Perfect Remains Page 9

  ‘If this isn’t a copycat, and that seems almost impossible in the circumstances, then the two mothers have met, agreed to do this together. They are making a point,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Which would be?’ Ava asked.

  ‘The public disposal of the children,’ Callanach said. ‘So maybe they never wanted them in the first place?’

  ‘You’re thinking rape victims,’ she murmured.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Callanach said, ‘but there are other possibilities to consider. Often women who are trafficked whilst pregnant have their babies taken from them forcibly. That might explain the lack of complaint from the mothers.’

  ‘It might, but there’d be no point the traffickers leaving the bodies to be found. It just puts the DNA on file. It’s something to think about. Why is it easier to see other people’s cases so much more clearly than your own?’

  ‘Distance and perspective,’ Callanach said. ‘I, on the other hand, have a faceless kidnapper turned murderer who plans everything to perfection, suggesting an elevated ability to control his emotions and behaviour, but who talks to himself in public, presumably without even realising it.’

  ‘Internal debate and subconscious reassurance,’ Ava said. ‘He’s lonely, has no one to talk to or to validate his behaviour. There’s a theory that we need people to challenge us as much as to praise us, so that we can justify and reason. People lacking that create a second voice, an out loud voice.’

  ‘Do you think that’s why he took Elaine and Jayne?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ Ava replied.

  ‘Why not?’ Callanach shifted his chair closer to Ava and away from the previously arguing couple who’d progressed to making up, and were engaging in louder than necessary kissing.

  ‘If he wants them for company, why kill them?’ Ava asked.

  ‘He’s only killed one of them, so far,’ Callanach said, ‘but if you’re right about the motive for the abduction then there’s a chance Jayne Magee is still alive, no?’

  They were interrupted by a scuffle at the door. A cursing, drunken twenty-something burst through followed by a couple of mates equally worse for wear, all staggering towards the loved-up couple on the next table.

  Callanach glanced at the barmaid who was looking around for help.

  ‘What the fuck, Suze? I still love ya. Tell me you’re no’ gonna marry this wee piece o’ shite?’

  ‘Aw, Gary, really?’ the girl answered, looking bored rather than perturbed. ‘I’ve told you, and my dad’s told you. You need to keep away from me. It’s over.’

  ‘I know you still love me. Ye said you’d always love me. And he’s an insurance salesman. What sort of pissy job is that?’

  Callanach raised his eyebrows at Ava who huffed and finished her drink.

  ‘You should leave now, pal,’ the insurance salesman-cum-fiancé declared, although he sounded more self-assured than he looked.

  ‘I’ll go when my girlfriend tells me to go. You’ll keep your gob shut, if you know what’s good for you. Come on, Suze, we need to talk outside.’

  The ex grabbed Suze’s arm and began pulling her up from her seat. There was a visible shuffling back from the crowd who’d grown silent to listen.

  ‘I don’t want to go outside with you. I don’t want to do anything with you. We’re done. I love Robert.’

  ‘You’re comin’ outside to talk this through. You’ve gotta learn to see sense, woman.’

  The ex pulled harder, ripping the arm of Suze’s dress and leaving an angry red mark when she tore away from him. She rubbed the reddened skin, tears in her eyes, then the hurt turned to fury and she spat in his face.

  ‘You stinking bitch,’ the ex shouted.

  Callanach stood up.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Ava told him.

  ‘He’s going to hurt her,’ Callanach said.

  ‘If you do it, there’ll be a police brutality complaint. If it’s me, the humiliation will stop him from even considering reporting it.’

  Ava stepped forward between Suze and her ranting former partner.

  ‘You need to go home. This doesn’t seem like the right time or place,’ Ava said quietly.

  ‘Who the hell are you? Get out of my face. This is none of your business.’

  ‘You’re right, it’s not. But I was having a quiet drink and it seems to me that no one wants there to be a fight here. So what do you say? How about cooling off with a long walk?’

  ‘How about you step aside before I use your face to mess up little Robert over there?’

  ‘I don’t recommend it,’ Ava said, her voice not raised a notch above her original volume.

  ‘Come on then, you stuck-up cunt,’ the ex said, launching himself towards her.

  Ava seemed barely to move, but she avoided the attack by shifting her body slightly to one side and grabbing his outstretched arm, pulling it downwards. At the same time, she lowered her centre of gravity, stepped to the man’s side and swept her leg under one of his ankles, tripping him face down onto the floor. Callanach didn’t have time to even contemplate intervening. Watching Ava work was riveting. She followed through by landing her own body onto the drunken idiot’s, pushing her backside into his side as she immobilised his arms and leaned towards his head. Despite his best efforts to struggle, it was apparent that he wasn’t going anywhere until Ava let him. What began with a few appreciative whispers turned into whistling and then outright laughter at the spectacle.

  ‘Do you boys want to take your friend home now?’ Ava asked the backup yobs who were staring in a way that suggested they had no desire to experience any of the same.

  ‘Aye, we’ll see to it,’ one of them muttered.

  ‘And are you going to go calmly or do we need to spend a bit more time on the floor first?’ Ava asked.

  ‘I’ll go. She’s no’ bloody worth it anyway.’ Ava stared a moment longer, checking for any hidden signs of ongoing struggle but it was over. A couple of minutes later and the kerfuffle was done, the crowd back to ordering drinks and texting.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Ava asked Callanach.

  ‘Thank you,’ Suze called as they made their way out.

  ‘Stick with Robert and avoid the ex for a while,’ Ava replied, letting the door swing shut behind her. ‘I’ve got beer stains on my trousers. Bloody typical. It’s a good job I never buy dry-clean-only clothes.’

  ‘Well, that was unexpected,’ Callanach said. ‘Police training?’

  ‘Jiu jitsu. My mother expected me to do finishing classes in the evenings when I was a teenager. I would rather have stuck fishing hooks in my eyes. The compromise was that for every class I took, she had to pay for me to do an activity of my choice.’

  ‘That must have made for an interesting CV.’

  ‘I can now pour perfect drinks, play the drums, get into a sports car without fear of flashing my underwear, not disgrace myself in a fight, entertain diplomats at dinner, and I have yet to be beaten by a man at darts.’ Ava laughed. Callanach was never sure when she was joking and when she wasn’t. He liked that about her. ‘And thanks for not stepping in. It’s nice not to be patronised.’

  ‘I saw the beer on the floor,’ Callanach said. ‘Unlike you, I quite often buy dry-clean-only clothes.’

  ‘Well, that’s an improvement,’ Ava laughed. ‘Nice to know you are actually capable of joking around.’

  ‘What makes you think I was joking?’ Callanach asked, as he opened a taxi door for her.

  The next day, Callanach gave his first broadcast press conference in Scotland. The Reverend Magee’s father spoke first, urging anyone with information to come forward, explaining his daughter’s extraordinary love of life and her overwhelming capacity for forgiveness and understanding. With Jayne’s face firmly lodged in every viewer’s mind, Callanach did the rest.

  ‘We have reason to believe,’ he began, ‘that Jayne is very much alive. Links to the Elaine Buxton murder have not been established and I would remind everyone that this rema
ins an abduction. In the coming days, we may be asking to search properties and outbuildings within a specific radius of Ravelston Park and would be grateful for the public’s cooperation.’

  A police press officer took over and gave the crime line number and email address, not that Callanach was expecting much. The abductor had been too clever. It was time to force his hand. Hopefully he would try to move her, panic and make a mistake, up-sticks and disappear so that someone else – a landlord, a postal worker, a colleague – would report him missing. Callanach had to make him feel the pressure of the hunt. If the press interest died down too soon, the chances were that they wouldn’t find her at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reginald King ripped up the slip of paper and threw it in the bin. There was no representative of Professionals Against Abortion available to speak at the departmental lecture. They couldn’t exactly be in hot demand, he thought. It’s not as if theirs was a popular ideology. Natasha was expecting a name and details about the lecture. He remembered how blasé he’d been about finding a speaker and cringed. She would sigh, he knew, not voicing her disappointment, letting her face show it instead.

  Professor Forge looked up when he entered her office, too busy to even pretend to smile.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get the name of the speaker from you, Dr King and I haven’t received any information. You’ve had ten days since we last spoke about this. Who have you booked?’

  ‘I had been trying to contact a very interesting group and I’m afraid they kept me waiting. It’s proving difficult …’ he stuttered.

  ‘I’m in a dreadful hurry, so can we just run over the details. Who is it?’

  ‘Professionals Against Abortion,’ he said.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ She stood up behind her desk. ‘You know the University has a stringent policy about women’s rights and equality. Are you trying to start a riot?’

  ‘You’re always saying that every side of an argument should be explored. I thought you’d be pleased to step out of the box the department shuts itself in. Other schools test the boundaries. Some of the lectures I’ve attended in the last year have been most eye-opening.’

  ‘Cancel them,’ Professor Forge said. ‘I’ll pay their wasted costs if necessary. Just make sure I don’t have to listen to them lecturing my students on legislating against women controlling their own bodies.’

  ‘They can’t make it anyway,’ he said more sharply than he’d intended and the look she gave him was one of disbelief.

  ‘Then why are we … never mind. Just answer yes or no. Do we have a speaker lined up for this week?’ she asked quietly.

  There were so many things he wanted to say to her: that he wasn’t going to be told his options for answering a question. That she’d left a button open on her shirt (he could see a hint of black lace bra beneath and was finding it hard to concentrate). That he was her equal and she shouldn’t speak to him like that. That he could be as cruel and hard as her and, oh, how he wanted to take her to his secret place and introduce her to Elaine and Jayne.

  ‘No,’ was the only answer that would leave his lips. ‘But I’ll get on it this afternoon. By the time you come back from lunch …’

  ‘I’ll sort it out myself. Make sure all the applications for next year are properly reviewed and arrange a meeting of the academic staff to go over changes in student supervision policy. I’m late,’ she said, snatching up her handbag and stalking out, leaving King staring at the space she’d left behind her desk.

  He engaged the lock on her door as noiselessly as he could manage. She’d never left him alone in her office before. It was an oddly intimate sensation, surrounded by her books, her papers, the few pictures she’d put on the walls, photos of children you’d think were hers if you didn’t know they were nieces and nephews. He walked around her desk, running his fingers over the silken wood, polished to such softness it might have been her hair. Her chair was firm but worn into the shape of her body from hours of reading. King slid to the very back of it, imagining her buttocks pressed into the leather, warming it, slipping across the seat as she shifted and settled herself. He was aroused. It fascinated and shamed him. He never felt like that when he was with Elaine or Jayne. With them it was pure. It was about a meeting of minds, the anticipation of enjoying their intellects. As he tried to quell the pressure in his suit trousers, he wondered why Natasha affected him in such a low, coarse way.

  ‘It’s her base nature,’ he said to the emptiness of the room. ‘A man cannot help but be attracted. I must rise above it.’ He pushed down on the straining material. The ringing telephone shocked him into movement and he ran for the door, sure she would reappear to answer it. In the corridor he stumbled, picked himself up and dashed to his office. King heard tittering and locked his door, pulling down the blind for privacy. ‘Natasha’s making me feel like this,’ he said. ‘It’s what she wants. I’m better than her. I have women who are better than her too, brighter even. They don’t treat me like a fool.’

  He was raising his voice, talking too loudly. With one hand still desperately trying to control the bulge in his trousers, he reached to a shelf above his head and flicked on the radio. A man’s voice with a pronounced accent and over-perfect English flooded the room. At first King couldn’t make out what the man was saying, then he heard her name. He’d avoided the media, knowing it would make him paranoid. Now someone – a Frenchman, he decided, but a policeman in Edinburgh nonetheless – was telling the world that Jayne Magee was still very much alive. They were searching properties in the city, appealing for help. All because no body had been found.

  It was infuriating to be pushed so hard. He wasn’t ready. He’d have to get another vehicle and the weasel at the garage was starting to ask questions even though the extra cash he’d paid was supposed to ensure there would be none. The cars were either stolen or written off, had passed through multiple hands since leaving their owners, chassis numbers removed and old enough not to attract interest. None of them would make it more than a thousand miles before being scrapped but that suited him. One car per woman was what he’d promised himself. Keep it untraceable. Then the car was returned to the weasel and passed on to the next dubious user.

  He hadn’t intended to take both Jayne and Elaine, that was the problem. Having used three cars, he needed a fourth. His research wasn’t up to an acceptable standard. He hadn’t settled on a proper substitute for Jayne yet and slipshod planning meant less than flawless results. It couldn’t be helped. The priority was to stop the police in their tracks. If they wanted a body so badly, he’d have to provide one.

  King watched the clock until he could leave his office and retreat to the vehicle legally registered as his. From there, he phoned the man he knew only as Louis and arranged a trip to his yard via a cash point. Louis only accepted payment in ten or twenty pound notes, which was irritating but sensible. An hour later, King had organised for a car to be dropped off at a back street in Causewayside within walking distance of his rented garage, so he could leave his own car there and swap vehicles before his trip to Glasgow.

  He set off at ten that night, well after dark but before the pubs turned out, so the streets were reasonably quiet. The car was an old pale grey Saab and the fan belt was whining in a way that grated King’s nerves. He was wearing a charity shop raincoat with hardware store overalls underneath. On his head, a cap covered a thinning spot he had a tendency to rub when stressed, a habit that had undoubtedly sped up the hair loss process.

  The journey to Glasgow took just under an hour. It was a city of opposites, King thought. The glass and steel structures, the neon-lit bridges and blazing new auditoriums couldn’t hide the poverty, deprivation and low life expectancy that had defined the phrase ‘The Glasgow Effect’. An historic settlement with its turreted university spires, more akin to a children’s novel than a gang violence stronghold, Glasgow was all smoke and mirrors. King knew he would be adding to those grim statistics, even if only by one, but here within
the clashing conflict of modernism and second world penury, no one would notice. It would be easy to see the beauty of Glasgow, to visit the tourist sites, to feel only the buzz and hum of it. But it wasn’t real. Glasgow, King thought, was a city thriving on death.

  By the time he reached the Govanhill area it was raining and he cursed the water as it obscured his windscreen between wipes. The weather would have the whores running for shelter. The hardiest few could still be seen as he took a preliminary, tentative drive down the business end of Allison Street. Both sides of the road presented a living history museum. Four-storey-high tenements were set above shops with signage in every language, selling food for every culture. It was a truly global street, King thought, enjoying the mockery, wondering how Scotland had been overtaken by languages he would never have the time or the inclination to learn. There were tattoo parlours, so-called designer outlets – King laughed out loud at that – money lenders, hair salons and charity shops, everything and nothing. Too many properties ‘To Let’. Too many buildings propped up by scaffolding. Too much going cheap. That, of course, was exactly what had brought him here.

  He tried to assess the ages and heights of the women he passed, who watched with wary interest. Jayne Magee wasn’t tall and these women were perched on high heels, making a comparison almost impossible. Age would have to be the determining factor. He did a second pass, spotting a woman plastered in makeup to fool punters she was in her twenties although her lank grey roots and sagging breasts revealed the truth. He pulled over and put down the passenger side window.

  ‘Evenin’, lovey, what is it you’re after then?’

  ‘How much?’ he asked, playing his role.

  ‘Thirty for hand, forty for mouth, fifty for pussy,’ she said.