Perfect Remains Page 2

  He saw Salter going past his office and stuck his head out of the door.

  ‘Which of the current cases is nearest to resolution?’ he shouted after her.

  ‘Brownlow murder, sir. Culprit’s been apprehended, we’re just prepping the files for the Procurator Fiscal. Preliminary court hearing is next week.’

  ‘Right. I want you, Tripp and two others from the Brownlow team in the briefing room in ten minutes. Organise it. And how far away are the Cairngorms?’ The look Salter gave him was all the response he needed. An overnight bag was required.

  The briefing was tense. The squad he’d shifted from the Brownlow case obviously wasn’t thrilled at the two-hour drive they had coming, nor starting a new batch of paperwork while they were still finishing another. Detective Constables Tripp, Barnes and Salter were led by Detective Sergeant Lively. The detective sergeant was studying him as if he’d just crawled out of a cesspit. Callanach ignored him and gave the fastest explanation he could for what they were doing, then handed over to the officer sent to update them on the missing person investigation.

  ‘Elaine Margaret Buxton, thirty-nine years of age, divorced, no children, worked as a commercial lawyer at one of the biggest law firms in the city. She went missing sixteen days ago. The last confirmed sighting was on a Friday night as she left the gym to return home. Her mother reported her missing the following evening after she’d failed to turn up for lunch and couldn’t be raised on either her home phone or mobile. Her car was in her garage, no clothes or cases gone, passport still there. It was out of character for her not to have checked her emails on the Saturday morning. Her keys were found in a communal hallway. She’s described as incredibly organised, borderline workaholic, hadn’t taken so much as a day sick in the previous two years.’

  ‘Any boyfriend or obvious suspects?’ DC Barnes asked.

  ‘The ex-husband Ryan Buxton is working abroad with a full alibi. There’s no known boyfriend. Everyone we’ve spoken to has confirmed that she was completely obsessed with the law. She was either at the office, at home or an exercise class. We had no leads, until this.’

  ‘Why are the Braemar police so convinced this is your missing person?’ asked Callanach.

  ‘The last person to see Miss Buxton had a photo of her on their mobile. She’d stopped by the gym bar to have a drink at a friend’s birthday celebration. We circulated the photo and listed the clothes in detail. That’s how they came up with the match.’

  ‘Has anyone contacted her family yet?’ Tripp asked.

  Callanach took that one himself. ‘No, and mouths had better stay shut until we’ve seen the body and crime scene for ourselves. DNA evidence is required before we make a positive link.’

  ‘This might be our missing person but it’s not our homicide. What’re we doing chasing up country when we haven’t got so much as a confirmed identification?’ asked DS Lively. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t got our own cases to be getting on with and there’s some detective inspectors on that patch who could work this case as well as any former Interpol bigshot.’

  ‘If that is Elaine Buxton, she was abducted from Edinburgh, meaning there’s a reasonable chance she was murdered here too. I’m not prepared to lose the opportunity of inspecting the crime scene because you can’t be bothered to make the drive. As for any outstanding work on the Brownlow case – learn to multitask.’ Callanach snatched his notes from the table. ‘We have some distance to cover, so get moving.’

  Back in his office, Callanach threw a toothbrush, raincoat and boots into a bag. He considered leaving DS Lively behind instead of putting up with his sour face for the next two days, then thought again. Better to deal with the man than let him win. His squad needed to know from the outset that he wouldn’t stand laziness or insubordination. It didn’t matter what they thought. For the next six months they would criticise whatever decisions he made, right or wrong, until they found a more interesting target.

  Chapter Four

  They met with local police at the rural satellite station in Braemar and were transported into the mountains in a four-wheel drive. Some off-roading was required to get near the crime scene and the weather was closing in. It took another hour to get there. The temperature had dropped dramatically by the time Callanach saw the lights and tents of the investigative team. The only blessing, courtesy of the location, was that there was no sign of the press.

  ‘Who found it?’ he asked the driver.

  ‘A couple of hikers saw the flames from a distant peak but had to walk fifteen minutes before they got mobile reception to phone it in. By the time the fire service had located the bothy it was nearly burned out. Not much left to see, I’m afraid.’ Callanach took out a camera. He always took his own photos at crime scenes. Later, the images would cover his office wall.

  The bothy, more refuge than accommodation, was a stone hut left unlocked for hikers caught in storms or mid trek, consisting of a single room, its rear wall set into the rock face. Callanach guessed the original building dated back a couple of hundred years. Now the roof was completely gone, fallen in once the fire had taken hold, making the forensic investigation painstaking. Even the huge stones of the wall base had shifted in the intense heat. Callanach surveyed the horizon. This wasn’t a place you could stumble across. Whoever had brought the woman here had chosen carefully, made sure it was nowhere near regular trekking routes, and had been inside before.

  ‘Where is the body?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ve collected the bones already, but their positions are marked inside,’ the driver told him.

  ‘Just bones? That’s all that remains?’

  ‘Afraid so. The soft tissue was completely incinerated. We’ve no precise idea how long the fire was burning but it was a matter of hours, for sure.’

  They walked to the doorway of the hut, now ablaze with portable floodlights, and watched as two forensics officers trod gingerly through the dusty debris. It was a grim place to die. A hand on Callanach’s shoulder stopped his imagination from filling in the details.

  ‘DI Callanach? I’m Jonty Spurr, one of Aberdeenshire’s pathologists. Not much left here for you, I’m afraid.’

  Callanach shook his head. ‘I was told you had located an item of clothing. How did that survive when everything else is ashes?’

  ‘It’s not a complete item, just a scrap of a scarf, but the pattern was sufficiently remarkable that one of the constables recognised it as the same as your missing person’s. It got trapped under a rock and the lack of oxygen protected it. It’s already on its way to the lab for DNA testing. Looks as if there’s some blood on it.’

  Callanach frowned. ‘That’s all you’ve got? Surely there must be something more.’

  ‘These are the cards we were dealt, Detective Inspector. Fire is a crime scene’s worst enemy. The accelerant can usually be identified fairly quickly. Unfortunately, it’s a peat floor in this part of the Cairngorms which quite literally added more fuel to the flames. Without it, I’m sure it wouldn’t have burned so long or so hot. The bones are badly damaged.’

  ‘What about tyre marks? There must have been tracks.’

  ‘You’d hope so, but the fire trucks were called in first and tore up the ground. They had no idea what was inside. We’ll get the dogs out tomorrow and do a fine-comb check of the area but it’ll do no good tonight, not enough light left.’

  Callanach took out his camera again and began collecting images of the grey and black charcoal mess of floor.

  ‘Did she die here?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, and with only bones left I may not be able to pinpoint a cause of death, unless the skull gives me something. Many of the bones are broken, the jaw is in pieces. It seems to me though that this was about disposing of the body. Your murderer didn’t want anything left, was probably hoping she’d be unidentifiable,’ the pathologist remarked, pulling off rubber gloves and stretching his neck.

  ‘You believe she was killed elsewhere and transported here?’

&nb
sp; ‘You’re the detective. That part’s up to you. If you’re staying overnight, you can come to the morgue in the morning, see what we’ve got.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Callanach replied, looking around for Tripp. He found him stealing a sip of coffee from Sergeant Lively’s flask. ‘Tripp, interview the hikers, mark their precise position on a map and the time they first saw the fire. I want to hear their call to the emergency services and you’ll need to go to the spot where they were standing to photograph the view they had across to here,’

  Sergeant Lively interrupted. ‘Statements will have been taken already so I don’t see what good that’ll do.’

  The man’s too-long-in-the-job attitude was tiresome to deal with, but far from unusual. Callanach fought the desire to reprimand him and concentrated instead on the matters at hand.

  ‘The number of hours this fire was burning will help us determine the time the murderer left the scene. The height, and perhaps even the colour of the flames when the hikers saw them, might help establish that, enabling us to question local people about unusual vehicles within a specific time frame.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Lively mumbled, not bothering to hide his lack of respect.

  ‘Where are we staying tonight, sir?’ Tripp asked, stamping his feet and shoving his hands ever deeper in his pockets. For all his usual enthusiasm, Tripp looked distinctly uncomfortable in the great outdoors and the freezing cold.

  ‘Ask the local officers what’s around. There must be accommodation reasonably nearby. Tell Salter she’s to attend the morgue with me in the morning and I want Barnes at the scene until it’s completely documented. Feedback from each one of you, every two hours.’

  ‘What if that’s not Elaine Buxton? It’ll have been a complete waste of our time.’

  Callanach glared at Lively. ‘Whoever’s corpse that is, Sergeant, they were almost certainly murdered and if we can contribute to the investigation then only an idiot would regard it as a waste. So unless you have something professional to contribute, from now on you can keep your personal opinions to yourself.’

  Chapter Five

  The landline rang. King studied the number before picking up. It was a local code.

  ‘Dr King,’ he snapped.

  ‘Hello, this is Sheila Klein from Human Resources. I’ve been asked to ring and see when we can expect you back. University policy is that we need a doctor’s note for medical leave beyond three consecutive days.’

  Reginald King sighed. He hated the petty rules and regulations that tied him into his banal public existence. The woman on the phone couldn’t possibly comprehend that there were aspects of his life demanding more attention than his underpaid, under-appreciated and underwhelming job.

  ‘I’m aware of the terms of my employment contract.’

  ‘So, any idea when we might see you or have confirmation from your doctor?’ Sheila asked, her voice trailing off towards the end of the sentence.

  King took a key from his pocket as she whined. ‘A few more days,’ he said. ‘Maybe a week. The virus has gone to my chest and set off my asthma.’

  ‘Gosh, that sounds awful. You know we have an open-door policy. Do call if you think you’ll need more leave. I’m sure the department head will be sympathetic.’

  The Head of School in the Department of Philosophy would not be sympathetic, King thought. She would be as ignorant as ever, and the ignorant always failed to appreciate him. Just because he was an administrator rather than an academic, because his qualifications came from a university she chose not to recognise, because he hadn’t climbed the ranks through socialising and networking, she was not interested in him. Well, the Department of Philosophy could pay his wages while he had some time to himself. Professor Natasha Forge, the youngest Head of School of any department at the University of Edinburgh, would no doubt fail to even register his absence.

  King unplugged the phone. Twelve steps down into the cellar he went, switching on the basement light and sliding a wooden panel in the wall to reveal a keyhole. Unlocking the hidden door and stepping inside, he rose twelve steps back up, parallel to the first staircase but concealed behind a layer of plaster, brick and sound proofing. At the back of his house was a secret space, windowless, silent, timeless. It was a place of beauty. He congratulated himself on how well he had designed it with pastel colours to soothe, with gently piped classical music, and art prints adorning the walls. Unless you surveyed the house inside and out, you would never know the back section existed. It was his island. He recited John Donne’s lines as he took a key to the last door. The great poet was right. He could not be entire, if alone. That was why he had gifted one fortunate person with the chance to accompany him on his journey. As he opened the door, the woman on the bed began to scream.

  Elaine Buxton, recently presumed dead, the bones attributed to her corpse already laid out on an autopsy table, strands of DNA in code form swirling through cyber space so that her death could be formally recorded, cried out until her voice was hoarse.

  ‘Your gums are healing nicely,’ King said. He spoke softly to her. It was a point of pride that he didn’t lose his temper, no matter how much she screamed. Not so with the other woman. When he’d taken her, she’d scratched, bitten and kicked him so hard his groin had been agony for a week. She’d required no delicate handling. She had been beneath him.

  ‘Pleath, ’et me go,’ Elaine mouthed, the tears starting again. That irritated him, as he knew it would any man, but it was to be expected for a while. Until she learned to appreciate him.

  ‘In a week your mouth will have recovered enough to fit dentures, then we’ll commence speech therapy. It won’t be instantaneous but you’re a bright woman. You need another shot of antibiotics and more steroids. Please don’t fight me, I’m only trying to speed the healing process.’

  Elaine began to shudder although the motion made no impact on the metal ankle and wrist cuffs with short chains, binding her to the bed. King took out two syringes. He was respectful when he touched her, would never cause unnecessary pain. She didn’t understand that yet, obviously believing that at any moment she might receive the same treatment as her decoy. It was a shame he’d had to kill the woman in front of Elaine, but it had all been part of the education process. She needed to know that he was capable of being strict. Every pupil had to be shown stick and offered carrot. Knowing that one’s teacher would not tolerate a failure to comply was an excellent motivator.

  He stroked Elaine’s arm with his pale, silky hand. She shivered as their flesh made contact but did not tell him to stop. Perhaps, he thought, she was learning already. That was why he’d chosen her. Months of watching, waiting, consuming her days and nights from the shadows. Studying her. Real study with commitment, not the poor excuse for it that universities accepted these days, had borne fruit. She was perfect. Adaptable. Fast. No husband or children to distract her. He’d seen her pick up a set of legal papers at six in the evening and work all night, only caffeine for company, springing into court the following morning as if she’d slept ten hours. Then she’d go to the gym and work the tension from her body. There was no excess. She was driven, like him. Constantly improving.

  That was why her choice of body double had been so ironic. King couldn’t have found a more dynamic opposite. All he’d needed was a woman of roughly the same age, height and build. The fact that she was a prostitute, stick thin (presumably from years of drug abuse) and barely able to string together a coherent sentence, had made it all the easier to dispose of her. He could have been kinder, but she wouldn’t listen when he’d tried to explain the service she was performing, giving him a life partner who was his perfect match.

  He’d never even learned her name. As it was, she would forever be the missing Elaine Buxton. And Elaine Buxton, erased from the living world, belonged wholly and exclusively to him.

  ‘I could rename you,’ he said. ‘It might be an important part of the adjustment process. Compile a shortlist in your head of say three or four. Yo
u can explain why you selected each of them, then I shall choose the one I find the most pleasing. It’ll be a good way for us to move forward together.’

  ‘You’re crathy,’ she whispered as he withdrew the needle from her arm.

  ‘You shouldn’t use such base terms. But you’re upset and I’ll be lenient for a while.’

  ‘Wha’ ’id you do with the girl?’

  ‘You needn’t worry about her. At the end, her sacrifice made up for her wasted life.’

  Elaine was staring at the area where he’d carefully laid out a vast sheet of plastic for the girl’s body. King had used an old car, hired from a sufficiently disreputable dealership that wouldn’t want any contact with the police, and kept it in a garage away from his home. One night he’d driven to Glasgow, picked up the girl who was soliciting in her usual spot (he’d been there several times to select the right one) and driven round a few streets to find a quiet place for her to earn her money. He’d found that concept amusing, even as he’d pressed the chloroform-soaked rag over her face. Earning money. That was all young women thought they had to do for a few pounds these days, believing that men existed to pay for them, that they simply had to don a short skirt and paint their mouths red. It was pitiful. And she’d wanted to charge him thirty pounds to put her filthy tongue inside his trousers. He was ridding the world of a scourge. He may well have stopped the spread of a dreadful disease by bundling her unconscious body under a tarpaulin and driving her away from her next customer.