Perfect Remains Page 6

  ‘We’re going to do everything we can. You’ve brought us her diary and computer, which will help. Tell me more about the sort of person she is,’ Callanach prompted.

  ‘She’s lovely, genuinely lovely. Not showy or loud, just warm. She has a wicked sense of humour, too. I never expected that from a lady in her position. Just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge. She’s very approachable, always has time for people. But bright, my goodness. Jayne studied at Oxford University, a master’s degree. Always has her nose in a book.’

  ‘And Jayne never said that anything was worrying her? Someone paying her too much attention, maybe?’

  ‘Never,’ Ann replied. ‘If that girl ever had an unkind thought about anyone, she didn’t express it in my presence.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘You’ll find her, won’t you, Inspector? Before anything …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘I’ll do everything in my power to find her,’ he said. Ann Burt patted his hand, a contact he tolerated for a second before pulling away and standing up to see her out.

  By the end of the afternoon they were no further forward. The lab had confirmed that the only fingerprints on the phone belonged to Jayne Magee. Interviews of the immediate neighbours were tributes to the kind-hearted woman living next door and reports of how shocked they were that she was missing. Callanach gave in. He took Jayne Magee’s file and went home, collecting a take-out curry on the way. If that was the missing reverend’s only vice, then it was a good choice.

  Back in Albany Street he ate dinner watching television. The evening news brought Ava Turner’s face before him, appealing for witnesses about a newborn baby who’d been left on a park bench and died tragically from exposure before he could be found. Ava looked like he felt. Callanach hadn’t been aware of the case she was investigating, but any incident involving a child was hard to handle.

  Without thinking about it, he dialled her number. When the voicemail message clicked in, he considered hanging up then gave himself a mental kick. It was time to find allies.

  ‘Ava, it’s Callanach. I appreciate you’re tired and busy, but I could do with a second opinion on the case and I’m afraid you’re top of the list. Actually, yours is the only name on the list. So let me apologise and start again, tomorrow night perhaps, if we’re both free? Let me know.’

  Too caffeine-buzzed to sleep, he opened Jayne Magee’s daily diary. It was shaping up to be a long night.

  Chapter Ten

  The head of the Department of Philosophy had called King in to her office not five minutes after he’d returned to work. She might at least have let him clear his backlog. After three weeks away, the accumulation was frustrating. Could no one have covered his duties while he was away? He may not really have been sick, but his colleagues didn’t know that, did they? Not one call to offer sympathy or concern. And this morning the other administrative staff hadn’t even asked him about it. This was the way it had always been, no reason to expect anything better at this point. Was it intimidation or jealousy, he wondered, as he deliberately delayed by making tea, keeping Natasha, or Professor Forge as she insisted he call her, waiting just a few minutes more.

  By the time King opened her door, she was taking a telephone call and raised her forefinger as if he was a wayward student, keeping him still and silent while she finished her business. Natasha was wearing a dark green suit that emphasised her hazel eyes and ash blonde hair. King hated the way she made him feel. Even though he couldn’t bear to be in her company these days, there was no escaping her beauty. He admired her long, slender neck, with skin that would have flattered a woman in her early twenties. Forge’s thirty-sixth birthday had come and gone yet she was remarkably untouched by the signs of ageing. But King wouldn’t let her affect him like she used to – he had a new world waiting at home that she could never conceive. Like some great Vernean adventure, he would travel into his secret inner domain, moulding it until his utopia was complete. He pictured Natasha there – she could insist he call her Professor to her face, but in his head he called her other names, some she wouldn’t like at all – and felt a desire so strong wash over him that the mug in his hand began to shake. Finally she hung up.

  ‘Sit down, please, Dr King. It’s good that you’re back at work. I’d like you to arrange a speaker for the next evening lecture. It’s only two weeks away so we’re behind with the arrangements. Can you organise it in that time frame?’ She raised her eyebrows at him. There had been a time when he’d loved that expression, her pensiveness. He’d been wrong. It was irritating. He hadn’t noticed then how it created tiny frown wrinkles across her brow, or her patronising habit of tipping her head to the side as she waited for a response.

  ‘Easily,’ was his reply.

  She breathed in as if about to say something more, changed her mind and flipped her diary shut.

  ‘All right. The speaker should address one of our listed titles for the term and we’ll need an outline of their lecture seven days beforehand, so time’s tight.’

  ‘I know the format,’ he said, enjoying her tension. She had her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Little did she know how appropriate it was, he thought. If she could only see what he’d done; all that he’d become. The tailored suits and high heels, her immaculate hair kept short and businesslike, wouldn’t be so intimidating on his home territory.

  ‘Right, you’ll have a lot to catch up on from your leave, so that’ll be all.’ She turned her face to the computer monitor. He had been dismissed. All she’d ever done was dismiss him. King had once put forward a paper he’d spent months researching and writing, offering it for inclusion in the department’s journal, only to have it rejected out of hand. Three times he’d applied for academic posts in the department. Twice he’d been discounted at the first stage. The third time, he’d been selected for interview. He remembered his elation upon receiving the notification letter with something close to shame. He’d worked hour after hour, consuming every volume on philosophy he could find, studying teaching plans, the history of the department, everything and anything that would impress the board. He was finally going to receive the recognition he was owed. He wouldn’t let himself down.

  On the day of his interview, he’d been calming his nerves in the gents’ toilets, splashing cold water on his face. That was when he’d heard those imbeciles giggling together, thinking they couldn’t be overheard in the ladies’ next door.

  ‘What are they doing interviewing him? He gives me the creeps and he’s horrible to the students, won’t give them the time of day. Can you imagine him teaching? I’m not staying here if he’s on the faculty, doing his typing, organising his diary. He’ll probably make us all address him as sir,’ the ugly bleached-blonde receptionist had said. He’d always loathed her. She embodied the worst of young women, concerned only with their grooming and social lives, handing themselves out to the lowest bidder, couldn’t write a sentence without a spelling mistake.

  ‘He’ll probably make us curtsy when we go in his room,’ said another. This was an older voice. Deirdre, King thought. That was worse. She’d always been polite to his face, friendly, even. How quickly women betrayed. Throwing a paper towel in the bin he told himself to stop listening, knowing it was stupid, damaging his confidence before the most important thirty minutes of his life and a chance at the academic career he’d always desired. But he’d stayed. It was the human condition: the need to know the worst, the destructive desire to see how it feels when you hit rock bottom. He’d inched closer to the wall to hear better. The voices were hushed and he’d held his breath to catch the words.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ two-faced Deirdre had hissed. ‘Natasha didn’t even want to interview him but Human Resources told her she should. They didn’t want a challenge to the fairness of their long-listing process. His CV is quite impressive.’

  ‘How do you know so much?’ Bleached-blonde had sounded amazed. ‘Oh my God, I never hear this stuff.’

  ‘I had to type up the notes
of her session with HR. Professor Forge called me in especially to tell me I wasn’t to say anything to anyone, so don’t you go blabbing. I think he makes her skin crawl like he does everyone’s. She’s not giving him the job, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Bloody right,’ the yellow-haired whore had replied.

  King hadn’t moved, not until they’d finished tarting themselves up and he’d heard the ladies’ door swing shut behind them, giggling viciously as they’d trotted up the corridor. When their grotesque laughter had finally faded, he’d let rage take him, slamming a fist into the mirror that was reflecting his reddened face and swelling tears. A second time, then a third, he punched the shattered glass, no pain transferring from hand to brain because everything was black and buzzing and he wasn’t sure what he was doing there, why he’d come, only that he had to get out, get out, get out!

  He’d grabbed a toilet roll and wrapped the paper around his hand until the bleeding was hidden, shoved the fist into his pocket, wiped the sweat and other unthinkable liquids from his face, and marched down the corridor. He’d forced his pace to slow, held his head high, put his dignity back on like a helmet and left the building. He couldn’t remember the drive home, nor unlocking his door and throwing all his notes, all that work, into the bin. He didn’t remember cleaning and binding the fist that really required hospital treatment but that still, in spite of all the abuse it had taken, he could not feel. Nor could he recall falling asleep on his bedroom floor, flat on his back, arms over his face as if blocking out the world that had insulted him so badly, the same room where his mother had spent hours patiently teaching him and his sister algebra, French, chemistry, anything and everything. A whole history in this house. He’d wanted his parents to be proud of him then. Had been sure that even in death, this new career path would make them proud of him now. But he’d been tricked. Lied to. Made a fool. What he did remember, with startling clarity, was waking up and knowing he was better than all of them. He would show them how superior he was, humble every one of them with his brilliance. He would not run, wouldn’t be forced out, would never let them know the humiliation he’d suffered. Reginald King was a man born for recognition, adoration even, and he would not quit until he had conquered.

  He smiled at the memory. What a moment that had been, a pivotal instant in his life. Still, there was work to do before he could progress further. Work that paid for him to live. He couldn’t afford to slack. There were mouths to feed. He filed a faked doctor’s letter with Human Resources, citing chronic gastroenteritis as his illness then fired off a few emails searching for a speaker. He was particularly keen to secure the attendance of a representative from Professionals Against Abortion. That would get right under Natasha’s skin, women’s rights being her regular ride of a high horse. It seemed unlikely that they’d be overwhelmed with invitations to speak at such a prestigious institution as the University of Edinburgh. He would follow up his email with a phone call to them in a couple of days.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent clearing his desk of trivia before a trip to the supermarket on his way home. There were certain women’s supplies that needed buying. Not a chore he looked forward to, but a necessity. He went through the self-service checkout to avoid a nosy employee thinking too hard about the contents of his basket, treated himself to a good bottle of white wine – he might even share a glass with the ladies if they were behaving themselves – and set off to prepare dinner for them. It would be an interesting evening, he thought. Time for them all to get to know each other better.

  Chapter Eleven

  At Ava’s suggestion they were meeting at a pub in York Place, just around the corner from Callanach’s apartment. She’d refused to give him the name of it, telling him he’d know it when he saw it.

  She was right. Callanach spotted the Conan Doyle at the top of the road and knew immediately he was in the right place. Ava had promised to take him somewhere none of the rest of the squad would go, gossip was a price neither wanted to pay for a quick drink. It was warm and welcoming, eschewing the pretentiousness of trendy wine bars in favour of cosy chairs and a relaxed atmosphere. DI Turner was already there, checking emails on her phone and hugging a glass.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Callanach asked.

  She smiled. ‘No, sit down and let me get you a drink. I started early, didn’t expect to find a parking space so easily.’

  ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

  Ava held up the glass mug and he caught the scent of apples and spice in its steam. ‘Mulled cider,’ she said. ‘I can never resist it. I’m guessing I can’t tempt you to join me?’

  ‘Glass of red, I think,’ he said. While she went to the bar, he held her glass in his hands, enjoying the heat of it as he inspected the place. A large painting of Sherlock Holmes’ creator hung above the stairs from the doorway. Callanach wondered what the writer’s personal demons had been, to have conceived such an eccentric hero.

  ‘You’re a fan?’ Ava asked as she handed over a large Cabernet Shiraz.

  ‘When I was young, I consumed his work. It all fed subconsciously into my decision to become a police detective, I suppose. You?’

  ‘I should read, I know, but by the end of the day I’m so drained that concentrating on a book feels like more work. I love the cinema. I go all the time, often to the midnight showings, sit on my own, eat popcorn. It helps me switch off.’

  Callanach raised his glass and Ava met it with hers. They sat in silence and sipped until a barman appeared, placing menus casually on their table.

  ‘You said you wanted to talk about your case,’ Ava said. ‘Anything specific?’

  ‘Not really. I keep wondering why we’re not making progress, if it’s my fault. Maybe the move to Scotland has distracted me. If I’d found Elaine Buxton’s killer, Jayne Magee would be safely at home tonight.’

  ‘You don’t know for sure that the same person took them both,’ she said.

  ‘There are too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. I studied their profiles today. Excelled at school, both graduated with a first-class degree, each highly regarded in their own profession, hard-working, dedicated. And both disappeared from their home without a trace.’

  Ava put her drink down. ‘You must have overseen cases at Interpol where there was no break for ages then something happened and one piece of the puzzle landed so you could see the whole picture. You aren’t responsible for a lack of progress if there’s nothing to find yet.’

  ‘Isn’t it our job to seek out the answers rather than waiting for solutions to come to us?’ Ava seemed content not to answer. Callanach realised the pomposity of his response to what had been a simple attempt at comfort, and opted for changing the subject. ‘Why did you become a police officer?’

  ‘My great aunt was poisoned when I was five, my inheritance stolen and I vowed to find the killer,’ she said.

  ‘Je suis désolé, I’m so sorry, I had no idea …’ Callanach spluttered.

  Ava began to laugh, tried to control it then the giggles got the better of her.

  ‘I can’t believe you fell for that,’ she choked, the laughter starting again and Callanach sat with raised eyebrows as he waited for her to stop. ‘Policing felt like a good match for the person I was in my early twenties. And I probably wanted to make it clear to my parents that I had no desire to get married and have endless dinner parties until I popped out a couple of grandchildren for them. If I had my time again, I’m not sure I’d choose the same path. What about you? It was a dramatic move to leave Interpol and join a city police force. I’m guessing we’re not quite as glamorous as your French colleagues.’

  ‘Glamour is overrated,’ he said, finishing his drink. ‘I’m hungry. How’s the food here?’

  ‘The steak is excellent,’ Ava said. ‘As is the baked brie, which is what I’m having.’

  Callanach couldn’t help but smile. It was an unfamiliar sensation. But Ava Turner was so open and upfront that it was completely disarming. They orde
red and made small talk until the food arrived.

  ‘Come on then, everyone has a reason. Why the police?’ Ava asked as she dipped baguette in melted cheese.

  Callanach instantly regretted having asked Ava such a personal question. He should have foreseen having to respond in kind. His pause was long enough that Ava had fully gauged his reticence before he met her eyes again.

  ‘You don’t have to answer. It’s not a trick. And tell me if I’m misreading this or being dense, but this is the way it usually works. You ask me a question, I ask you one. We bump into each other at work, we get to know each other better so there’s more trust. When we have a bad day, we smile at one another, remind ourselves that it’s all par for the course.’

  ‘I know how it works,’ Callanach said. It came out more brusquely than he’d intended and he regretted it immediately. This wasn’t how he’d wanted the evening to go. He readied himself to say sorry.

  ‘Don’t,’ Ava said. ‘Don’t apologise again. People are who they are. As far as I’m concerned, forcing a square peg into a round hole is a waste of energy. But you’ll have to find a better means of communication than this. Your squad doesn’t have to like you, but they do have to respect you. So here’s the thing. If you don’t say please or thank you to your detectives, they’ll still do what they’re told but they won’t feel a sense of pleasure in working their hardest for you. If you snap at everyone all the time, you’ll drag your team down. And if you don’t let anyone get to know you, whether it’s me or anyone else, then you’ve got no reason to be here because there’ll be no loyalty and no community. And that’s all you have in the police. It’s what grounds you and supports you. It’s the only thing that makes the job tolerable at the end of the day. Feel free to stop me when you want to explain that you already know all of this.’

  Ava stood up, picked up her bag and strode away. Callanach realised she’d left her jacket, grabbed it and turned to call after her. He searched the small passageway of steps leading down to the exit but she had already disappeared. Letting out a stream of expletives he returned to the table, threw the jacket back onto her chair and put his head in his hands. He never used to be this person. On top of everything he’d lost – his home, his career, even his mother – he’d become someone he no longer liked. Perhaps Scotland was a mistake, perhaps he was wrong thinking he could take up policing in a new country and that it would be the way it was before. If he was going to run, he should have run much further and never looked back. Slipping on his jacket, he stood up to leave as a glass of wine was thrust into his hand. He stared at Ava.