Читать книгу Perfect Remains: A gripping thriller that will leave you breathless - Helen Fields - Страница 18

DC Salter fitted neatly into the extra-large wheelie case, once Tripp had secured her arms with gaffer tape. There was no hard evidence that Reverend Magee had been inside the case or that the man pulling it was her abductor, but there it was, in glorious high definition, inside Callanach’s head and he just knew that was how it had played out. Isabel Yale’s shoe comment fit exactly with what Ava had intuited about the abductor’s obsessiveness. What sort of person made sure their shoes were gleaming before a kidnapping?

Lively knocked the door once and walked in. ‘We’ve finished our enquiries at St Mary’s. Only thing that came out of it was a group opposed to women vicars. Seems Jayne Magee had received some nasty letters, a bit of abuse, threats. She didn’t report it to the police but we found the notes in her desk. They’re being examined.’

‘It doesn’t fit with Elaine Buxton’s killing,’ Callanach noted. ‘Collate all the outstanding missing persons reports for women in this age bracket from the last twelve months. And I want the forensic report on the mobile phone. It should have been on my desk yesterday. Also, call the police at Braemar. Ask them to go back up to the bothy and look for parallel marks leading to the hut that could have been made by a wheelie case. It’s a long shot but still worth investigating.’

Callanach left Tripp cutting Salter free of the gaffer tape, and made his way down the corridor to the kitchenette. The coffee machine was broken, not that he was mourning its loss. When he turned around, Ava was behind him brandishing an empty cup.

‘I’ll wash, you dry,’ she ordered, grabbing a second dirty mug off the draining board and running hot water into the sink.

A uniformed officer appeared just as the kettle boiled, puffed out from the short flight of stairs from the ground floor, and thrust a large cardboard box onto the table in the corner before retreating without a word.

‘Biddlecombe,’ Ava called after her. ‘What is that?’

‘Delivery for Major Investigations, ma’am. No name on it. From some posh florist. Must be from a satisfied customer.’

‘Our customers are either dead or psychopathic, depending on your viewpoint, Biddlecombe. They don’t send flowers,’ Ava yelled, picking up the box and eyeing it suspiciously. ‘Should I open it or throw it out of the window?’ she grinned at Callanach.

‘Is it ticking?’ he asked. Ava held it to her ear dramatically and shook her head. ‘Phone down to the front desk and tell Biddlecombe to come back up here and open it for you. She needs the exercise if nothing else.’ Ava was already ripping open the parcel. ‘Nothing like a well-adhered-to security policy,’ he noted, peering over Ava’s shoulder into the box.

Inside was a bouquet of stunning long-stemmed white roses. He reached across and pulled a card from a tiny golden envelope. ‘“Detective Inspector, The thorn makes the bloom all the more precious. Yours.”’

‘Is that it?’ Ava asked.

Callanach checked the back of the card, the envelope and the box again.

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Have you arrested anyone for crimes involving dreadful poetry or being overwhelmingly sickly recently? Because it seems you’ve caught someone’s eye.’

‘How do you know they’re not for you?’ she asked. ‘My admirers usually just ask for a photo of me in uniform to put up in their prison cell, in lieu of a dartboard, I guess.’

‘Can’t be for me. Don’t Celtic women just hit men over the head with a club and haul them back to their cave?’ Callanach asked.

‘Oh aye,’ Ava mocked. ‘And then only if the man’ll make good eating. Otherwise we dinnae bother.’ She grabbed the flowers, thrust them into an empty desk bin that she filled with water, and left them on the table. ‘Well, if they’re for me, someone doesn’t know I get hay fever, so no points for research.’

‘Shouldn’t you report the delivery, at least?’ Callanach asked. ‘These things can get out of hand …’

‘Because I don’t have anything better to do with my time, and a bunch of flowers is a priority right now?’ She laughed. ‘I’m opposed to undertaking any activity that doesn’t help clear the mountain of paperwork from my desk, DI Callanach.’

‘It’s your funeral,’ he replied. ‘Any joy with your babies?’

Ava flipped straight back into work mode. ‘No. They’re unrelated except for a blanket each was wrapped in. Just white towelling, but identical. There must be two very distressed or confused women out there. What about you?’

‘Some movement, only a little, but it’s progress.’

‘Forensics on Jayne Magee’s mobile.’ Tripp thrust the paper through the doorway. ‘Lab said sorry they’re late, they were working on DI Turner’s baby case.’

Callanach flicked through the paperwork. ‘Et voilà,’ he muttered, pouring the remaining coffee into the sink and running his finger along a couple of sentences that were heavy on the scientific language. He read the paragraph twice before calling Tripp back. ‘The laboratory confirms the presence of chloroform on Jayne Magee’s mobile. He’d have been wearing gloves. That means it’s definitely a kidnapping and it fits with the theory that she was disabled before being packed in the case.’

‘Yes, sir. And one of the uniforms working the door-to-doors in Ravelston Park just radioed in about a statement he’s taken from a man who regularly cycles home along that route. Give me five minutes and I’ll get you the details.’

Callanach went back to his office and phoned Jonty Spurr. The pathologist sounded gruff and hassled, the phone obviously on speaker as he continued working while they talked.

‘Do you have time to talk?’ Callanach asked.

‘Four dead teenagers in one car. They’d taken ecstasy and were racing. Never ceases to amaze me how people can be so careless with their lives.’ Callanach said nothing because there was nothing to say. ‘So come on then, what do you need?’ Spurr asked.

‘I have an abducted woman who, I believe, was taken by Elaine Buxton’s killer. She was subdued with chloroform when he took her. Is there any method for tracing chemicals from Elaine Buxton’s remains?’

‘Not from the bones or the environment, no. Normally it would be easy if we had organs to screen but the only soft tissue cells we have are from the tooth found near the baseball bat. I’m not promising anything but I’ll run a tox screen. The results will depend on how recently she’d inhaled the chemical and in what amount.’ Callanach could hear the metallic rattle of tools being picked up and put down.

‘One more thing. How long before the effects of the chloroform would wear off after she was first abducted?’

‘Number of variables with chloroform, such as size and weight of the victim and quantity of the dose. Assuming he didn’t overdose her and she survived, it’s minutes rather than an hour, maybe fifteen if he was being careful not to harm her. It can cause burns to the skin, as well as liver and kidney damage if too much is used. You can’t use it safely for long-term sedation.’

‘Where would someone get chloroform?’ Callanach was pushing his luck and he knew it.

‘That’s two things and you have a pathologist of your own in Edinburgh. The answer is the internet but probably sent from abroad. It’s a commodity in certain eastern European countries, otherwise it’s a common industrial agent. Difficult to pinpoint sources, I’m afraid, but it’s easy to get hold of if you’re determined.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I will repay the courtesy.’

‘Holding you to it,’ Spurr replied before the line cut off abruptly.

Tripp was standing outside his door waiting for the call to end. Callanach shouted at him.

‘I’m not your headmaster, Tripp. You don’t have to wait in the corridor. What have you got?’

‘Uniform says there’s no detailed description, but Liam Granger was cycling home from work down Orchard Road South, just off Ravelston Dykes and went past a man who he noticed because he was talking to himself in quite an animated way. Granger took a second look and saw the wheelie case. Didn’t notice his face or clothing. It was too dark for anything other than an outline. The cyclist assumed he was either mentally ill or drunk.’

Callanach strode over to the map on his wall clutching a red pen. He traced a line from Jayne Magee’s house into Orchard Road South.

‘He must have parked around this area here.’ Callanach pointed. ‘That walk would have taken five minutes pulling a heavy case. If he only had a quarter of an hour until she regained consciousness, he couldn’t have risked parking too far away.’

‘It’s a densely populated area, cars parked along that road all times of the day. We’ve knocked every door. No joy with anyone noticing unusual vehicles,’ Tripp added.

‘Send uniformed officers to knock doors in the vicinity of Elaine Buxton’s home. See if anyone noticed a man with a large wheelie case at about the time she got home. This is something he practised. He knew how to fold the body so it would fit, had the chloroform ready. And would you retrieve the photos of Elaine Buxton’s home?’

The photos were on Callanach’s desk five minutes later as Detective Constable Salter found a vehicle to drive them to Albyn Place.

‘Any news on DI Turner’s baby case?’ Callanach asked.

‘No, sir,’ Salter answered.

‘What’s on at the cinema at the moment?’ he asked. Salter blushed. ‘I just need something to take my mind off this case,’ he said, praying she hadn’t misinterpreted his question as an invitation.

‘I don’t know. My boyfriend downloads everything these days.’ Callanach offered up silent thanks for the mention of her partner. ‘You don’t seem the cinema type, if you don’t mind my saying,’ she noted.

‘What is it you think I do at weekends, then, Salter?’

‘Eat out at nice restaurants, drink wine, read newspapers, go to dinner parties. That sort of thing? I should probably fetch the car, sir.’ She fled and Callanach realised he’d put her on the spot. Still, her answers told him a lot about how he was perceived. Part of it was the stereotype attached to his nationality, he supposed, and too close to the truth of his old life for comfort. Not so for the past year. He’d closed every door, with only the ghosts of parties past for company.

Elaine Buxton’s apartment came into view with a ‘For Sale’ notice displayed prominently in front of it. Callanach guessed Elaine’s mother could neither afford to keep it nor wanted any reminder of the place from which her daughter had been taken.

‘Drive around the back,’ he directed Salter. He identified Elaine’s garage and studied the crime scene photos. He’d visited her home to get a sense of who she was, but hadn’t been inside the garage. Using keys taken from the evidence room, he clicked the automatic door and went inside. ‘The keys were found inside the hallway that leads to her apartment, correct?’ Salter checked the log and nodded. ‘Suggesting she’d dropped them there, that whoever took her was waiting for her inside but no one let him in or saw him there. No sign of a struggle, no noise, no trace evidence. It’s too clean. I think he took her from the garage, opened the door to the hallway and deliberately threw the keys into the corridor.’

‘Garage would have been locked though, according to her mother. The victim was very security conscious,’ Salter said.

‘There are bushes outside. He would have known her routine. Simple is best. He arrives here before her, it’s dark, he stands in the shadows behind the shrubbery, waits for her to activate the automatic garage door, bends down low and creeps in behind the car.’

‘He’d need to have been sure she was alone,’ Salter commented.

‘She didn’t bring men back here. He’d have known her well enough to be confident about that. By the time she’d stopped the car and the garage door was back down, he was waiting with the chloroform.’

‘You’re saying she couldn’t have avoided it, no matter what precautions she took. That’s not very reassuring for the rest of us. Why throw the keys into the corridor?’

‘To deflect attention from the side path which is how he got out of the garage, through the back door, presumably pulling a large wheelie case behind him. Come.’

He led Salter to a side door, leading directly from the garage onto a mud and gravel path back to the street. She went to walk out until he held up an arm to stop her.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Call it in to forensics. I want a team here looking for parallel impressions, gravel stuck deep into the mud in lines. The weight of her body would have made a substantial imprint through the wheels.’

The cinema question had been more than just small talk. He looked up what was on when he got home that evening and texted Ava.

‘Couple of hours paperwork on my desk,’ she replied. ‘If you’re still awake at half eleven, how about the late showing of Ice Cold in Alex at the cinema behind the Conan Doyle?’

He had no idea what the film was. It hadn’t come up in the reviews for the latest releases. As it turned out, the reason for that was because it was made in 1958. He found Ava with her legs propped up on the empty chair in front of her, dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and clutching the biggest box of popcorn Callanach had ever seen, eyes glued to the opening titles.

‘They re-run old films,’ she whispered to him. ‘So much better than watching on TV. And no bloody HD, super colour, surround sound nonsense. This is film the way it was supposed to be. Story first, everything else second.’ She offered the popcorn and he shook his head.

‘You’re really going to eat all of that?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely. And if you don’t have some, you’re missing the point.’

‘How’s your case going?’ Callanach took a piece of popcorn and played with it between his fingers.

‘Ssssh!’ was all the response he got and he forced his attention towards the screen. Detective Inspector Ava Turner was already immersed in a North African desert in World War II.

An hour and a half later, John Mills and Sylvia Syms had given Oscar-worthy performances, and Callanach didn’t move his eyes from the rolling credits until Ava stood up and coughed pointedly.

‘Now you can talk,’ she said. They went to a late night pub on Leith Street that also served reasonable coffee and sat in a corner, trying to ignore the couple next to them who were arguing loudly about wedding plans. ‘Your opinion?’ Ava asked, manoeuvring a tray onto the sticky table. On it was the coffee Callanach had requested and a brandy he hadn’t.

‘I think they should run away and get married in Vegas if it’s causing that much stress.’

‘Of the movie?’ Ava said, holding out the brandy glass. He raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s Friday night, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ she said. ‘I, for one, need a drink and drinking alone isn’t the Scottish way. Come on, admit it. The film was cinematic perfection.’

‘It was not what I expected,’ he said. ‘I mean that in a good way.’

‘Here’s to that,’ she said, taking a gulp. Her grey eyes appeared bluer in the glow of orange neon lighting. She looked every inch alive, as if just waiting for the next moment, the next challenge. For a second, Callanach wished he could climb into her skin and remember what that was like. ‘You’re going to ruin it by talking shop, aren’t you?’

‘Am I so very predictable after such a short time?’ he asked.

‘It’s your safety net,’ she said.

‘What’s yours?’ he asked, instantly regretting prying into her personal life again. Ava didn’t even blink.

‘I play act at being confident, sharp and funny,’ she said.

‘Why would you need to do that?’ Callanach asked, appreciating the brandy more than he’d expected.

‘Because then no one will see how terrified and out of my depth I feel most of the time,’ she smiled. ‘Maybe discussing work would be best.’ She drained the glass of brandy and replaced it with her coffee cup. ‘Why would two unrelated women leave their babies to die in the same park? I can’t think of a good reason, aside from there being a baby-stealing psychopath roaming the city, but then the mothers would have appeared.’

‘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.’