the way it made Ava look wild, like an injured animal.

  King picked up a rope and began to bind it around the girl’s feet.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘The last girl I had in here was called Grace. Please tell me your mother came up with something more appropriate.’

  ‘Billie,’ she said. ‘Why are you doing that? I don’t want you to. Can I go to that lady? I’ll be good. I’ll let you do anything you want. I won’t fight no more.’

  King threw the rope over a high beam, stood back and began to yank it. She was light. Presumably that’s what consuming drugs instead of food did for you. Either that or he was stronger than he’d realised. The pain from the gash had disappeared. He savoured the dull ache in his muscles and wondered why he’d spent so many years dreading exercise. It really was about finding the right activity for you, after all.

  Billie began to grab hold of things, desperate to remain on the floor, but King was unstoppable. He hauled, dragged and lugged, and finally she was where he wanted her, feet two metres off the floor, head down, swinging as she struggled, tears hitting the wooden planks below her in a shameful puddle of hopelessness.

  ‘I have a problem, DI Turner, and it’s taken a while, but it’s just dawned on me how to solve it. I’ve been wondering whether to get rid of Piety Magee or Insane Elaine. The incessant praying is sickening but at least the reverend is lucid. Elaine on the other hand is useful for carrying out simple commands with minimal syllables but she’ll never recover her faculties. No natural resilience. I’ve been struggling to choose who should go and suddenly I don’t have to.’ He took the kitchen knife in hand and walked to Ava, cutting the cable ties from her wrists and stepping quickly backwards.

  ‘Pick up the hammer,’ he said, ‘and, should the thought of hurting me go through that well-educated mind, know the girl will die if you do.’ He retreated to Billie, holding the knife to her exposed throat, pushing the tip of the blade in just far enough to produce a bead of blood. ‘Ava’s choice,’ he said. ‘Who’s destined to leave us? One blow should be all it’ll take. Aim well and you’ll minimise the pain. If you have the guts, you can save the girl’s life. I’m giving you five minutes, starting now. If you don’t kill either of them I’ll bleed little Billie like a hog. She’s fourteen, by the way. Too young to die, I’m sure you’ll agree. What you need to remember is that I don’t fucking care who you choose. Someone needs to die.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Callanach parked a couple of houses away from King’s address. He and Natasha opened and shut their doors quietly, watching the house from the edge of his driveway, shielded by bushes.

  ‘That’s a substantial property for a university administrator,’ Callanach said.

  ‘He inherited it from his parents. Believe me, I’ve heard all about it. He invited me over for coffee once. I made an excuse.’

  ‘I’m calling one of my constables to get him to organise backup. I just need a mobile signal. Wait here.’ Callanach began to walk a few metres up the road staring at his phone.

  ‘You haven’t got grounds for an order to break down his door, you said so yourself. The only way is for me to make up an excuse for an impromptu visit,’ Natasha said, following him.

  ‘Too risky,’ Callanach told her as his call was answ
ered. ‘Tripp, it’s Callanach. I’m going to give you an address. Grab a pen and paper …’ By the time he’d finished Natasha was gone. Callanach raced back to the gateway. She was already knocking on King’s door.

  ‘Natasha,’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you dare go in there!’ She raised her hands to the stained glass in the door, standing on her toes, trying to peer in. No one answered. Checking around, she waved to Callanach, pointing to the front windows and beginning to move. Balancing on a plant pot, she peered through a crack between the curtains, tilting her head to the side as if studying one aspect of the scene more closely. Then she froze. Natasha began to shake her head, small movements at first, then more violently. Callanach didn’t need to be close enough to hear what she was saying. Her body was doing it for her. No. No, no, no. He was sprinting before she could face him, too late for caution. He joined her at the window. A trail of congealing blood snaked through the lounge, glistening along the wooden floor. Natasha directed his gaze to a doorway with a view into the hall. The tasteful blue and white striped wallpaper was streaked with bloody droplets.

  Callanach ran to his car, returning seconds later with the same crow bar he’d used on the lockup. He ran to the garage that was attached to the side of the house, and jammed the bar underneath the door, levering it upwards. This time he knew he wouldn’t be leaving empty handed. Natasha was behind him as the door came up. The garage lights were on, and the car’s front passenger door had been left open. Natasha pressed a hand to her nose.

  ‘God, that smell,’ she said. Callanach checked the car. The passenger footwell was awash with vomit and a sticky blackening fluid.

  ‘Go out to the street and wait for Tripp,’ he said.

  ‘Ava’s in there,’ she replied. ‘You’re not going to stop me.’

  Callanach tried the door into the house. It was unlocked. King must have been in the throes of an unexpectedly dramatic event if he’d forgotten to lock up after himself, Callanach thought. Crow bar still in hand he crept inside, finding the trail of blood. He dipped a finger in it.