Perfect Remains: A gripping thriller that will leave you breathless

‘No, thank you. You saw a man leaving the road with a case. Can you describe him again?’ Callanach asked.

‘There wasn’t much to see, I’m afraid. It was dark and cold. He was wearing a long coat, grey or black, a woolly hat and a scarf right up over his mouth. He was all shadows, my darlin’.’

‘You noticed a case?’ he prompted

‘Yes, a big thing. I hate the sound those wheels make.’

‘Can you describe it in more detail?’ Tripp asked, taking a tea cup from the tray.

‘It was soft, like a giant rucksack rather than one of those hard ones. Heavy too, by the look of him pulling it. It was black, with lots of zips. Didn’t see any labels, I’m afraid.’

‘You seem to remember more about the case than the man, if you don’t mind my saying,’ Tripp commented.

‘That’s because I was closer to it. I was bending down as the man came past me, bagging Archie’s doings. My first thought was what shiny shoes the man had. You don’t see many gentlemen that bother these days. Black lace-ups. Not really the best thing in this weather.’

‘Anything else, Mrs Yale? Anything at all?’ Callanach said.

‘I hadn’t realised I’d seen anything of note.’ She fussed over biscuit crumbs. ‘But there was a faint smell about him. I don’t suppose many would recognise it nowadays, but I’m sure it was mothballs.’

‘Mothballs?’ Callanach asked Tripp, not recognising the word.

‘You hang them in closets to stop moths from eating your clothes. Not very common any more.’

‘L’antimite. You’re sure?’ Callanach double-checked with Mrs Yale as she fed crumbs to the ravenous Archie.

‘It was the smell of my childhood, Mother swore by them. We couldn’t afford new clothes during the war, dearie, so we jolly well looked after those we had.’

Chapter Twelve

Dr King was nervous. It was ridiculous. He was in his own home. He’d brought these women here through sheer force of will for a higher purpose and he was about to have his first proper conversation with the woman he would mentor into their new life together. She might even bring the still-rebellious Elaine into the fold.

Jayne would be free of the drugs by now. She’d need food, drink and an explanation. With her extraordinary faith, perhaps she would be more circumspect about how she’d been delivered into his hands. If there was a God, then maybe Jayne had been chosen for him. He put the tray down and unlocked the door. Inside, occupying two beds, were the women who would change his life.

He’d only planned to take one, researching both to find the most suitable. Always have a backup, that was the thing. Jayne Magee had been his. He’d not anticipated taking them both, not until Elaine had proved so unruly. The reverend would be more docile and able to adapt. He’d felt it when he’d placed her on the bed, taking care not to hurt her whilst restraining her wrists and ankles. Human nature dictated that a prisoner would always struggle hardest when they first woke up. Jayne would rise above it though, he was sure.

On entering the room, he was assaulted by the most repulsive odour. He gagged, doubling over, tray crashing to the floor, splattering him with melon flavoured protein smoothie. His clothes were ruined.

‘I dressed especially smartly to meet you,’ he shouted. ‘Which one of you has done that? Which one … let me see!’ He marched over, glutinous pink liquid aglow from the colour raging in his cheeks as it dripped down his face. He ripped Elaine’s covers back. He had expected, actually wanted, it to have been Elaine but she was in her usual cretinous state, rocking to and fro with her eyes jammed shut.

It was Jayne then. He pulled her blanket away more gingerly and the stench was unbearable. He ran to a cupboard, grabbed an electric fan and dragged it to her bed. For a moment he questioned his choice to have the room windowless, but it had been the only way. He snapped on gloves from under the sink and began the clean-up operation. She was awake and he knew it, although her head was rolled away from him and she wasn’t speaking. Better that they didn’t communicate until this was over. He had to forgive her. After all, she didn’t yet know who he was, what his plans were. He could be anybody, any lunatic planning to do unspeakable things to her. It would be better when she discovered the truth and could put his actions into context. King finished up, showered, made a fresh tray of food and went back to introduce himself properly.

The Reverend Jayne Magee’s face was still turned away so he pulled up a chair.

‘Jayne, I’m Dr King, Reginald, but perhaps we should remain on formal terms until we’ve progressed. I won’t hurt you, I want you to know that straight away.’

Jayne was chanting beneath her breath.

‘What’s that you’re saying? I can’t hear.’ He leaned over her, trying to see her lips but she strained her face further away. It took him some minutes before he recognised the words. Jayne was reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

‘That’s what we’re here to debate. The existence and nature of God. It’s one of the reasons I chose you. I read the thesis you wrote during your time at Oxford and I think you’ll find I have some interesting responses for you.’ Still she wouldn’t respond, even after he’d displayed his genuine interest in her. It was becoming tiresome. ‘Turn your head, please. It’s terribly bad manners not to look at someone who’s speaking to you.’ Nothing.

King had no wish to chastise Jayne so soon after her arrival. It would put her off completely. Having previously thought that Elaine had rendered herself expendable, he realised she might have a new use, one that could speed things along much faster.

‘Jayne, you comprehend the fragile quality of human life and how little time we have to spare. I wish to begin a conversation with you’ – the muttered prayer continued – ‘so I shall make you responsible for your companion’s fate. I’m obliged to maintain discipline, Reverend, and I have many ways of doing so.’

He unlocked the cupboard above the sink, took a needle from the medical kit and walked over to Elaine. She’d been listening, pretending to be in her own world, but listening all the same and she knew something was about to happen. She screamed when he picked up her hand.

‘It’s a sterilised needle, so there’s really no need for all this fuss. There won’t be any lasting damage.’ He stuck it slowly beneath the nail of her middle finger, pushing down firmly as she struggled, wondering how it was possible to scream and gurgle at the same time. It was as if she was drowning in the pain.

‘Stop it!’ Jayne screeched. ‘Just stop, please.’

‘You’re talking to me now, are you?’ he asked, not withdrawing the needle from Elaine’s nail, not until he’d really made his point.

‘Yes, I’ll talk, I will,’ she shouted.

‘What do you think, Elaine? Have you had enough?’ Elaine spluttered a yes, nodding wildly at him, imploring Jayne to help.

King allowed himself one more jab into Elaine’s nail bed, gratified by a final shriek to ensure compliance, then withdrew the needle.

‘Do you remember what happened?’ he asked Jayne. She shook her head.

‘My lips are sore,’ she said, ‘and my neck aches.’

‘Chloroform is a bit hard on the skin, I’m afraid, and then I had to sedate you with ketamine while I went to work in case you became distressed and injured yourself. It’s a wonderful drug. It altered your conscious state but allowed me to issue you directions which you were able to follow. You may find you have strange dreams for a few days. And you’ll be dehydrated.’ He collected the tray. ‘Here, drink this.’ She jerked her head away as he held the cup. ‘You need to drink and I’m not so primitive as to want to drug you constantly. The whole point of you being here is for us to engage with one another. I don’t want to have to be any more persuasive today. It’s hardly fair on Elaine.’

Elaine started to squeal and thrash on the bed. Jayne took the straw between her lips, sipping cautiously.

‘That’s better,’ King congratulated her.

‘What are you going to do to me?’ Jayne asked. It was said remarkably plainly in the circumstances, he thought admiringly.

‘I’m an educated man, Jayne, not an animal. I am forging a better life for myself and for you.’ He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Though to be honest, I’m not sure how long it’ll be before Elaine has outstayed her welcome. She’s not working out the way I’d hoped.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Jayne asked. King stared into her eyes, wondering what she was thinking. Was she hopeful of release, curious about him, too scared to understand her position yet? She seemed full of exciting possibilities. A paragon of potential. She reminded him vaguely of his sister. Not that Eleanor had lived to see adulthood, but if she had, she might have been a lot like the reverend. Their parents had always said Ellie was destined to be a leader with her extraordinary academic ability, not to mention her flair for music. She had been almost perfect. Sometimes annoyingly so.

‘I’m doing it for us. For a future where we can learn together, appreciate one another, stretch our minds in glorious ways.’

‘What if I don’t want to?’ Jayne asked. King thought about it. She wasn’t being defiant, he decided, or difficult. It was a genuine question and it deserved a genuine answer.

‘You will want to,’ he said. ‘Eventually. I’m here to guide you.’

‘This is wrong,’ she said. ‘Please, think about what you’re doing.’

‘Jayne, don’t,’ he counselled her. ‘Elaine tried, God knows she begged for days, and it won’t work. There’s a plan, you see. Sometimes a human has to aspire to a life greater than the one they’re born to. I am more than the sum of my parts, as are you. The physical being is unimportant. Elaine’s finger will heal, pain is transient. It’s a conduit for progression, enlightenment.’

‘I see,’ Jayne said simply. He waited for more, but that was it. He’d won. For today he should be content with that much.

He was exhausted, drained by disciplining Elaine and all the cleaning. Locking the door on his way out, he heard a whisper, considered going back in, but decided not to. They would need time to get to know one another. It wasn’t until he reached the bottom of the stairs that his tired brain finally unscrambled the words he’d heard.

‘We’re going to die here,’ Jayne had said, in that plain way of hers.

Reginald King thought that smoked salmon and mushroom risotto would make an excellent choice for supper.

Chapter Thirteen

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.