Perfect Kill

by Helen Fields

  ‘Detective Inspector Callanach?’ a woman asked him. He nodded. ‘Your friend would like to see you. Please don’t touch him and keep your suit done up at all times. We have some preliminary findings but, until they’re confirmed, it’s not worth taking any risks.’

  Ten minutes later he was at Jean-Paul’s bedside, trying not to look alarmed at the bulging yellow blisters covering his friend’s face and hands. His eyes were covered with patches, and a drip fed into his arm. The blinds were drawn, the only light a pale blue bulb at the far end of the room.

  ‘Jean-Paul, it’s me,’ he said. ‘I’d kiss you, only you look gross. I thought you should know.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Jean-Paul sniggered then winced. ‘Don’t make me fucking laugh, this hurts like a bitch.’

  ‘Have they told you what caused the damage?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t polonium, so the Russians are off the hook, and I’m not contagious. Turns out it was a bit less low-tech. The doctors think they brushed giant hogweed across my face. When I put my hands up to rub it away, my hands got the pollen as well.’

  ‘It’s just a plant?’

  ‘Want to swap places with me and see if you think it’s “just” an anything?’ Jean-Paul held his hands up for Callanach to see. ‘Looks like whoever did this was cultivating it deliberately. Needs a fair degree of sunlight for the plant to reach toxicity, and they knew what they were doing. Clever. It’s natural, legal to grow, cheap, and it takes your enemy down in no time.’

  ‘Shit,’ Callanach muttered. ‘What about your eyesight and the scarring?’

  ‘There are very few cases of long-term blindness. The doctors are pretty certain I’ll recover. The blisters need careful treatment and some scarring is inevitable. Bloody lucky it wasn’t your face in the firing line, right? By now, half of Europe would have been lined up to mourn the tragic loss of your beauty.’

  ‘I could shoot you, and put you out of your misery if it would help,’ Callanach laughed. ‘How’s the pain?’

  ‘I have a morphine option that I’m currently avoiding although I suspect I’ll be making use of it if I want to get any sleep tonight.’ He shifted onto his side, gritting his teeth. ‘I won’t be back on this investigation, Luc. I have to avoid natural light for a while. I’m sorry. You’ll either be assigned a new partner from Interpol or you can work directly with French police. You’re in charge now, though. You know this case better than anyone.’

  ‘I just got a message from MIT in Edinburgh. The other missing person, Bart Campbell, had contact with a woman just before he disappeared. Malcolm Reilly confided in his father about being interested in a married woman. It’s possible both men were being primed by the same woman to gain their trust, and who asked them to keep the relationship quiet because she was, or was pretending to be, married.’

  ‘That would explain the Scottish end of the operation, but what are you going to do about the clinic Madame Lebel mentioned here? You’ll need to establish a presence as soon as possible. Your backstory has to be credible, with paperwork available from a doctor in case they check it out. Even then, you’re not guaranteed contact. It’ll be almost impossible to put a trace on every person who works at or with the clinic to find the communication route.’

  ‘I’ll just have to build up a strong profile and hope for the best. We can’t notify any of the clinic staff. There could be more than one person involved and if they figure out that we’re watching, they’ll just shut the operation down and move on to a different city. I wish this hadn’t happened, Jean-Paul. It was good to be working with you again,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Are you going to cry? Only if you are, it’ll be worth taking the patches off my eyes to see it. I never thought the great Luc Callanach would get sentimental. Now get out of here. You have work to do. If Bart Campbell’s been taken by the same people who killed Malcolm Reilly, he’s got limited time.’

  ‘I’m going,’ Callanach said. ‘Are we okay?’

  ‘You mean today or before?’ Jean-Paul reached for his medication button and pressed for a dose of painkillers.

  ‘All of it,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Catch Malcolm Reilly’s killers and don’t end up dead in the process. Then we’ll have this conversation,’ Jean-Paul muttered. Callanach opened the door. ‘And bring me in a bottle of Pauillac de Latour. Bastards won’t even let me have a glass of red.’

  Callanach left with a smile on his face. One of his friends was going to make a full recovery. He only wished he could be so certain about Natasha’s future. At least he and Ava had reached a sort of impasse, even if wasn’t the conclusion he’d hoped for. Right now she needed to focus on Natasha, and that meant him backing off. At least the geographical distance between them made it easier to bear.

  It took four hours for Interpol to set up a fake medical file with a registered doctor’s surgery in the city, then another two hours for Callanach to study his supposed medical condition sufficiently to be conversant with all the symptoms, medications, side effects and prognosis before he felt confident enough to walk through the doors of the clinic on Villa Curial. He’d been given drops to yellow the whites of his eyes, and was wearing baggy clothes to disguise his muscle tone. The clinic was larger and busier than he’d expected. The internal decor was shades of white and pale green, with wide plastic chairs that combined relative comfort with ease of cleaning. Information posters adorned noticeboards, and there was a hush about the place that had echoes of every medical waiting room he’d ever been in. It wasn’t up to private hospital standards, but it was indistinguishable from most standard doctors’ surgeries. He waited in a queue to be seen, running over the details in his mind, recalling the new mobile number he’d been given. Eventually he was given a wad of forms to complete and told to hand them in to the woman at the end of the counter. Twenty minutes later and he walked slowly up to start the process of booking some therapies. The woman took her time reading his forms before giving him a sympathetic look.

  ‘Come through to our private consultation room, Monsieur Chevotet,’ she said. ‘It’s not easy to talk out here.’

  He followed her into a room with three small sofas positioned in a triangle, a central coffee table holding a candle and coasters, and several lamps but no overhead lighting. He moved carefully, conscious of the information he’d just imparted. Ideally he’d have liked more hours for research, but time was the only resource Interpol couldn’t provide. He had bank cards in his new name with actual money available and an address that could be verified with public records backing it up. Everything he needed, except a firm lead on Malcolm Reilly’s killer.

  ‘Please, call me Luc,’ he said as he sat down. He’d left his first name unchanged to make the pseudonym easier to use, and to avoid immediate blunders if he bumped into anyone he knew.

  ‘My name is Lucille Blaise. I see you have advanced liver failure, Monsieur Chevotet. I’m so sorry. The prognosis?’ She sat, pen poised over her file, her nails decorated with tiny sparkling stones that caught the lamplight and reflected against the dim ceiling.

  ‘Not good,’ he said simply.

  ‘We do ask for verification of identity for our files, and also that our professionals be able to contact your primary care doctor. Are you happy with that?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, sliding the driver’s licence that had been in his wallet for just sixty minutes across the table to her. ‘I already ticked the box about contacting my doctor.’

  ‘Wonderful. Our work here is varied.’ There was a soft knock on the door and a man entered wearing slippers. Callanach couldn’t help but stare at his silent feet as he glided across the room. ‘Ah, this is one of our counsellors. He had a free session so I asked him to join us. I hope you don’t mind. Luc Chevotet, meet Bruno Plouffe.’

  Callanach kept his seat but extended his hand. Bruno Plouffe, complete with silver goatee beard and wire-rimmed spectacles, took Callanach’s hand in both of his.

  ‘Allow me to explain a little about our organ
isation,’ Plouffe said, sitting down. ‘There are individual counselling sessions that range from the factual – often doctors don’t have the time to explain what all their jargon means, talk about side effects of medication, to discuss how a treatment will physically feel – to the psychological. Some patients don’t want to talk about nearing the end of their lives or about the limitations a chronic illness will put on them, but others do. Some patients are single, others want counselling with their spouse or children to help the family come to terms with what’s happening – the options are endless. Then there’s practical help and social groups. Meeting other people in the same position can be extremely beneficial. Treatments such as reflexology, aromatherapy, massage, hairdressers who use only products that won’t inflame sensitivities during harsh medical treatments – we look at the whole you. It costs money, I’m afraid. I wish we were government funded but that hasn’t happened yet. Fundraising only gets us so far.’

  ‘I understand. That’s not a problem, and I’m single with no children, so it’s just me.’

  ‘Then I hope you’ll come to regard us as part of your support network. Have your doctors offered you any hope longer term?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘It’s proving hard to find a donor match, but that’s still an option. Certain symptoms are worse than others. I’m not too jaundiced yet but I’m uncomfortable and my diet is severely restricted. There’s nausea, vomiting, and the pain is getting worse.’

  ‘We have a wonderful pain clinic,’ Lucille interjected. ‘I’ll put in a referral.’ She made a note.

  ‘Are you still able to work?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘I’m a freelance coder. Boring stuff for financial websites mainly, but at least I work from home and my hours are flexible. I’ve had to cut my clients down to the bare minimum but luckily my parents are financially stable and helping out.’

  Lucille held out a variety of glossy brochures.

  ‘Take these, have a look through. It’ll give you a great idea of what we might be able to offer you, together with other clients’ experiences of the clinic and our dedicated partners.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Callanach said. ‘I was wondering, and I know this sounds … desperate, I guess … but I was thinking about alternative therapies. The doctors aren’t offering much and I just want to feel as if I’ve really explored every option. Like maybe something’s been missed, you know?’

  ‘A lot of people feel like that,’ Bruno said, extending a gentle hand to rest on top of Callanach’s. ‘I hope it’s not trite to say this, but it’s almost a part of the process. We’ll go through your diagnosis and of course we can discuss every treatment option that’s open to you.’

  ‘But you’re getting good hospital care,’ Lucille added quickly. ‘The consultant you’ve listed on your form is known to us, and he’s excellent.’

  Callanach left it there. He didn’t want to push too hard and arouse suspicion.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. ‘I’m so sorry. I must sound awful with so many people trying to help me. Half the time I don’t know what I’m saying or thinking these days.’

  ‘Luc, let’s fix a psychotherapy session. You’re in a bad place. The first one is free so we can figure out if it’s right for you. I offer hypnotherapy too, if that’s something you’d consider. My patients find it helps them deal with panic attacks. I have a space tomorrow at noon. Would that work?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘Hypnotherapy sounds interesting. Thank you, noon tomorrow is perfect,’ Callanach said. ‘I’m so pleased I found you.’

  ‘So are we,’ Lucille replied. ‘Out of interest – we always like to know – how did you hear about us?’

  ‘A friend over at Saint-Denis. Her daughter needed some help recently. I won’t say her name. She wouldn’t want me talking about her.’

  ‘Quite, and we appreciate that sort of discretion. Sometimes we’re able to offer a lot more help to people who have open minds and who are able to internalise their doubts. Sometimes when people share the concept of what we do, their loved ones talk them out of it, as if only they are able to help. It’s not a criticism, a family’s grief is very real, but it imposes limits on what it’s possible to achieve.’ Lucille stood up. ‘We’ll have to let you go for today, I’m afraid. This room will be needed in a minute.’

  ‘Of course,’ Callanach said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He gave them both a nod as he left. Out in the foyer, he walked around, peering into the rooms with glass doors. Several corridors led off in different directions. There was a wing for physical and beauty therapies, a clinical treatment centre and other multipurpose rooms that were obviously intended for larger groups, with chairs stacked against walls. Coffee and water machines, boxes of tissues and piles of magazines offered distractions in the waiting area. Rack after rack of brochures and information leaflets filled the space against the front windows. Staff came and went calling first names only in soft voices, and escorting clients to their destinations. It was like any other clinic. Callanach wondered what Bart Campbell’s chance of survival was if resorting to putting himself out there and hoping someone would find him was their best investigative path. Not great, was the honest answer. He sighed, shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and flexed his shoulders. Then there was Natasha. Here he was pretending to have a life-threatening illness when Natasha was in Scotland facing the real demon of breast cancer. He sucked in the guilt-laced irony.

  ‘You okay?’ a subtly dressed security guard asked him. ‘Can I get you some water?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ Callanach reassured him.

  ‘I can call you a cab or walk you somewhere if you need help. It’s no problem, a lot of people come out feeling a bit wobbly.’

  The guard was in his twenties, bordering on overweight and the design of the uniform wasn’t a great look, but his face was kind. Callanach gave him a warm smile.

  ‘It’s passed. I just feel a bit off-colour every now and then. But thanks, I appreciate the concern.’

  ‘No problem. I’m Alex. I’m here most days if you’re coming back.’

  Callanach introduced himself – his fake self – and made a note of Alex’s surname from his lapel badge. Alex Quint. A security guard would have access everywhere, and know everyone. It made much more sense than trying to infiltrate the various departments of the clinic on an ad hoc basis.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ Callanach told him. ‘Will you be on duty then? It’d be good to see a face I recognise. I seem to spend all my time in hospital waiting rooms these days.’ Alex raised his eyebrows but didn’t push it. ‘Liver failure,’ Callanach volunteered.

  ‘Shit,’ Alex muttered.

  It was the most honest and best-stated reaction Callanach had heard since walking into the clinic. Sometimes all psychologically focused and politically correct response training did was water down humanity’s connection to one another.

  ‘Yeah, shit,’ Callanach replied.

  ‘Sure, I’ll be here tomorrow,’ Alex said. ‘Take it easy, man.’

  Callanach gave a mock salute and exited onto the street. By the time he’d rounded the nearest corner, he was on the phone to Interpol’s headquarters, asking for a full intelligence and records check on Alex Quint. He needed some inside assistance, even if the person helping him had no idea who he really was.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  DI Pax Graham looked like a giant compared to the body laid out on the postmortem suite table, and it wasn’t just because of his height and frame, imposing as that was. Ava dragged herself into a disposable fluid-resistant suit and joined her detective inspector and the deputy pathologist. They all stared down at the body. Ava sighed.

  ‘Where’s his head?’ she asked.

  ‘No sign of it as yet,’ Graham responded.

  ‘Was he alive when his head was cut off, or was that done later?’

  The corpse was a mess, and that was a pretty high bar considering where they were and how
many bodies they’d seen between them. Ava rubbed her forehead. The body was lying on its back, a sheet revealing only the section between the man’s waist and his severed neck.

  ‘I haven’t had long with the body yet but the spine is broken in several places and there are large impact bruises on the backs of the thighs, buttocks, back and the rear of the arms. Also broken ribs, three of which punctured the left lung. I’d say a fall, followed by massive internal bleeding. The decapitation looks to me to have been aimed at avoiding identification. There’s very little blood on either the plastic sheeting he was found in, or on the body, suggesting there was minimal blood loss as the head was removed.’

  ‘And the marks on the neck?’

  The skin around the wound was destroyed. Strings of it lay limply against the table, and jagged slash marks went inches down what remained of the neck.

  ‘It’s a sawing wound. The long wisps of loose skin indicate the use of a manual saw, rather than an electric one, hence the scratches where the saw has gone off course down the lower neck. The problem with a manual saw is that the more soft tissue gets caught in the blade, the more it gets tangled and clumps of flesh form.’ He pointed at a large lump of mangled tissue, not that his point particularly needed illustrating. The picture was already clearly drawn.

  ‘How did you conclude that it’s an attempt to prevent identification?’ Graham asked.

  The pathologist pulled the sheet back to reveal the ends of the arms. They stopped at the wrists.

  ‘Great,’ Ava muttered. ‘How long to clear DNA processing and see if we can get a match on the police database?’

  ‘With the amount of work you’ve brought us recently, you’ll need to allow five days. We’re short-staffed and backed up. I’m due in court tomorrow, and I have people off sick, with other reports overdue.’

  ‘Could I see the whole body?’ Ava asked. ‘Just to build up a better picture.’

  The pathologist peeled the sheet fully down. The lower body was intact. A variety of scars and tattoos decorated his skin. Ava stepped forward, taking a closer look at the ink work.