Perfect Kill Page 7

‘Yes, well, Detective Inspector Callanach gets a lot of that,’ Jean-Paul snapped. ‘Could you tell us where someone might get hold of myrrh and what it might have been used for?’

  He gave Callanach a look that was a throwback to days Callanach was happier not remembering, when they’d spent weekends and holidays partying together, and women had been their constant companions. Indrani Desai was far from the first woman Jean-Paul had been attracted to who had seemed more interested in Callanach. In their younger days it had been a source of simple ribbing. Now it seemed Jean-Paul didn’t find it quite so amusing. Callanach himself wasn’t the slightest bit interested. He was only there for Malcolm Reilly.

  ‘It can be anything from just making a place smell good, to a belief that myrrh is an antioxidant. It’s from a tree sap. There are all sorts of claims made about its medical properties, including a treatment for arthritis, neuropathic pain, for asthma and indigestion. It’s generally regarded as being purifying and cleansing; certainly it has antiseptic properties. It can also be used for embalming. Historically, it’s been used for centuries as part of rituals. You know the Bible reference, obviously, but most cultures have used myrrh at some point. Today you find it in candles or essential oils.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Desai,’ Jean-Paul said. ‘I’m guessing it’s easy to get hold of then?’

  ‘It is. Can I help with anything else?’ she asked, standing up.

  ‘Just this. The other chemical found in relation to the body was lanolin. Would that ever be used in connection with myrrh that you’re aware of?’ Callanach asked.

  She paused, twisting a bracelet around her wrist a few times, and frowning slightly.

  ‘The only thing I can think of is that it might have been added to create an ointment, maybe for dry skin, or as a way of applying the myrrh, but you have to remember that myrrh’s medical properties are still doubted by many. There’s not much western acceptance of its uses. It’s more often found in Chinese herbal medicine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Callanach said. ‘We appreciate your help. I’m so sorry you had to be involved in these circumstances.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the boy,’ Indrani said quietly. ‘The look on his face. I assumed emotions would leave your face after death. Even with his eyelids shut, I could read the terror, as if his muscles had frozen. It’s etched into him. I consider myself an advocate of peace, yet for the first time I can see why people call for the death penalty in such cases. Why should the monsters who perpetrate such evil continue to have a place on this earth?’

  Jean-Paul showed the aromachologist out of the building.

  Callanach stood in front of the board in their room, covered in photos of Malcolm Reilly’s body and the building site where it was found. He wrote a series of notes around the images. ‘Organ harvesting?’ ‘Lanolin – uses, sources?’ Then ‘Myrrh – healing, antiseptic, embalming’. The last option made no sense to him at all. Why consider embalming Malcolm Reilly’s body after his organs had been taken from him so unceremoniously, then dumping him at the building site? His body had been used. That was the tragic reality. There was no emotion involved. No crime of passion, or momentary loss of temper. Whoever had taken his life had calculated the value of killing a human being for their own ends, whatever those might have been. He checked his watch. Hopefully Ava would be at her desk soon for him to share what he knew. Not that she’d be in the mood for chatting. Interviewing grieving parents about their dead child was about as depressing as policing got.

  Chapter Nine

  Ava knocked on the Reillys’ door. Eight a.m. was too early really, but if years of policing had taught her anything it was that grief guaranteed both exhaustion and insomnia in equal measures. The Reillys would have cried, ranted and been consumed with every negative emotion in the dictionary until they’d finally fallen asleep, then awoken only to lie in the cold, early dark knowing that every day would start like that in their foreseeable future. Yesterday, she’d let specially trained police officers break the news of the death and remain with the family for as long as their presence was welcomed. They would continue to offer support in terms of answering day-to-day questions. Now she had to try and figure out why Malcolm Reilly had been chosen as a victim, and how he’d been identified as a target. Nine times out of ten that meant causing offence. She took a deep breath.

  The door opened quietly, and a large woman stood, hands on hips, woollen cardigan stretched over a flowery blouse. Her face looked as if it had been attacked by gravity, jowls hanging, bags stretching for the floor beneath her eyes.

  ‘You’ll be DCI Turner. We were told to expect you. I’m Malcolm’s grandmother. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll fetch my daughter and son-in-law. They’re upstairs. It wasn’t a good night.’

  ‘I understand,’ Ava said. ‘Thank you for letting me in.’ She sat quietly in a living room that had become a tomb to a missing young man. They’d been expecting him back, of course. Most young men in their twenties who disappeared suddenly also reappeared. The same was less true of missing young women, but males weren’t as likely to be kidnapped, raped, murdered. Not so today.

  ‘Good morning,’ a man said, walking slowly forwards and offering Ava his hand. It was shaking as Ava grasped it. He looked broken, tall but bent at the shoulders, his hair greasy and unkempt, his shirt untucked at one side. Grief was the enemy of both the physical body and the mind.

  He was followed by a sweet-looking woman, dressed in pale grey – trousers, shirt, jumper, even her socks. She looks like a ghost, Ava thought, literally as if the life had bled from her. The woman tried to smile, but the wobble it brought was too much.

  ‘Mrs Reilly,’ Ava took over. Sometimes it was easier to speak than wait to be spoken to. ‘Forgive me for asking to speak with you at such a terrible time, but I need to know as much as I can about Malcolm and his disappearance. Interpol is working with the French police, and we have a liaison officer out there making sure nothing is missed. I’m in charge of the case at this end. Could we sit?’

  Malcolm Reilly’s mother nodded slowly and turned on unwilling feet to head for a sofa. Ava pulled out a notebook, noticing the photos of Malcolm in ski gear against endless bright white backdrops.

  ‘I appreciate your talking to me. I know the shock of Malcolm’s death is still new. Telling you both how sorry I am for your loss won’t help you, but perhaps finding the person or people who hurt him will offer something more valuable. I want to know as much as you can tell me about your son, particularly about his final day. You’ll have given that information to the police before when you reported him missing, but sometimes additional questions occur to me when I’m listening to people talk, and now that we know it’s a murder investigation I may have different queries. All I can ask is that you bear with me, all right?’

  Malcolm’s parents made eye contact with one another, giving their consent only by not objecting. Ava understood perfectly. Words were hard enough to come by when you lost someone you loved through illness or accident. When they’d been cut open and their organs stolen from their body, what could you possibly find to say that did justice to the explosion of horror and grief your life had suddenly been reduced to?

  ‘He went to the gym,’ Mr Reilly said. His voice was hoarse. Ava had images of the night he and his wife had spent sobbing in one another’s arms as he continued to speak. ‘He went most days, unless he had an injury or needed to rest.’

  ‘That was the twenty-four-hour gym at West Side Plaza Shopping Centre?’ Ava clarified.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Reilly said. ‘He was part of a ski team and they were expected to train regularly. Helps to avoid injuries.’

  ‘Looks like he loved it,’ Ava offered, turning her face to the sea of photos.

  ‘He wanted to be in the Olympics. That was his dream,’ Mrs Reilly said, her face awash with tears. That was the thing about memories. One day they were just ordinary recollections, with more to be made, expectations keeping them in perspective and ready to be replaced. Once death c
ame, those memories were newly precious, gold to be mined and polished at every opportunity, in the knowledge that the total sum of your riches had already been amassed, and that every ounce, every fleck had to be cherished forever.

  Ava paused, letting the Reillys recover, then continued.

  ‘What time did he go to the gym?’ she asked.

  ‘About five thirty p.m. He came home from work, had a bite to eat, then changed and went. He was usually out until about eight, but that night he didn’t come home. We didn’t start worrying until ten, then we tried his mobile but he didn’t answer. We tried again half an hour later but by then his phone was switched off. His younger brother went out looking for him. Malcolm’s car was still in the gym car park but the receptionist said she’d seen him leave a couple of hours earlier.’

  Ava already had a statement from the gym’s receptionist in her file. There was CCTV footage, good quality and in colour for once, that showed Malcolm Reilly looking fit and healthy after exercising, exiting the building at 8.38 p.m. precisely. The receptionist’s estimate had been half an hour out, but no surprise there. It was a busy place with plenty of people coming and going after work. Malcolm had turned left out of the main doors, bag slung over his shoulder. By then he’d changed out of his gym gear into jeans, a T-shirt and a green jacket – there was footage of him on the running machine earlier for comparison – his hair still wet from the shower, then he’d gone to the coffee shop cum bar. That was at about 8 p.m. No CCTV in there but a few regulars and staff had noticed him going in.

  ‘Did he tell you he was going to go to the coffee shop afterwards?’ Ava asked.

  ‘No.’ Mr Reilly shook his head. ‘But he was well known at the gym. He’s been a member there for more than two years. He often met friends and went for a drink or bite to eat afterwards.’

  ‘Anyone in particular he hung out with regularly?’

  ‘Why did they take his insides?’ Mrs Reilly blurted, suddenly standing up, fists clenched and pressed into her stomach. Her husband turned his gaze to the floor. ‘Even his eyes, for God’s sake!’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Ava replied gently. ‘I think that if we can figure out the motive for doing that, we’ll be able to catch Malcolm’s murderer.’

  ‘So are we supposed to bury only half of him, and do what … add the rest when you find the missing pieces?’ Mrs Reilly went on.

  ‘I’m afraid we need to keep Malcolm’s body at the mortuary until the matter is resolved. We can transfer him back to the UK if you’d feel more comfortable having him in Edinburgh. We’re not going to rest until we get answers for you.’

  ‘He’d met someone,’ Mr Reilly announced, at little more than a whisper.

  His wife whipped her head round, the fastest Ava had seen her move since arriving.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Mrs Reilly asked.

  Her husband rubbed a hand across his forehead.

  ‘He asked me not to tell you. I don’t know much about it myself. Just that he’d met a woman he rather liked a few times, but that he wasn’t sure it was going anywhere.’

  ‘Why not?’ Ava asked.

  ‘Why was I not to be told?’ Malcolm’s mother followed up.

  ‘I gather she was married, or engaged, or something. Malc was vague about it. He wouldn’t tell me her name. I got the impression she’d asked him not to talk about her.’

  ‘Why exactly?’ Ava pressed.

  ‘He said something about how she wouldn’t like him talking about her. I overheard him on the phone one day. Malcolm had sounded excited, younger than normal. He was quite reserved usually, so I asked who it was. I think he wanted to tell me more but was torn.’

  ‘You should have told me anyway,’ Mrs Reilly said. It was an accusation.

  ‘Malcolm knew you’d disapprove. He didn’t want to upset you. Neither did I.’

  ‘And what if she had something to do with all of this? If I’d known, if you’d told me …’

  ‘How could some woman he liked have taken him to France? His passport’s still in his drawer. And why would she do that? It makes no sense. That’s why I didn’t say anything before. It’s ridiculous,’ he declared, banging his fist against his leg.

  Ava gave them both a moment to calm down.

  ‘Which phone did you hear Malcolm talking to this woman on, and when?’ she asked.

  ‘His mobile. It was never found after he disappeared. As for when, that would have been about ten weeks ago. It was a Sunday afternoon,’ Mr Reilly said.

  ‘So two weeks before he disappeared, then. I’ll check his mobile call logs with his telecom provider. I don’t suppose you know where he met this woman?’

  ‘I don’t, but he was keen on her, and he obviously thought she felt the same or I don’t think he’d have mentioned her to me at all. It couldn’t have been her, could it?’ He stared into Ava’s eyes, looking for more than information. Wanting affirmation, reassurance, perhaps forgiveness.

  ‘We have to cover all angles when we investigate. I’ll do my best to locate this woman. Until then, it’s best not to torture yourselves with hypotheticals. I’ll leave you to it. If you think of anything else, please do get in touch.’

  ‘How could you keep that from me?’ Mrs Reilly hissed at her husband. ‘He was my son, I had a right to know.’

  ‘It was nothing, please, Anne, don’t upset yourself …’

  ‘Don’t upset myself?’ she raged, looking around the room before choosing the nearest object to seize. It was a vase. Her husband looked on in silence as it smashed in the fireplace. ‘My boy was gutted like a fish, and you’re asking me not to upset myself? What is it that you want me to do? Sit in bed quietly and cry into a hankie? What if this woman’s husband found out about them and decided to get rid of Malcolm? Did you think of that?’

  ‘No … no, I’m sure Malcolm wouldn’t have let it get that far.’

  ‘Mrs Reilly,’ Ava said. ‘I understand—’

  ‘No you don’t,’ Malcolm Reilly’s mother screamed. On the final word she aimed an open palm at Ava’s face, slapping hard enough for Ava’s neck to crack as her head whirled round. ‘Oh my God. I’m sorry. Oh my God,’ she gasped, falling to her knees.

  Ava took to the floor beside her, taking Malcolm’s mother’s hands in her own, gently stroking the hand that had slapped her.

  ‘You’re right,’ Ava said. ‘I don’t understand. It’s okay. The worst thing is, I know that I never want to have to understand, not fully. I never want to be feeling what you’re feeling now. That’s why I do this job. I want to make sure that as few people as possible have to go through what you’re experiencing. All I can promise is that I’ll do my best, and that I’ll make everyone else do their best, and I won’t stop until I can give you answers.’

  Mrs Reilly drew herself into a ball, rocking back and forth, eventually letting her husband kneel next to her and wrap her in his arms. Ava suspected they would be there, on that cold wooden floor, for an awfully long time. She let herself out.

  An hour later Ava was at home changing out of her uniform. In spite of the Major Investigation Team’s non-uniform policy, she had always felt more comfortable treating visits to the recently bereaved with the utmost formality. That mark of respect was the least she could offer. The rest of the day was going to be briefings and normal graft, though, and her jeans were beckoning. She was almost ready to leave for the station when her doorbell rang. Ava sighed. Her cheek was still raw from the monumental slap dealt by a grieving mother. The blow had been well delivered, and while Ava didn’t resent it at all, it had left fingermarks that would be like carrying a physical part of Malcolm Reilly with her for the rest of the day. Fitting perhaps, given that so much of him was actually missing. She wandered towards the door, feeling less than charitable towards whoever was out there, ringing her doorbell so persistently.

  ‘Hey you,’ a voice said, as Ava began to open the door. ‘I was hoping you might be here.’

  ‘Natasha
,’ Ava said, stepping back to let her best friend in, grinning at the unexpected visit. They didn’t see each other often enough, and exchanging texts hardly did justice to the number of years they’d had each other’s backs. It couldn’t be helped. Natasha was Head of Philosophy at Edinburgh University, not to mention chairing numerous panels and writing articles. The two of them almost never managed to make their free evenings coincide. ‘You just caught me,’ she checked her watch, ‘but I’ve got time to put the kettle on. God, it’s good to see you.’

  Natasha turned, shrugging off her coat slowly and putting it carefully on a hook before following Ava into the kitchen.

  ‘You mean you’ve actually got milk in your fridge that’s in date?’ Natasha smiled.

  ‘You’re so rude. I’m pretty sure I have.’ She opened her fridge door and peered at the label on a milk carton. ‘Aha, see, still good until tomorrow. Now you’ll have to apologise!’

  ‘Apologise my arse,’ Natasha said, sitting down. ‘Ava, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes, please, anything. I’ve had a bloody awful morning so far. Seriously, probing grieving parents for details of their child’s life at the worst possible moment. You know it’s going to be bad, but nothing prepares you for the sense of devastation.’ She stretched her arms waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Want some toast?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m not hungry. Sit down with me.’

  ‘No time.’ Ava grabbed a hairband from her pocket and tied her long, curly brown hair up high on her head. ‘I’ve got two different teams working up cases, one here and one in France. Thank God Luc was already there or I’d have lost two officers to liaison posts.’

  ‘Ava,’ Natasha said firmly. ‘I have cancer.’

  Ava looked at her, frowned as she half smiled, shook her head.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I found a lump in my left breast a month ago. The doctor was great, referred me straight to the hospital. The consultant’s been amazing. They operated two weeks ago, removed a sample and did a biopsy. I got the results yesterday afternoon.’