Perfect Remains

by Helen Fields

‘I want him to face trial,’ Jayne said. ‘I need justice to be done. It’s not up to us to take a life. Please, untie me and let me look after you.’

  Elaine held up the hammer and looked Callanach straight in the eyes.

  ‘Don’t I deserve something for this?’ she asked, pointing at the sores in her mouth. ‘Isn’t it right that he pays, instead of hiding behind lawyers and psychiatric assessments? I know how this works. I’ve been on the other side of it. I remember him when I gave a talk at the University Law School, coming up at the end, fawning over me. He scared me. It was in his eyes even then. He has to pay.’

  ‘Elaine,’ Callanach said. ‘I cannot give you permission to hurt him. And I need to secure him while he’s still incapacitated.’

  Callanach saw on her face the vivid scar of terror that would never leave her, not at work, not in her car, not even while she was sleeping. There were things from which a person could never recover. In his right hand was Max Tripp’s taser, handed to him from the stairwell. He kept it ready in case King moved. With his eyes, Callanach motioned down towards his left hand, seeing Elaine follow his line of sight. Slowly, deliberately, saying nothing, he held up his forefinger. Just one. For the first time, an emotion other than dread passed over her face. She nodded her understanding back at him.

  Elaine didn’t raise the hammer too high nor hit too hard. She didn’t risk death or even brain damage. She aimed carefully and the blow was accurate. When she brought down the metal head of the tool it smashed into King’s lips, through the flesh and into the centre of both rows of teeth.

  Ava went to her, put an arm around her shoulders, took the hammer from her hand and led her out. Tripp took Natasha down the stairs where medics were waiting. Callanach cut the ties from Jayne’s wrists, rolled King over and handcuffed him. There was nothing he could do for the poor lost child hanging from the beam, except stand with her and wait until she could be taken down and treated with dignity. It was over.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Callanach had refused to take part in the press conference. He’d had enough media attention to last him a while. DCI Begbie handled it with fitting brevity and lack of self-congratulation. Three women were dead. There was no cause for celebration.

  Elaine Buxton and Jayne Magee’s families and friends were overwhelmed, having held memorial services, mourned and grieved. A psychological support team had been called in to help the abducted women come to terms with their experiences. Callanach thought privately that nothing except a decade of passing time would begin to dull the agony of such recollections. Elaine Buxton’s corpse double turned out to have been another missing prostitute from Glasgow. A memorial service for all three victims was to be held the following week.

  Tripp entered Callanach’s office holding a long box that could only contain a bottle. Callanach felt sick. He’d forgotten about Astrid in the days since King had been arrested. The thought of more anonymous gifts arriving was too much to deal with. He wanted to be left in peace.

  ‘For you, sir. Just arrived,’ Tripp said.

  Callanach opened the box and pulled out a bottle of Lagavulin with a handwritten card.

  ‘Your turn,’ the note said. ‘Pleasure working with you. Share it with the team. Jonty Spurr.’

  DCI Begbie walked in as Tripp was leaving.

  ‘Are you staying in Scotland a while longer, Luc?’ he asked.

  ‘Did I hand in my resignation without realising?’ Callanach replied.

  ‘No,’ Begbie said, picking up the Lagavulin and eyeing it appreciatively, ‘but you came here because you were running away from what happened in Lyon. In my experience, people who start running often can’t stop. You should know that I don’t want to lose you from my team.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, Chief. It’s taken me this long to get used to the rain, the coffee and the accent. Might as well stick with it.’

  The Chief nodded at him. ‘Professor Harris meant well, you know. There are times when we all try too hard.’

  ‘Next time, I choose who I work with though, no?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘No. Tight budgets, restricted overtime. This is no frills policing, Inspector. Get used to it.’ He put the bottle down and gave Callanach back his room. DS Lively knocked two minutes later.

  ‘I’m popular today,’ Callanach said. ‘I should get some sort of sign made for my door.’ Lively didn’t respond to the joke, handing him an envelope and stepping back. ‘What’s that?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘My resignation,’ Lively said. ‘I was out of line with you on more than one occasion. Much more than just out of line. It didn’t help the investigation. My fault, not yours.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ Callanach said, ‘but this is the second conversation about resignation I’ve had in as many minutes. The Chief didn’t want mine and I don’t want yours. You were rude, really rude and you needed to apologise but I don’t want to lead a pack of yes men. Next time my instincts will be wrong and yours will be right. I should have taken you off the case the moment I knew how involved you were and I take responsibility for that. Don’t tread on my toes, Sergeant, and I’ll try not to tread on yours. Take this bottle down to the briefing room and tell everyone well done from me.’ He threw Lively’s envelope in the bin. ‘And tell DC Salter to start preparing for her sergeant’s exams. You can make things right by mentoring her.’

  ‘Will you not join us for a drink, sir?’ Lively asked.

  ‘I’ve got somewhere to be,’ Callanach said. ‘Make my excuses, would you?’

  By the time he reached Ava’s house, he felt ready to collapse. The hospital had phoned to say she was discharging herself, ignoring their wish to observe her for another day. Callanach didn’t know why he had expected any different.

  Natasha opened Ava’s front door, throwing herself into Callanach’s arms, hugging him until he felt able to prise her off. He allowed himself to be touched for longer than normal though, without feeling threatened or claustrophobic. It was progress.

  ‘Is she okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretending to be. You know how she is,’ Natasha said. ‘She’s in the lounge. I’m staying for a few days, for my own benefit as much as hers. I’m cooking, if you’re hungry.’

  Natasha wandered back into the kitchen and Callanach put his head around the lounge door.

  ‘Fit for a visitor?’ he asked.

  ‘Only if you brought flowers, chocolates and single malt,’ Ava said.

  ‘I forgot the flowers, decided you wouldn’t eat the chocolate and gave the single malt away,’ Callanach said. ‘So you’ll just have to appreciate my company.’

  ‘Bugger,’ she said, turning off the television. ‘I’ll make do.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sitting next to her on the sofa and trying not to stare at the yellowing bruises on her face. ‘If I’d done my job properly you wouldn’t have gone through any of that.’

  ‘Your ego really is astounding,’ she said. ‘I got too emotionally involved in a case, ended up suspended, didn’t stay at home as I should have done and opened my car door to a stranger at night. And yet you’re still claiming responsibility? Get over yourself, Luc.’

  ‘Well, that sorted that out,’ he said. There was a moment of silence. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Some time, maybe. Definitely not yet. What about you? No problems after Elaine’s swipe at King?’

  ‘I couldn’t do anything to stop her,’ he said. ‘I’m sure she thought King was about to get up, which explains why she needed to strike that blow. But if I had indicated to her that she could have a single stab at vengeance, my conscience would be flying high. He’s evil. And she was right. He’s pleading insanity.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Ava said.

  ‘It’s not just the three women we know about. Forty years ago his sister allegedly slipped down the cellar stairs breaking her neck. King, thirteen years old and only one year younger than his sister, was alone in the house with her at the
time. The notes from the investigating officer show that he never believed King’s version of events. It took the sister some time to die and yet the call to the ambulance wasn’t made until it was too late. He claimed he was in shock. There was no evidence though, you know, the usual story. His father died twelve years ago, apparently of a stroke. Two years after that, his elderly widowed mother slipped getting out of the bath and drowned, leaving King the sole beneficiary. No clear evidence of foul play. No charges were brought, but the officers’ statements show that they felt King’s behaviour seemed rather … smug, I think that was the word. But no way to disprove his story, just as before. We have no concept of what his motivation to murder the sister might have been, but it’s a lot of deaths for one property.’

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘How about some good news, then? Felicity Costello has been moved to a mother and baby unit with her son. Social Services are going to assess how she gets on.’

  ‘That is good news,’ Ava said. ‘And the lovely Sister Ernestine?’

  ‘Will be serving a term of several years. She’s facing multiple counts of assault with complaints going back a decade. You uncovered a monstrosity. The girls are getting proper care now. You should be proud.’

  ‘Pep talk over, thank you, Inspector. What happened to the finger, by the way?’

  Callanach looked her straight in the eyes. ‘I punched a wall. Your wall, actually. It may be slightly dented. I’ll make good any damage.’

  ‘No need. I prefer my home to have plenty of character. That was very honest of you. Almost as if you’ve realised we actually are friends. Been skydiving recently?’

  Callanach rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be welcome at Strathallan for a few months. And about that …’

  ‘Are you going to tell me the whole truth?’ she asked. ‘I mean everything, no more righteous indignation and angry avoidance?’

  Callanach couldn’t answer. Lying to Ava wasn’t acceptable – not when he’d come so close to losing her. His physical issues were no closer to resolution, but at least he hadn’t thought about them for a while. He opted for shaking his head.

  ‘I find a fishing lake’s a good place to bare one’s soul. Spring is finally here, which means the lochs are about as beautiful as you’ll see them. Nothing except a small boat between you and the forces of nature. No one to judge you except a few trout and they don’t make good listeners. I, on the other hand, do.’

  ‘I love the rod,’ he said. ‘Does it rain a lot at Kinross?’

  ‘It’s Scotland,’ she said. ‘If it’s not raining, you’re not fishing properly. I heard on the grapevine that you had a surprise visitor from France.’

  ‘She was responsible for sending the champagne and roses gifts, meant for me rather than you, by the way. Except for the death threat. I have no idea why Astrid targeted you with that.’ It was a small lie. Callanach did know. Astrid had seen something between Ava and him, something in the way they communicated with one another. Natasha had picked up on it too. ‘She’s mentally unstable. I’m afraid I had to agree immunity from prosecution.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. You think I want a court case where everyone finds out that I only attracted a second-hand stalker? I’d prefer my own, instead of your wacko hand-me-downs. How is life as a French-Scottish former Interpol agent in the wilds of Scotland, by the way?’

  ‘No one appreciates how sensitive I am,’ he laughed. ‘And I’m considering asking the Chief for a pay rise just because the accent’s so difficult to understand.’ Ava laughed and it made him smile. For a while, although he hadn’t admitted it to himself, he’d been certain he would never hear her laugh again. ‘So, as an act of charity, would you like to catch a movie this week?’ he asked. ‘Only I find your choice in films helps my insomnia.’

  ‘Philistine,’ she replied. ‘High Noon is the midnight showing this week. Even you couldn’t fail to appreciate its brilliance.’

  ‘Is Steve McQueen in it?’ Callanach asked, his hand finding the miniature slab of slate in his pocket that he’d been determined to give back. He let it fall deep into the pocket once more, and crossed his arms instead.

  ‘No,’ Ava said. ‘Sadly not. He’s probably the only actor who could have improved it. I’m hungry. Make yourself useful and find out what’s happened to dinner.’

  Callanach got to his feet. ‘You don’t seriously think he’s better looking than me?’

  ‘Blonde hair, blue eyes,’ she said. ‘My kind of guy.’

  Callanach checked himself in the hallway mirror on his way to the kitchen.

  ‘Steve McQueen,’ he muttered, running one hand through his hair. ‘I don’t think so.’

  To Helen Huthwaite and the whole team at Avon, for making this real, and for making the process so mind-blowingly wonderful (I’ve almost stopped crying now). And to my brilliant agent, Caroline Hardman who soothed a ragged ego, answered endless emails, never gave up on me, read and reread – you have the patience of a saint.

  To my first readers (those who had to correct terrible typos and battle with my stupid mistakes), I cannot thank you enough. Jessica Corbett, you listened to me rabbiting on about this book and never once fell asleep. (You also provided cake in times of dire need, which may be the most valuable contribution anyone could make.) Allison Spyer, you read, enthused, believed, raved, cajoled and brought enough loyalty to the table to scare away an army of doubters. Andrea Gibson, you lived every blow and victory of this process with me as if it were your own. I am grateful every day that you know vastly more about chemistry than me. Ever positive, ever sure, you got me through. I must also thank Mark Thomas for talking teeth with me (any mistakes are my own). Ruth Chambers, my holiday buddy, who spent more hours trying to comprehend various plots and characters than I can bear to recall (a thousand apologies).

  To my mother Christine for teaching me that you can be a mother, a wife and whatever the hell else you want to be, all at the same time. To the glorious, stunning, evocative and wondrous city of Edinburgh (with a special place in my heart for your drinking establishments and eateries), I am humbled by you more with every visit. To friends too numerous to list who kept me going.

  And to David, who gave me the time, the space, the facilities and the courage to put my keyboard where my mouth had been. Thank you.

  Can’t wait for Helen Fields’ next book? Then read on for a sneak peek of Callanach and Turner’s next case …

  PERFECT PREY

  By Helen Fields

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  There were worse places to die. Few more terrifying ways of dying, though. It was an idyllic summer backdrop – the cityscape on one side, the ancient volcano Arthur’s Seat silhouetted in the distance. The music could be felt before it was heard, the bass throbbing through bones and jiggling flesh. Sundown came late in Edinburgh in early July and the sky was awash with shades of rose, gold and burnt orange. Perhaps that was why no one noticed when it happened. Either that, or the cocktail of drink, drugs and natural highs. The festival was well underway. Three days of revellers lounging, partying, loving, eating and drinking their way through band after band, bodies increasingly comfortable with fewer clothes and minimal hygiene. If you could take a snapshot to illustrate a sense of ecstasy, this would have been the definitive scene. A sense of communal joy washing through the crowd, jumping as one, as if the multitudes had merged to create a single rapturous beast with a thousand grinning heads.

  Through the centre of it all, the killer had drifted like smoke, sinuous and light-footed, bringing a blade to its receptacle like a ribbon through air. The slash was clean. Straight and deep. The extent of the blood loss was apparent on the ground, the wound too gaping for hands to stem the flow. Not that there had been time to get the victim in an ambulance. Not that anyone had even noticed his injury before he had almost completely bled out.

  Detective Inspector Luc Callanach stood at the spot where th
e young man had taken his last breath. His identity had not yet been established. The police had pieced together remarkably little in the hour since the victim’s death. It was amazing, Callanach thought, how in a crowd of thousands they had found not a single useful witness.

  The young man had simply ceased his rhythmic jumping, crumpling slowly, falling left and right, forwards and backwards, against his fellow festival goers, finally collapsing, clutching his stomach. It had annoyed some of them, disrupted their viewing pleasure. He’d been assumed drunk at first, drug-addled second. Only when a barefooted teenage girl had slipped in the pool of blood did the alarm ring out, and amidst the decibels it had taken an age for the message to get through. Eventually the screams had drowned out the music when the poor boy had been rolled over, his spilled entrails slinking closely in his wake like some alien pet, sparkling with reflected sunshine in the gloss of so much brilliant blood.

  The uniforms hadn’t been far away. It was a massive public event with every precaution taken. But making their way through the throng, police officers first, then paramedics, and clearing an area then managing the scene, had been a logistical disaster. Callanach looked skywards and sighed. The crime scene was more heavily trodden than nightclub toilets on New Year’s Eve. There was enough DNA floating around to populate a new planet. It was a forensic free-for-all.

  The body itself was already on its way to the mortuary, having been photographed in situ for all the good it would do. The corpse had been moved so many times by do-gooders, panicked bystanders, the police, medics, and finally left to rest on a bed of trampled grass and kicked up dirt. The chief pathologist, Ailsa Lambert, had been unusually quiet, issuing instructions only to treat the body with care and respect, and to move him swiftly to a place where there would be no more prying cameras or hysterical caterwauling. Callanach was there to secure the scene – a concept beyond irony – before following Ailsa to her offices.