Perfect Remains Read online

  It had taken immense physical effort to cart her into the hidden room. Down one set of stairs and up another had seemed like a genius plan when he’d conceived it. The reality was more cumbersome. Several times he’d banged her head hard on the steps, not that it mattered. He’d kept her body wrapped in plastic, but allowed her to breathe. Asphyxiation wasn’t the plan.

  Elaine hadn’t liked it when he’d brought the girl in. Perhaps the tiniest hint of jealousy behind the melodramatic hyperventilation and wide-eyed head shaking, he’d thought. How could she ever have believed he would bring such a filthy, low creature into their lives?

  King had returned the woman to consciousness long enough to obtain details of past fractures. Previous injuries could tell tales. The thickening of bones long after they’d healed could reveal an unhelpful story, even if all the DNA had been destroyed. She’d been remarkably forthcoming. He’d just had to promise he’d let her live if she provided the information he wanted.

  In the event, there wasn’t much to be concerned about. A finger broken in a car door and a dislocated shoulder that wouldn’t show up. By far the more important thing was to ensure that the girl’s left upper arm was fragmented where Elaine’s had been fractured after she came off a bicycle as a teenager. If that bone was left intact and the pathologist was thorough, then all of King’s hard work would have been for nothing.

  Once he had all he needed, King had told Elaine to watch and not look away. When he’d put on the protective glasses the prostitute had only looked curious. When he’d snapped on rubber gloves and a face mask she’d begun to plead. Elaine, for once, had grown silent. When he’d picked up the baseball bat, well, that was a different story. He had no memory of Elaine’s reaction for those few minutes. He’d experienced what he assumed was tunnel vision, for the first time in his life. It had been a breathtaking episode. Everything but the screaming, whimpering, dribbling, blubbering pile of living flesh before him had faded out. There had been no peripheral vision to distract him. He couldn’t hear anything beyond her feral cries. It was the most intensely concentrated sensation he had ever felt.

  He’d awoken, and it was an awakening, standing before her, bat clutched in his hands, to find his pulse racing as if he’d run a marathon. It had been quite the adrenaline rush. For a while there was silence, then gradually Elaine’s intermittent sob-screams had broken through. The girl’s face was a mess, as he’d intended. He’d needed to bash every one of her teeth out of their sockets and damage the jaw beyond x-ray comparison for the identity exchange to work. He hadn’t foreseen that he’d get so carried away, he felt rising shame at the guilty pleasure he’d taken, seeing his handiwork in the bruises on her neck and breasts, guessing there were marks on her stomach and legs too, but unwilling to lift her undoubtedly infested clothing to see. He’d lost control – nothing to be proud of – but didn’t he deserve to vent? Better to let it out with her than Elaine. He had no desire to diminish his prize.

  King shook himself out of the memory and stared at the woman whose identity the prostitute had taken in death.

  ‘How are we doing with those tapes? I’m sure you’ve been glad to have an activity to occupy you. I know you already speak French so I thought Russian might be a more exciting challenge. When you’re talking properly again, I’ll test you and we can make some real progress.’

  He flicked a switch on the sound system and a voice began speaking words that Elaine had no inclination to listen to, or repeat. With a baby-soft kiss on her forehead, King placed a protein drink at her side and left.

  Chapter Six

  The autopsy table looked more comfortable than the bed he’d slept in. That was before it was occupied by the remnants of what was presumed to be Elaine Buxton’s skeleton. It had been a bad night. Callanach would have self-medicated with a decent bottle of red, but the only wine on offer had a label with all the appeal of a bargain-bucket binge drinker’s delight. Braemar was a slightly touristy but pleasant village lacking much choice in accommodation and the better options had been fully booked. In the absence of good wine, he’d settled for a dilapidated TV with crackling reception, soup he’d admired only because he’d previously thought it impossible to cook it so badly, and half decent coffee.

  Jonty Spurr, the pathologist, was quiet as he worked. Callanach appreciated that. He’d witnessed too many autopsies to be disturbed by the body. What he found more disquieting was the forced cheer some pathologists had about them. Too talkative, too determined to lift the atmosphere. Spurr was slow, not annoyingly so, but unhurried and probably unflappable under even the worst pressure.

  ‘The victim was an adult female, aged between thirty and forty, I’d say, approximately five foot six.’

  Callanach glanced at DC Salter. She was young but not new to the job and showed no sign of being troubled by what she saw.

  ‘Has the accelerant been identified yet?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll need to do more tests on the bones for that. The fire department might have picked something up at the scene.’ Spurr chose a bone fragment and held it up for Callanach to inspect more closely. ‘The heat and length of time the fire was burning destroyed any chance of getting DNA from the bone marrow. The skull, jaw and upper chest sustained damage not caused by the fire. You can see a pattern of fractures indicating repeated use of a heavy, blunt weapon. Must have taken quite some force.’

  ‘Was that the cause of death?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘I’d put my money on those injuries occurring before death. The resulting trauma to the brain may well have been what killed her. With no soft tissue left, I’m not going to do much better than that. Given the planning put into disposing of the body, there’d have been no other practical reason to disfigure the face after death.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Salter said.

  ‘Indeed,’ Spurr replied. ‘We’re cross-checking the teeth against Elaine Buxton’s dental records. Some have fillings or caps, so it should be easy enough.’

  ‘How soon will we have that?’ Callanach was keen to leave. Morgues made him claustrophobic in spite of the bright light and fierce air conditioning. It felt like a prison cell and he’d had enough of those.

  ‘Maybe as early as tomorrow. Will you still be here?’

  Callanach wasn’t even going to consider another night in the same accommodation.

  ‘No, in Edinburgh. We’re going back to the crime scene to get a daylight view then we’ll set off. You’ll call when you have more information?’

  Spurr nodded, stripped off a glove and offered Callanach a hand. He disliked the dry, powdery feel of it against his own, as if death was contagious.

  ‘Is there any news from the crime scene this morning?’ he asked Salter once they were on the road.

  ‘No. I tried to speak to DC Tripp but mobile reception was poor. He and DS Lively were off to speak with the hikers first thing, but they should be back at the crime scene by the time we get there.’

  ‘She wasn’t murdered there,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Surely it’s hard to tell at this stage,’ the young constable commented quietly.

  ‘Why bother taking her so far to kill her? It makes no sense. It may be the perfect site to dispose of a body, but it’s not a comfortable or convenient place for playing out his fantasy about her death. A great deal of time passed between her disappearance and the corpse turning up, time the murderer spent elsewhere with the victim. Whoever abducted her had this place in mind for weeks, if not months.’

  An hour later the bothy was back in sight. Forensic investigators were shouting to one another, the excitement plain on their faces. Callanach was out of the car before Salter could put on the hand brake.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked a passing officer.

  ‘The dogs tracked a weapon some distance away, buried under a pile of stones.’ Callanach watched the back slapping among the handlers.

  There would be no fingerprints, he thought. A man who found such a perfect place to destroy a body didn’t
leave prints.

  ‘Good news, right, sir?’ came Tripp’s voice from behind him.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve got,’ Callanach replied. Tripp wiped the smile off his face and looked down at his notebook.

  ‘The hikers repeated what they’d said in their statements. Oliver Deacon and Tom Shelley, both in their early twenties, had been hiking for about three hours, reached the midway point in their route and saw the blaze from’ – he looked around, identified a peak and pointed into the distance – ‘over there. They had binoculars and took photos with their phones, not that they show anything except a distant orange dot. I’ve drawn a map of their route.’

  Callanach nodded. ‘We’ll head back to Edinburgh tonight,’ he said. ‘If I authorise any more overtime, I’ll have no job to get back to.’

  Two hours later, they were fighting the city traffic.

  ‘Something wrong, sir?’ Tripp ventured after dropping Salter home.

  ‘I think so,’ Callanach replied. ‘I just don’t know what yet.’

  ‘We’ll be taking over the case, will we, if it proves to be Elaine Buxton’s body?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve cleared it with the Detective Chief Inspector. Take me straight to the station.’

  The Major Investigations Team offices were all but deserted. Callanach liked being alone. He could concentrate, undisturbed by slamming doors, the hiss and gurgle of drinks machines and the constant undertone of voices. Quiet was uncomplicated. And it delayed returning to his flat. Somehow the act of unlocking that door would make his transition to working and living in Scotland real. He longed for France, for the culture that ran in his blood. Having one Scottish parent and being fluent in the language was no substitute for the country that had been his home for all but the first four years of his life. Even the cloud under which he’d left hadn’t tainted his memories of Lyon.

  He opened a box and began dumping the contents into drawers.

  ‘So was your trip to the Cairngorms worth the bollocking it’s going to get you?’ came a voice from the doorway. Startled, he dropped a file, getting a laugh from his fellow detective inspector. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t meant to scare you. Apparently Interpol agents are easily caught unawares.’

  Callanach retrieved the file from the floor, frowning as he reordered the paperwork.

  ‘DI Turner, I’d assumed I was alone.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly one in the morning.’

  ‘I practise my best paperwork avoidance at night. No one here to chase me for it. That and the fact that I’ve done so many night shifts, my brain has long since ceased to differentiate between dark and light,’ she said. ‘What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I thought I might as well unpack before I’m dismissed,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘I’ve got some single malt in my office. We could toast your welcome and goodbye in one sitting.’ Callanach pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and breathed in slowly, aware that he was gritting his teeth as he tried to find the least offensive form of words he could. ‘Don’t worry,’ Ava said. ‘You’ve had a long couple of days. Some other time.’

  ‘I just don’t believe that socialising at work is sensible. Maintaining professional boundaries is important.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve hit the ground running. Probably best to leave the unpacking ’til morning.’

  He ran a hand through his hair and stretched his neck. ‘Look, you’re right, I do need a drink.’

  ‘No, I think you were right. One in the morning is no time to be here. I’m going home. You should too, judging by the look of you. Goodnight.’ She let his door swing softly shut as he swore under his breath. He could have handled that better. It was time to face his apartment, accept that life had moved on and that he had to move with it.

  Chapter Seven

  Edinburgh had been the closest Callanach could get to Lyon, in Scotland. It had the feel of a town, in spite of its size and busy economy, and a history its inhabitants celebrated. The city was easy to love with its sympathetic blend of old and new architecture and a population that seemed to have embraced different races and cultures whilst maintaining its own heritage. If they could only control the wind chill factor, he thought, it would be ideal. Callanach had rented a flat in Albany Street. A hundred years ago, it would have been a grand old terraced house, set over four floors, home to one of Edinburgh’s elite families. These days, the inhabitants were busy professionals who would come and go through the central hallway, marking the nearness of their lives with only a raise of eyebrows or curt greeting. He found it wasteful, how little communication passed between neighbours. It was why dead bodies were noticed only by their unbearable odour and how domestic violence could be perpetrated on the same victim repeatedly without intervention. Good neighbours enabled good policing.

  He poured a large glass of red wine and picked up a book. Reading himself to sleep had been a habit as far back as he could remember. It was the only thing that distracted him from work. But tonight concentration was difficult. With every page, the image of the bleak Cairngorm Mountains reappeared, forbidding and harsh. Winter was approaching. The Braemar bartender had told them the town would be full of skiers and snowboarders at the first flakes. It was a couple of weeks off yet, but December would bring snow to the peaks. The crowds of summer hikers were long gone, high winds and rain deterring all but the hardiest. The killer’s timing, then, was either planned to perfection or lucky beyond the very best of odds.

  Callanach woke early, realising he had no food, craving the tiny cafe on the street corner near his old apartment where he could eat freshly baked croissants and read a newspaper in French. Instead, he hurried to the only place close by and open, a health food store across Broughton Street, where he was surprised by the friendly reception, and picked up dried fruit, yoghurt and rye bread.

  He plugged in his computer as he ate, wondering what his private emails would bring. They’d been stacking up for a week and he was tempted to simply delete the lot before reading.

  There were administrative emails from Interpol dealing with his departure, requesting a forwarding address for documentation, nothing important. Then there were updates about local events in Lyon he’d usually have attended – a wine festival, sports rally, the opening of a new restaurant – and he pressed delete with a sense of resignation. Much of it was the usual e-junk but then he spotted it, hidden between a wine-club subscription offer and a newsletter from his last gym. A bounce-back notice had come from his mother’s email address. She had apparently moved beyond steadfastly ignoring his communications and taken action by changing her email completely, as she had already done with her mobile phone number. His letters were returned unopened, his landline calls were screened. Callanach threw the remainder of his breakfast in the bin and slammed his laptop closed, immediately regretting how he’d let it affect him. Getting angry wouldn’t change a thing. He was where he was. What mattered now was Elaine Buxton. Nothing else. He had to make the new start work for him. Offending DI Turner the previous evening was a less than impressive start, and an error it would be tactically sensible to rectify sooner rather than later. With the office still to be organised, he changed from his sweats into a shirt and trousers then left for the station.

  Tripp was waiting outside his office when he arrived, looking eager and rested. That was the benefit of being in your twenties, immune to too little sleep and careless of stress. For a couple of seconds Callanach was tempted to send him back to Braemar. Uncharitable, he thought. At least DS Lively hadn’t been waiting for him.

  ‘DS Lively was wanting to talk to you, sir.’ Callanach rolled his eyes. ‘And I thought,’ Tripp continued, ‘given what we learned in Braemar, you might want to visit Elaine Buxton’s flat today, so I’ve organised that for lunchtime, and her ex-husband’s phone number is on your desk.’ Tripp had been busy. Callanach mentally rebuked himself for wanting to send Tripp back to Braemar. The young detective constable was sweetly unselfconscious of appearing too
keen. That was a rarely seen attribute in any police officer.

  ‘Thank you. Where is the detective sergeant?’

  ‘In the briefing room. Shall I fetch him?’

  ‘No, we’ll go to him. Coffee en route.’

  Approaching the briefing room, Callanach could hear the exact conversation he’d suspected would be taking place. The door had been left open, sensitivity not a concern, and Lively’s voice boomed out.

  ‘How the hell did he end up walking straight into a detective inspector post? That’s what I’d like to know. It’s not as if there weren’t plenty of other candidates, people who know the city and understand the people. Rumour has it, some bastard pulled more strings than make a fishing net to get him in here. He wasn’t through the door more than ten minutes before dragging us off our patch into someone else’s investigation.’

  ‘Leave it out, Sergeant, he was just doing what he thought was right for the victim,’ a female voice spoke up. It took Callanach a moment to identify it as DC Salter’s. Tripp tried valiantly to get a few steps ahead and stop the discussion but Callanach put an arm out to prevent him.

  ‘Let it run, Tripp.’

  ‘But, sir,’ Tripp started before Lively began again.

  ‘Go on then, Salter, tell us what you think of him. Some sort of genius, is he, coming out of Interpol and all? Begs the question why he moved here. Maybe the detective inspector couldn’t cut it in the big league and thought this would be a soft option?’

  Callanach booted the door fully open and slammed his coffee down on the desk.

  ‘You asked to speak with me, Detective Sergeant. Is there an update?’ Callanach stared at Lively, ignoring the rest of the crowd.

  ‘They found blood on the baseball bat and some soft tissue on a tooth nearby. DNA from both is a match for Elaine Buxton. Her case has been officially upgraded from missing person to murder. The pathologist’s report will be through later today. And the Chief wants to talk to you.’