Perfect Death Page 11

  ‘Not necessary, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Fine then,’ Ava replied. ‘Just one question for you. You met with a man called Louis Jones whilst investigating my abduction. What was your impression of that meeting?’

  Callanach paused. ‘In what context?’ he asked.

  Ava took a breath and tried not to over-react to the hostility in the room. ‘In the context of the relationship between him and the Chief. Only I note that no one thought it appropriate to bring any charges against Jones, in spite of the overwhelming evidence against him.’

  ‘That was a decision above my rank, one I had no say in. Jones and the Chief obviously had a long-standing agreement,’ he said.

  ‘I’m aware of that. I suppose I’m really asking how Jones and the Chief seemed together,’ Ava said.

  Callanach thought about it before answering. ‘They obviously knew one another well,’ he said, ‘in the sense that you can see someone for the first time in several years and fall straight back into an old pattern of communicating. Anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No, thank you. You should go. Ailsa doesn’t like tardiness,’ Ava said.

  He shut the door behind him and Ava reached into her pocket to touch the fifty-pound note. Louis Jones had been burgled and was missing, possibly injured in a car crash. The Chief was dead, a huge amount of cash secreted in the loft of his house. One of the men they had put away was back on the streets. It stank, but at the same time it was largely suspicion on her part that linked events. Starting an official investigation risked dragging Begbie’s name through the mud with the potential loss of his widow’s pension rights. Ava picked up the phone and dialled DS Lively’s extension.

  ‘What do we know about a club in Glasgow called The Mazophilia?’ she asked. Lively burst out laughing. ‘Want to clue me in, Sergeant?’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, you might be unfamiliar with the term but it relates to a breast fetish. That’s probably all you need to know about the club. I’ve not heard much about it personally, but I can put some feelers out if you like.’

  ‘Thank you. Discreetly, though. This isn’t one for the squad,’ Ava said.

  ‘Got it,’ Lively responded. ‘I’ll play this one close to my chest, so to speak.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Ava muttered, hanging up.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Callanach couldn’t think about what had happened to his mother. All he could do for now, was get through the working day then go home and pack. He needed to escape. From Scotland and from his desire to find the men who had hurt his mother, and to kill them. He had never been a violent man. Irresponsible in his youth, vain undoubtedly and brash with it, but he hadn’t indulged in weekend bar brawls or used his fists unnecessarily. Now, though, he could imagine the crackle of fracturing bones, smell the blood, feel the warmth of their breath as those men panted for air.

  Dr Ailsa Lambert was gloving up as Callanach walked in. She handed him a suit and invited him in to where Lily Eustis’ body was waiting on the autopsy table. With the sheet up to her neck, if you could ignore the seawater grey/green of her skin, she looked asleep. The world had been deprived of so much promise. Ailsa handed him a sheet of paper on which various scientific terminology was listed together with figures. One line was highlighted.

  ‘Tetrahydro‌cannabinol,’ Callanach said. ‘Cannabis, right? Not unforeseeable, in the circumstances. You think Lily went up into the hills to party and it went wrong?’

  ‘It was in her blood, obviously, but the strongest concentrations were in her stomach. She hadn’t smoked it. It was ingested in oil form. Medical grade, Detective Inspector. We found very little physically in the stomach but what was there was incredibly pure and strong.’

  ‘Surely that’s not easy to get hold of,’ Callanach said.

  ‘If you have a rice cooker, can follow a recipe and have access to good quality cannabis buds, then it’s possible to make it at home. You dry the plant in the oven, cover it with a solvent to extract the cannabinoids and filter it. The rice cooker reduces it, then you evaporate excess fluid. You’re left with an incredibly potent oil. In medical terms, a portion the size of a grain of rice will alleviate pain and aid sleep for several hours. Large scale production is quite sophisticated because of its flammability,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘So we know why she fell asleep so soundly,’ Callanach said. ‘Mystery solved. Have you notified the family?’

  ‘I have,’ Ailsa said, ‘but I did so rather carelessly, I’m afraid. Lily’s parents were horrified. Not the reaction I was expecting. Lily, they said, had never taken drugs in her life. She was the sort of girl who would rather go for a jog than take paracetamol. Apparently, this young lady was a vocal anti-drugs advocate, and that included marijuana.’

  ‘They wouldn’t be the first parents to be taken in by what their child was saying as opposed to what they were doing. It’s not as if eating a cannabis cookie would have been a big thing,’ Callanach said.

  ‘I agree but their reaction was extraordinary, so I waited for fuller test results that take a little longer than the basic tox screens, specifically hair and skeletal analysis.’ Ailsa handed Callanach a further sheet of paper, no highlights present at all.

  ‘What am I supposed to be looking at on here?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing. That’s the problem. Lily’s parents were right. I took a hair sample complete with root and I provided the screening centre with bone samples. Either or both of those would have showed drug use going back months, and in hair the length of Lily’s we can go back a couple of years. It has come back blank, for everything. I had them test for every type of drug going. Her parents were right. It looks as if she stayed completely free of even over-the-counter pain relief.’

  Callanach reached one hand out to stroke Lily’s hair. ‘Poor kid,’ he said. ‘First time she tried anything, and this is what happens. Her parents must be devastated.’

  ‘Her parents don’t think she would have agreed to use anything at all, and I’m tempted to agree with them. Lily was about to start her medical training. She was a hard-working, clean living, sensible girl. It’s possible she had no idea she was ingesting cannabis oil. There was also alcohol in her body – spirits – nothing excessive, but it could have masked the taste of the oil. There was food too, consumed approximately an hour before death. A hotdog and something potato based,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘Spread the cannabis oil on the hotdog, cover it with tomato sauce or mustard. You think she wouldn’t have tasted it?’

  ‘My theory is that she was completely unaware of what was in her body until it was too late,’ Ailsa said, taking a bag off a trolley and writing on the label to confirm she was taking it out for inspection. ‘Look at this.’ She took Lily’s jeans from the plastic evidence bag and held them up. ‘Note the zip,’ she said. ‘You remember the mark we found on Lily’s abdomen, where the zip of the jeans should go?’ Ailsa pulled the sheet back from Lily’s body and ran her gloved finger up a line of faint bruising a few inches below the girl’s navel. ‘We photographed it, and blew the image up. The assumption that it was caused by her jeans because she had no other injuries led us astray. Let me show you.’ She beckoned Callanach over to a computer, where two large photographs sat side by side with a grid over the top. ‘When you compare the detail of the zip bruising on her body with the imprint we took from Lily’s jeans, you can see that the teeth on the jeans’ zip are very small. The marks on the body inspected under a microscope showed a larger style of zip teeth with bigger ends than the jeans have.’

  ‘But there are no other injuries,’ Callanach said, walking back over to Lily’s body and looking at the zip bruising in situ on her abdomen. ‘If she was pinned down, wouldn’t there be other bruising or defence wounds? What’s the motive for holding a young naked woman down, when there’s no other assault involved?’

  ‘I can only tell you what the evidence shows me. The most I can be certain of is that Lily was heavily sedated. The zip bruising, without
other wounds, might have occurred as part of a consensual act for example, although the lack of DNA from another person’s saliva, sperm or skin makes that a strange proposition.’ Ailsa packed the jeans back into the evidence bag and resealed it.

  ‘Are you saying she was murdered, Ailsa?’ Callanach asked. ‘I need a clear answer.’

  ‘That’s the thing, dear boy. There is no clear answer. I suspect she was drugged, but then she was neither physically nor sexually assaulted, which makes it hard to establish a motive.’

  ‘Accidental death, perhaps? Couple of kids get silly with some drugs, play a prank on Lily by slipping her some cannabis. It goes wrong, they run.’

  ‘Maybe. That doesn’t explain the zip bruising, though, which must have occurred when Lily was already naked or the impression wouldn’t have been so clear on her skin. The cannabis oil alone wasn’t enough to have killed her. The cold did that. If it’s a murder, it’s a clean one. If it’s an accidental death, a prank as you suggest, there would have been ample time to have called an ambulance or to have got her to a hospital. Someone else was there, and they chose to abandon her. At the very least, this looks to me like culpable homicide.’

  ‘Manslaughter, you think. What do I tell the parents?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘That you’re investigating it as a possible wrongful death,’ Ailsa said. ‘I’ll see if we can match up the detail of the zip bruising with any known items of clothing or specific brands. I’m not sure how far that’ll get you, but it’s all I can think to do.’

  Callanach phoned Ava from his car. Her mobile was busy, so he left a message and contemplated the leave he would not now take. Lily Eustis was owed an investigation. Her family needed answers. MIT was one Detective Inspector down since Ava had been promoted and not yet replaced. Ava was still coming to terms with DCI Begbie’s death, and him taking vacation time would add to the pressure she was under. Leaving now was at best reckless and at worst, selfish. He had been remarkably restrained all weekend, punishing himself for hours at the gym to keep himself busy and sane. If he couldn’t serve justice on his mother’s behalf, in the short term at least, he would make sure Lily Eustis’ grieving family were able to lay their daughter to rest with all their questions answered.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cordelia Muir’s house was predictably lovely. The bulbs inside the house had an orange glow that summoned images of Christmas and family occasions, where feasts were laid out on long tables and group photographs were taken, ready to be added to albums for posterity. He stared across the street, mindful to keep his face shrouded by the shade of a doorway, telling himself he was there to plan and observe, knowing there was an element of gloating to his visit. The front door was freshly painted with not a scratch on it. No sign of a ‘no cold callers’ card in the window next to the door. God forbid. The great Cordelia Muir would never fail to take pity on the lowly and desperate. She would invite those trying to make a living selling cheap toiletries or watered-down cleaning products into her home, offering them tea and biscuits. Buying a selection of their low-quality wares would be a joyful event, a matter of pride for her. Would Cordelia dump her purchases directly into the bin, he wondered. No, stupid, of course not. Plenty of charity shops would be glad of the donations, or perhaps the homeless hostels. He’d resided at a few of those himself over the years. Brief respite from the cruel weather and crueler people. A few bowls of hot soup with bread the supermarkets couldn’t sell at the end of the day.

  He grimaced. Those were the days before he found his purpose. With purpose had come the drive to make himself fit in with the seen, accepted world. Casual work, bank notes shoved into his shoes as he slept to keep the money safe. A bedsit full of fleas, stained carpets, a smell that got worse on hot days. But he’d been able to shower. That meant more access to better paid work. And so on and so forth. Now he could pass for an ordinary man on an ordinary Edinburgh street. He was on the inside. He had a laptop, access to the internet, knowledge of people’s lives that they would be horrified to see if they took the time to look. Unprotected social media sites. Addresses. He stepped further back as the lady of the house passed an upper floor window.

  His car was just around the corner. It was important to make the drive from the house to the hospital in advance, to make sure he was at the right place at the right time. If Cordelia was in an ambulance, they would have the speed benefit of lights and sirens. If Cordelia’s daughter or a taxi drove her, then ten minutes longer. The accuracy of the dosage was less important than the time Cordelia took the drugs. That was going to require some manipulation. He knew exactly the day when he would administer the final, massive dose, having introduced the drugs slowly in her system, breaking down her body’s ability to fight the toxicity. It would be enough that by the evening medical intervention would be inevitable. He had planned it with military precision. Cordelia had to take the dosage between three and four in the afternoon. The average time for an overdose to hit the system overwhelmingly was between seven and eight hours. Exact enough for him to plan. The correct dosage, administered crushed and undetected in a drink, was three and a half grams. Less than two and a half and Cordelia might not respond acutely enough. More than four and a half grams and death might visit too promptly. He knew exactly where he would be on the evening in question. Positioned for the best possible view of the show.

  One of the windows of the brown brick townhouse opened and the waterfall strains of a running bath tumbled to the street. She knew she was ill by now, of course. Cordelia would be telling herself it was a virus, perhaps stress, maybe something that needed treatment but wasn’t life threatening. A stomach ulcer or a bacterial infection. There would be a lurking doubt that it was something more serious but Cordelia would be self-cautioning against fussing. That stoicism was what had given him the time he needed to embed his poison into her body. Positive thinking would kill her in the end.

  He surveyed the density of the late evening traffic, checking the queues at the junctions, spotting Arthur’s Seat in the far distance, a black outline against the clear dark blue of a cloudless night sky. The stars had come out to watch Lily die. It had been almost sublime, he thought. He wished she hadn’t begged for her life. There was a moment when he thought Lily was going to ruin it completely, but that hadn’t lasted long.

  The start of the evening had been mundane. They went to a bar, had a couple of drinks, he persuaded her to eat, pleading an empty stomach that needed filling. She was too polite to let him eat alone, even though his choice of food was a far cry from her usual healthy diet. Another girl might have agreed to take the drugs willingly, seeking out the freely offered oblivion. Not Lily. That was part of her draw. She had no desire to sully herself, so he had hidden the flavour of the cannabis oil beneath onion and relish.

  Alcohol had masked the effect as they’d driven to Arthur’s Seat and walked the hill. He had all the necessary equipment on his back and she, little trooper, smiled all the way in spite of the climb and the cold. Setting down the wood for the fire and the double sleeping bag to huddle in together, the end was already in sight. Lily had become weary as they’d neared the top of the hill, holding out her hand for him to pull her. He wore his thick woollen gloves. How sensible, she’d proclaimed, wishing aloud that she too had dressed more appropriately for the season. ‘I’ll warm you up,’ he’d told her. ‘I’ll keep you cosy all night.’

  The memory faded out as a car rolled past, reverse parking on the street in front of Cordelia’s house. He pulled his hood up, making sure it was far over his eyes and turning sideways to avoid the impression that he was staring at the property. Lighting a cigarette from his pocket, he took a deep drag, one eye on the woman emerging from the car. Her dark skin and extraordinary bone structure were straight from Cordelia’s gene pool. This was the daughter, then. The same age as Lily had been, and just as full of promise. He liked bright women. He liked how sad they were to die, knowing all they had waiting for them in their futures. When the stakes were
higher, the rewards were so much more fulfilling. The daughter all but skipped up the steps to the house, using her own key to enter, calling to her mother as she went inside. He stared up at Arthur’s Seat, relaxing, in no hurry to leave the Muir house. He could almost feel the exuded domestic bliss sinking into him.

  The top of that hill, he thought, was the closest he had ever come to ecstasy. He’d made a small fire as Lily had wrapped herself in the sleeping bag, taking tiny sips from the hip-flask filled with port and brandy to keep the cold at bay. Mixed with cannabis oil the alcohol made your skin feel hot even when the air was ice, spinning your head until the world was an endless merry-go-round.

  ‘I feel funny,’ Lily had said, chin drooping towards her chest. ‘Cuddle me?’ she’d asked.

  ‘One more minute,’ he’d told her, striking a match and dropping it onto the kindling. There had been no point taking more than one log. The fire hadn’t needed to burn that long. ‘Don’t fall asleep,’ he’d whispered. ‘I want to hold you.’ Not in the way she was imagining, of course, but he found language to be a conveniently imprecise tool. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he’d said, smiling as she blushed at his words. ‘I hope you’re warming that sleeping bag up for me.’

  With the fire between them, he’d played at arranging a circle of rocks to keep the flames within, watching Lily do as he’d instructed. Her fingers had grown clumsy by then, he remembered, her actions slowing with each passing minute, but she had been admirably unafraid. Lily had become a woman in that moment. It would have been an exquisite maturation had she not faltered at the last. Her lingerie – white with cornflowers scattered decoratively about – remained on.

  ‘Those too,’ he’d said.