Perfect Remains

  Copyright

  Published by Avon an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street,

  London, SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

  Copyright © Helen Fields 2017

  Cover photographs © Arcangel Images / Shutterstock

  Cover design © HarperCollins 2017

  Helen Fields asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008181550

  Ebook Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780008181567

  Version: 2016-12-15

  Dedication

  For David, Gabriel, Solomon and Evangeline,

  who let me write in a time machine

  where just five more minutes in my world

  is always an hour or two in yours.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  Read on for a sneak peek of Perfect Remains

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  He laid out the body with almost fatherly care, stretching each limb wide, allowing air to circulate freely around her skin. She was ashen but peaceful, her eyelashes bold against the greyness of her face, lips colourless. He preferred it to the way she’d looked when they’d first met. The nakedness was unattractive, splayed as she was, but it was necessary. There should be no part of her left. No aspect of her past, no link to the life she was leaving. This was, in many ways, a cleansing. Very precisely, he aimed his foot above the middle of her left humerus, letting his whole weight bear down on her arm, feeling the crackle and shatter of it vibrate through the bones in his own leg. Only when satisfied that the pyre was perfectly prepared did he take the small silk pouch from his trouser pocket. Tipping the white gems into his hand, he rolled them between deft fingers and palm, enjoying the contrasting smoothness and sharpness, dropping them like pennies down a wishing well into her mouth, saving just one. It seemed a shame to burn such immaculate work but no flesh could be spared. He had soaked the body in accelerant overnight, marinating her, he’d joked, just in case someone stumbled in earlier than expected, not that he was so amateurish that it would happen.

  As a last touch before leaving the stone cabin, he allowed a fragment of bloodied silk scarf to drift to the floor. Planting a heavy rock over it, he ground it into the earth. The grate of a struck match, the screech of ancient rusty hinges, the woof of flames consuming oxygen and it was done. He carried a metal baseball bat a reasonable distance away and covered it with rocks. He’d polished it free of fingerprints but, invisible to the naked eye and awaiting the black light that would illuminate it, a single smudge of blood remained on the handle. A few feet further and he relinquished the final tooth, sticky threads of gum tissue left dangling, then kicked a token sheet of dust over it. That would do.

  There was a walk, not so very far but perilous in the dark, which made it slow. The air temperature was below freezing even in the foothills. His breath misted the sharp focus of the stars above him. It was a fine resting place for her, he thought. She was lucky. Few people left the world from such a viewpoint. Soon enough, the Cairngorms were disappearing behind him in the mist. When the first light hit them, they would turn purple-grey against the sky, barren and rocky, almost a moonscape. He watched in his mirror as the vast formations dipped into no more than shallow hills. This was his last visit here, he thought. A final farewell. It had proved to be the perfect location.

  Edinburgh was still more than an hour away and there was rain forecast, not that it would stop the burning. By the time the first drop fell, the heat would be so intense that only a flood could halt the destruction. His priority was to get home as quickly as was prudent. There was so much left to do.

  The woman had given in more easily than he’d imagined. If it had been him, he’d have fought to the last, would have focused every ounce of anger and bile on resisting. She had pleaded, begged and in the end cried feebly and howled. Life was cheap, he thought, because the general populace failed to appreciate its value. He understood. He constantly pushed himself to the limits of his capability, strove to learn, to surpass. He burned with a thirst for knowledge like others craved money, making it hard to find an equal. That was why he’d been forced to kill. Without her sacrifice, he would forever have been surrounded by women unable to satisfy his intellect.

  He listened to a language CD as he drove. He liked to learn a new language each year. This time it was Spanish. Easier than many, he admitted to himself guiltily, but then he had an exhausting amount of other matters on his mind. He couldn’t be expected to pick up anything more complex whilst doing so much research and travelling.

  ‘It’s not as if I’ve had any free time.’ A rabbit dashed out from the verge. He slammed on his brakes, less from a desire to avoid it than with the shock of the movement in his peripheral vision. ‘Damn it!’ He was distracted and he’d been talking to himself again. He only did that when he was overtired. And stressed. He’d stayed up late arguing. Whoever thought it was an easy task persuading an intelligent woman to do what was best for her, was a fool. It was a challenge, even for a man of his faculties
. The brighter the woman, the harder it was. But rewarding in the end.

  He pulled over at the outskirts of Edinburgh and drank passably warm coffee from a flask. He couldn’t risk going into a cafe. In spite of the lack of interest he was likely to generate – no one wanted to stare at a middle-aged, saggy-bellied man with an unsightly bald patch – it would be stupid to have his likeness caught on CCTV returning to the city along this route.

  The Spanish voice droned in the background until he hit the off switch. It was such a big day, why shouldn’t he take a break for once? A lady was waiting at home, needing substantial care and attention. She wouldn’t be able to talk clearly for a while, in fact she would probably need speech therapy. Luckily for her, he was a gifted tutor in many fields. It would be his pleasure and privilege to assist.

  Chapter Two

  Detective Inspector Luc Callanach wondered how long it would take for the jibes to stop, and they hadn’t even started yet. It was his second day with Police Scotland’s Major Investigations Team in Edinburgh and he’d found himself in a depressingly grey, ageing building that couldn’t have looked less like a hub of cutting-edge criminal investigation. Yesterday had been an easy introduction, consisting only of briefings and meetings with superiors too aware of political correctness to dare crack any gags about his accent or nationality. Those who ranked below him wouldn’t be so obliging. It seemed unlikely that Police Scotland had ever had to integrate a half-French half-Scots detective before.

  Callanach was scheduled to give a meet and greet speech, explain how he intended to operate, and what his expectations were of the men and women in his command. It would be bad enough when they saw him – archetypally European with unruly dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin and an aquiline nose. Once he opened his mouth, it would only get worse. He glanced at his watch and knew they’d be sharpening their collective wits. Keeping them waiting wasn’t going to improve things, not that he particularly cared what they thought of him but he was all for an easy life where he could get it.

  ‘Quiet. Let’s get started,’ he said, writing his name on a board and ignoring the incredulous looks. ‘I’ve only recently moved from France and it will take some time for us to adjust to one another’s accents, so speak clearly and slowly.’

  There was silence until what sounded like, ‘You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding,’ came from the far end of the room, where too many bodies were crowded together to identify the speaker. It was followed immediately by a shushing noise that was distinctly female in origin. Callanach rubbed his forehead and reined in the desire to check his watch as he prepared to tolerate the inevitable questions.

  ‘Excuse me, Detective Inspector, but is Callanach not a Scottish name? It’s just that we weren’t expecting anyone quite so … European.’

  ‘I was born in Scotland and raised bilingual. That’s as much as any of you needs to know.’

  ‘Bi-what? Is that even legal here?’ a blonde woman called out, to the enjoyment of her fellow officers. Callanach watched her watching the others, waiting for their response and saw that she was trying to impress, to fit in with the boys. He waited blank-faced and bored for the laughter to subside.

  ‘I expect regular case updates. Lines of command will be tightly managed. Investigations falter when one person fails to pass on their knowledge to others. Higher rank is no excuse for you to blame those beneath you and inexperience is no defence for ineptitude. Come to me to discuss either progress or problems. If you want to complain, phone your mother. We have three live cases at the moment and you’ve been allocated tasks on those. Questions?’

  ‘Is it right that you were an Interpol agent, sir?’ a detective constable asked. Callanach guessed he was no more than twenty-five, all curiosity and enthusiasm, as he had been at that age. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  ‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tripp,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, Tripp, do you know the difference between assisting an international murder investigation with Interpol and conducting one in Scotland?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Tripp answered, eyes shifting left and right, as if terrified that the question was the start of some unexpected test.

  ‘Absolutely nothing. There’s a corpse, grieving relatives, more questions than answers, and pressure from the top to get it sorted in no time and at minimal cost. Even under the constraints of budgeted policing, I won’t forgive sloppiness. The stakes are too high to let your dissatisfaction at the current overtime rate affect the effort you’re willing to put in.’ He took a moment to stare round the room, meeting every pair of eyes full on, making his point. ‘Tripp,’ he said, when he’d finished, ‘grab another constable and come to my office.’

  Callanach exited the room without farewells or niceties. No doubt Tripp was already getting it in the neck for being singled out, the team was bemoaning their newly allocated detective inspector and bitching about Police Scotland’s failure to promote from within. Policing was the same all over the world. Only the coffee really changed from place to place. Here, he was unsurprised to find, it was bloody awful.

  His office could best be described as functional. It would take promotion to a higher rank before he transcended into actual comfort. Still, it was quiet and light with two telephones, as if somehow he could split himself in half and take two calls at once. On the floor were just two boxes of personal possessions awaiting transfer into drawers and onto shelves. Not that there was anything vital in them. He’d come to Scotland for a clean start. The country of his birth had seemed the logical place to put down new roots, not to mention one of the few places he could apply for a police position as a passport holder.

  Tripp knocked on his door, a young woman behind him.

  ‘Ready for us, sir?’ Tripp asked.

  Callanach beckoned them in. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Detective Constable Salter. Nice to meet you, sir,’ she said, looking down at her shoes part way through the introduction. Her awkwardness was irritating in its predictability. Callanach suffered from the least likely affliction of being good looking to the point of distraction, with a face that could – and had – stopped traffic. Few people understood that it was more burden than blessing these days.

  ‘Salter, take me through procedures from initial crime report, ordering forensics and into trial preparation. Tripp, I want comprehensive notes on forms, filing, the works. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir, not a problem.’ Tripp seemed delighted to be of use. All Salter managed was a downcast mumble which Callanach took as agreement.

  ‘Would you give us the room please, constables?’ a voice cut in behind them. Standing in the doorway was a female officer in dress uniform. Salter and Tripp scattered as she entered and kicked the door shut behind her.

  ‘I’m DI Turner, Ava as we’re the same rank.’ She gave a wide grin, suffering none of Salter’s inability to look him in the eyes. Callanach’s fellow detective inspector was around five foot five and slim. Her chestnut, shoulder-length hair was curly although an attempt had been made to restrain it in a ponytail. She wasn’t beautiful, not in modern advertising terms, but handsome would have been an insult. Her features were fine, grey eyes widely spaced.

  ‘Callanach,’ he responded. ‘By the look on your face, I’d say you’ve been party to something I haven’t. Did you want to share it or am I supposed to guess?’

  Ava Turner ignored the dismissive tone and answered unabashed. ‘Well, I did hear one of the sergeants asking why they’d been sent an underwear model instead of a proper policeman.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ he said.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re used to it. If it helps, the fact that you’re French will be more acceptable to the majority of them than I am.’

  ‘English?’ he asked, as he shifted the position of a filing cabinet.

  ‘Pure Scottish, but my parents sent me to an English boarding school from the age of seven, hence the accent. That makes me about as welcome as the plague.
Don’t worry about it. If they actually liked you at this stage, you’d be doomed to fail. Presumably you’ve arrived with a suitably thick skin. Give me a shout if you have any problems, you’ll find my numbers on the contact sheet in your desk. I’d better go and change. I’m just back from a community awards ceremony and I can’t stand being in uniform. Your team are a good bunch, just don’t take too much shit from them.’

  ‘I have no intention of taking any shit from anyone,’ he replied, picking up one of the phones and checking for a dial tone. When he looked up again, he was speaking to an empty space and an open doorway. Callanach dropped into the chair behind his desk. He took out his mobile, programmed in a few of the more important numbers from the contact sheet and was just considering emptying the first of his boxes when Tripp bundled in.

  ‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but we’ve just had a call from an officer at Braemar. They’ve found a body and are asking to speak with someone about it.’

  ‘And Braemar is in which area of the city?’

  ‘It’s not in the city, it’s in the Cairngorm Mountains, sir.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Tripp, stop saying sir at the end of every sentence and explain to me how that could possibly be an Edinburgh case.’

  ‘They suspect it’s the body of a woman reported missing from the city a couple of weeks ago, a lawyer called Elaine Buxton. They’ve found a scrap of clothing that matches a scarf she was wearing when last seen.’

  ‘That’s all? No other link?’

  ‘Everything else has been burned, sir, I mean, sorry. Braemar thought we might want to be involved early on.’

  ‘All right, Constable. Pull together everything there is on Elaine Buxton then get Braemar on the phone. I want detailed information on my desk in fifteen minutes. If that is Edinburgh’s missing person then we’re already running two weeks behind her killer.’

  Chapter Three

  Callanach put down the phone feeling weary and decided it was down to the effort of decoding the Scottish accent. He barely remembered his father and, although his mother had insisted he learn to speak English as well as her mother-tongue French, he hadn’t been prepared for full immersion. The sergeant from Braemar managed to mix the singsong cadence with a regular dose of colloquialisms. Callanach suspected it might have been largely for his benefit and, a couple of sentences in, had stopped bothering to ask what any of it meant. He made an idle note of the word ‘haver’. Tripp would have to double as interpreter. In the meantime, Callanach had agreed to consult on a case that should technically speaking have been out of his jurisdiction. That wouldn’t endear him to anyone, additional money and manpower being expended where it could be avoided, but it certainly sounded as if the body in the mountains was Edinburgh’s missing woman.