Perfect Kill

by Helen Fields

  The other woman still standing was huddled in a corner. Elenuta didn’t like her chances. The adrenaline that had got her moving at the start of the race was obviously used up. The man with the scar down his stomach came into view. He stood still a moment as he spied the woman, gave a brief shake of his head as if to say how sad it was that the game had come to such a pathetic end. She put her hands up in the air, slightly in front of her, her lips moving rapidly, cheeks shining with tears. There would be no fight, Elenuta knew. Plenty of begging, but not enough resistance to make a difference. The scarred man stepped forwards slowly, taking his time, the smile on his face that of an uncle Elenuta had as a child who brought her sweets, played games and slid his hand up her skirt whenever her parents weren’t looking. When she threatened to tell, he threatened to move on to her younger sister. That smile was everything – a mask, a casual indifference, a confidence, a promise of worse to come. Elenuta put a hand over her mouth to keep from waking Finlay up.

  As the scarred man reached the woman, he held out a hand to her. A suitor in a twisted universe. The woman looked horrified, then worse – hopeful – and reached out her own shaking hand, laying her slim fingers on his palm. And that was that.

  He pulled her forward into his arms, kissing her cheek softly, then turned her round, her back to his chest, pulling her clothing away. She didn’t fight him. Her head was flopped against his neck, her bare chest fluttering with insubstantial breaths, eyes blinking madly.

  The scarred man dipped a hand into his pocket, bringing out a silver blade that flashed in the overhead lighting, teasing its presence. She closed her eyes. Elenuta forced hers to stay open. The man held the blade aloft, making a play of it in the air before the drone that was edging closer to get the audience its best view of the final action. The woman was limp in the man’s arms, hands at her sides, feet rooted to the concrete.

  The man lowered the knife, sliding one hand beneath the woman’s left breast, lifting it to expose its pale underside, positioning the knife parallel to the underside. The woman’s mouth fell open, what was about to happen written as clearly on her face as if she had typed the actual words. The knife held no quick death for her. What if one breast was not enough for him? What if he didn’t stop at two, but decided other body parts were fair game? The dread shone in her eyes. The drone buzzed a little nearer and the scarred man stared at it. He lifted the knife away, pointing the blade into the lens.

  ‘Shall I do it?’ he roared, his mouth so large and clear Elenuta could read his lips. It took no imagination at all to hear the crowd’s response.

  The next movement was a blur. The woman grabbed, finding her strength when she needed it most, taking hold of the man’s wrist. She stepped – or perhaps fell – forwards. Turning the knife, she directed it at the side of her neck, letting her body weight fall into it. The crimson stream was evidence of her good aim. The man held her for ten seconds, then her dead weight got the better of him. His triumphant roar became a cry of frustration. As she hit the ground, he kicked, once, twice, three times, but by then her head was lolling, the slowly spreading patch on the ground a river of her relief. Kneeling across her, the man took back his knife, and the blood flowed faster. He stabbed out his impotent fury in her already dead body.

  Elenuta smiled and cried as he vented. In the second screen, Finlay had found the last woman standing, still clutching her makeshift glass weapon, and was holding up her arm to proclaim her victorious. Her face was pale. She shook as he touched her, tried to pull away.

  ‘Couldn’t resist watching the finale, eh?’

  Elenuta cried out, falling backwards onto the floor, hands out in front, both a plea and a defence against whatever was coming.

  ‘Sorry,’ she cried. ‘Will not touch laptop again.’

  Finlay stopped the video and slammed down the lid.

  ‘You’re fucking right you won’t, bitch. You’re not going to be pressing any buttons at all with no hands. I’ve got a nice sharp knife waiting for you in the kitchen. It’ll slice right through your wrists, no problem at all. The only bits of you I need to leave intact are your mouth and your pussy.’

  The flat doorbell rang.

  ‘Please, so sorry,’ Elenuta sobbed. ‘So sorry.’

  There was a pause before the bell rang again, this time for longer.

  ‘Answer the fucking door, motherfuckers!’ Finlay yelled before looking back down at Elenuta. ‘Tell you what, we’ll play a game. If whoever’s at the door is a good client who pays properly and leaves a tip, you’ll keep your hands. If it’s some nosy bastard neighbour or those balls-aching Jehovahs, you won’t be hitting any targets smaller than an elephant’s arsehole for the rest of your natural.’ He stood up and pulled Elenuta up next to him, slapping her backside hard enough to leave fingermarks. ‘And the next time I fuck you, you’ll look me in the eyes and say thank you like a good girl. Got it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Say it then,’ he whispered, his mouth millimetres from hers.

  ‘Thank you,’ she gasped. ‘Thank you.’

  Finlay smiled and went to see who was at the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ava’s mobile rang.

  ‘It’s Luc,’ she told Natasha. ‘I’ll call him back later.’

  ‘Nonsense, take it. We’ve nothing else to do but wait for a bloody big needle to be stuck in me.’ Ava’s thumb hovered over the reject call button. ‘Does he know?’

  Ava shook her head.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to tell him, but with him being in Paris …’

  Natasha leaned over and took the phone from Ava’s hand, answering the call on speaker phone.

  ‘Luc, it’s Tasha,’ she said. ‘Ava’s too important to answer her own phone these days so I’m doing it for her.’

  ‘Natasha,’ his voice was warm. ‘She’s not making you cook for her too, is she?’

  ‘I keep trying. I’m not sure she eats at all these days. I have a horrible feeling she’s gone back to student-style cuisine. How’s Paris? I want to hear all about it.’

  ‘You should visit me here,’ he said. ‘Maybe not until I’ve made some progress on this case, though. What are you two doing? I can’t remember the last time Ava was away from her desk before five p.m.’

  ‘We’re at the hospital, actually,’ Natasha said. ‘Ava’s keeping me company.’ A doctor walked in, raising a hand in greeting as he flicked through a file.

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ he said.

  ‘Ava can fill you in. I’ve got to go. Mustn’t keep the doctor waiting. I’ll pass you to Ava. Sit in a street cafe and drink a pastis for me, okay?’

  She passed the mobile over and Ava switched off speaker, standing up and making for the door.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she told Natasha. ‘Luc, it’s me. I’m in the corridor but I can’t be long. What’s up?’

  ‘Is Natasha all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Haven’t got the time,’ she snapped, harder than she’d meant to. ‘Any progress on Malcolm Reilly?’

  ‘Of sorts. We’re ruling out a professional organ harvesting set-up, at least in the traditional sense. We saw a sort of expert in the field who gave us some insights.’

  ‘A sort of expert? Doesn’t sound very scientific. Is that the best Interpol can do?’

  ‘Well, she’s a surgeon who specialised in transplant medicine, until she started an off-the-record venture with her husband. After that I suppose you’d more accurately call her a serial killer. She knows her stuff though, not just the medical stuff, but the black market.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ava said, pulling change out of her pocket and wandering down the corridor to a nearby drinks machine. ‘So did she give you any leads?’ She ploughed a few coins into the slot.

  ‘More advice than leads. We’re focusing on potential end users for the organs. There’ll have been marketing, maybe even an auction. Malcolm Reilly’s hair smelled of myrrh. There’s a possibility it was a sort of ritual killing. Our expert’s last su
ggestion was that there are different types of doctors out there so …’

  ‘Witch doctors?’ Ava pulled her coffee from the machine and blew on it. ‘I hadn’t realised there was much of that happening in Paris. Are you sure you’re not going off on a tangent?’

  ‘At this stage we’re just pleased to have a tangent. We think Malcolm Reilly was chosen specifically for his fitness and physique. It looks like he was profiled, which is something you’ll need to check out at your end. It wasn’t a random choice.’

  ‘He disappeared after a trip to the gym. His father thinks Malcolm met a woman there he was interested in,’ Ava explained.

  ‘That sounds like the priority follow-up. We’re heading into some of the less mainstream communities to see if anyone’s heard of organs being offered for sale.’

  ‘We may have another problem. A missing male, similar type, no contact for several days now, just disappeared after work. Fit, healthy, non-smoker, no drug use. Out of character not to go home. Couple of years younger than Malcolm. We’ve been treating it as a possible link so far …’

  ‘Raise the priority,’ Callanach said. ‘And send me the missing person’s file. Have you put out a ports notice?’

  ‘Already done,’ Ava said. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘I know your voice better than that. Tell me what’s going on.’ She sighed. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘It’s breast cancer,’ she said, choking on the final word and spilling coffee on the floor.

  Callanach was quiet for a long time. Ava waited for him to formulate a next question.

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Stage two. They’re operating again this afternoon. They took the lump out already but after some tests they want to take more tissue. The doctors are doing their best to save the breast, but …’ She took a deep breath and tried to steady her voice. ‘You know how it goes. One day at a time. Natasha’s being Natasha, and I think that’s worse. I sort of wish she’d break down because I’d know how to deal with that. I’m a shitty friend, right?’

  ‘You’re more like her sister than her friend, and she wouldn’t want anyone else with her except you,’ Callanach said. ‘I wish I was there.’

  ‘Me too,’ Ava said quietly. ‘I need to go back in while they prep her for surgery. Call my mobile if you need me. I’ll be here a few more hours but I’ll go when I know she’s round from the anaesthetic. She’ll be kept in for at least another day.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. She befriended me for no other reason than I was new to Edinburgh and working with you, and she never once made me feel like I was anything other than a lifelong mate. I can’t believe I’m not there for her,’ he said. ‘Hug her from me and send my love, okay?’

  Ava sniffed then cleared her throat. ‘I will.’

  She ended the call, wiped her eyes, threw the remains of the coffee into a bin, and went back in to hold her best friend’s hand, hoping she would never have to let go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bart Campbell stared at the ceiling. He was in a small room with a comfortable enough single bed. The lights turned off and on from the outside, and he could hear other voices in the corridor occasionally, although his view through the ten-by-ten-inch toughened glass pane in the door was limited. It hadn’t been a cell originally. A long mark on the wall indicated that a desk had stood there for some time. Boarding had been fitted over the exterior of a window, which suggested they were trying to stop him from getting out rather than preventing others from getting in. It was quiet outside. Few traffic noises, no passing pedestrians. No music or industrial sounds. A meal was delivered three times a day. Breakfast was yoghurt and fruit. Lunch was salad or soup. Dinner was lean protein and vegetables. All low-fat and healthy, with minimal carbs. He was going to lose weight fast, but he could survive on it. He’d eaten all of it and it had tasted fine. He had long since stopped worrying about poison.

  The people who delivered his meals appeared only briefly, wearing white balaclavas and never spoke. The white balaclavas had freaked him out initially. They were supposed to be dark-coloured, surely. When had anyone in a movie ever turned up in a white balaclava? Where did you even get them? They didn’t look homemade.

  When the van he’d been transported in had arrived at … wherever he was … he’d been blindfolded and walked into the building. The space where they’d parked had been vast, every footstep echoing. With one man on each arm, hands tied behind his back, he’d been guided forward until the breeze on his face had subsided and a door had slammed behind him. There was the click-thump of a lock being secured, then another voice, this time a woman, issuing orders in French. She’d sounded older than him, perhaps his mother’s age, and insistent. He’d been moved on again, deeper into the building. The floor had clacked as he’d walked. He’d heard other voices, some whispering as he’d passed them, then he’d turned into another corridor – more locks, more pausing – and a sharp chemical odour had hit him. Not like a hospital exactly, definitely undertones of bleach, but a curious concoction of the acidic and the sulphuric. The stale waft of air that hadn’t been freshened by open windows. Finally, in his own room, a new mattress smell as if the plastic cover had only just been removed. That was when he’d heard the crying for the first time. A woman. Young, but not a child. Weeping more than crying, he’d realised when he listened hard. As if she was too tired to cry hard any longer.

  Then a white balaclava had entered and told him to take off his clothes. He’d done as he was told. There were enough locked doors between Bart and the exit to make fighting and running for it a ridiculous choice. He was told to stand at the back of the room, draw himself up to his full height – being kidnapped makes you slouchy, he’d thought – and photographed. Same thing, but the back view, then to each side. Finally with his arms in the air, and instructed to flex his muscles. After that, they’d put away the camera and taken out a tape measure and set of scales. Every conceivable measurement was recorded, from skull to feet. He’d lost weight – no surprise there. Finally, three bottles of water were delivered to his bedside table and he was told to drink them before sleeping, as the white balaclava murmured something about him being dehydrated. He was given escorted access to a bathroom with a shower, where soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste were provided – who the hell needed their captive to brush their teeth, he had wondered as he’d scrubbed the grime of his journey away – and tried to persuade himself that at some point he would understand what was happening to him. At last he’d been returned to his room, left alone, the corridor dark.

  ‘Bart!’ A girl’s voice hissed across the few metres of void between them. ‘Hey, you awake?’

  He stopped the memories short and walked to his door. If he stood at the far right-hand edge of the small window, he could just make out her door, and the swing of her blonde hair in the far edge of her own window. Just. Glimpsing more of her had proved impossible. If either of them moved so that their face was on view, they couldn’t see far enough down the corridor themselves to make contact. Seeing that hair, those long – if blurred – swinging strands, was the closest he’d come to feeling sane since waking up on the container ship.

  ‘I’m here,’ he stage-whispered back. The guards didn’t stand in their corridor at night. Their conversations had so far not been discovered. He had no idea what the penalty might be if they were overheard, but the risk seemed worth it. He had called to her as soon as the guard had left him alone that first night. She’d been slow to respond, terrified of the repercussions. Bart had spent the next thirty minutes standing at his window, sipping water, talking to her, trying to draw her out, telling her about himself and what had happened to him. If nothing else, if the girl survived and he did not, he figured that she might one day be able to tell his mother what had happened to him. But she had spoken, eventually. Not that what she’d said to him was in any way reassuring, other than to have someone sitting beside you on your metaphorical boat trip to hell. ‘Skye, you okay?’

  Ther
e was a sob and a cough. Skye Kelso was terrified. Bart knew how that felt, only she’d been there longer than him, and her previous fellow abductee was gone with no explanation. He had tried, without success, to get Skye to talk about it.

  ‘I have a cat,’ Skye said. ‘I didn’t tell you that, did I?’

  ‘No,’ Bart whispered. ‘What’s its name?’

  ‘Squash,’ she said. He could hear the smile in her voice. That was good.

  ‘What colour?’ he asked.

  ‘Tabby, obviously.’ That time she actually laughed. It was the first time she’d done so since they’d begun speaking, perhaps the first time in weeks – she’d lost track of how long it had been since she was taken – and he felt as if he’d scored the winning try at Murrayfield against the All Blacks. Rugby, he thought to himself. I used to love rugby. Used to. How had the tense changed so fast?

  ‘What about you? Any pets?’ she followed up.

  ‘No. I had goldfish for a while when I was six. They all ended up swimming with the fishes – can you say that about actual fish or does it not work?’

  She rewarded him with another laugh.

  ‘You’re funny,’ she said so softly he had to jam his ear against the glass to hear.

  ‘Tell me what you look like,’ he said. ‘I want to be able to imagine your face.’

  ‘Okay, I’m five seven and a size ten, so average figure, I guess. Blonde hair down to my shoulder blades. I’ve been thinking about getting it cut though.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Bart said quickly. ‘Not ever.’ Seeing her hair was the only good memory he had now.

  ‘I have blue eyes, which makes me sound more glamorous than I am. In reality they’re a sort of muddy blue-grey. And my eyelashes are too thin so I have to wear tons of mascara otherwise I sort of fade into a pale mess in photographs.’