Read the book: «Perfect Remains: A gripping thriller that will leave you breathless»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Acknowledgments

Read on for a sneak peek of Perfect Prey

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

He laid out the body with almost fatherly care, stretching each limb wide, allowing air to circulate freely around her skin. She was ashen but peaceful, her eyelashes bold against the greyness of her face, lips colourless. He preferred it to the way she’d looked when they’d first met. The nakedness was unattractive, splayed as she was, but it was necessary. There should be no part of her left. No aspect of her past, no link to the life she was leaving. This was, in many ways, a cleansing. Very precisely, he aimed his foot above the middle of her left humerus, letting his whole weight bear down on her arm, feeling the crackle and shatter of it vibrate through the bones in his own leg. Only when satisfied that the pyre was perfectly prepared did he take the small silk pouch from his trouser pocket. Tipping the white gems into his hand, he rolled them between deft fingers and palm, enjoying the contrasting smoothness and sharpness, dropping them like pennies down a wishing well into her mouth, saving just one. It seemed a shame to burn such immaculate work but no flesh could be spared. He had soaked the body in accelerant overnight, marinating her, he’d joked, just in case someone stumbled in earlier than expected, not that he was so amateurish that it would happen.

As a last touch before leaving the stone cabin, he allowed a fragment of bloodied silk scarf to drift to the floor. Planting a heavy rock over it, he ground it into the earth. The grate of a struck match, the screech of ancient rusty hinges, the woof of flames consuming oxygen and it was done. He carried a metal baseball bat a reasonable distance away and covered it with rocks. He’d polished it free of fingerprints but, invisible to the naked eye and awaiting the black light that would illuminate it, a single smudge of blood remained on the handle. A few feet further and he relinquished the final tooth, sticky threads of gum tissue left dangling, then kicked a token sheet of dust over it. That would do.

There was a walk, not so very far but perilous in the dark, which made it slow. The air temperature was below freezing even in the foothills. His breath misted the sharp focus of the stars above him. It was a fine resting place for her, he thought. She was lucky. Few people left the world from such a viewpoint. Soon enough, the Cairngorms were disappearing behind him in the mist. When the first light hit them, they would turn purple-grey against the sky, barren and rocky, almost a moonscape. He watched in his mirror as the vast formations dipped into no more than shallow hills. This was his last visit here, he thought. A final farewell. It had proved to be the perfect location.

Edinburgh was still more than an hour away and there was rain forecast, not that it would stop the burning. By the time the first drop fell, the heat would be so intense that only a flood could halt the destruction. His priority was to get home as quickly as was prudent. There was so much left to do.

The woman had given in more easily than he’d imagined. If it had been him, he’d have fought to the last, would have focused every ounce of anger and bile on resisting. She had pleaded, begged and in the end cried feebly and howled. Life was cheap, he thought, because the general populace failed to appreciate its value. He understood. He constantly pushed himself to the limits of his capability, strove to learn, to surpass. He burned with a thirst for knowledge like others craved money, making it hard to find an equal. That was why he’d been forced to kill. Without her sacrifice, he would forever have been surrounded by women unable to satisfy his intellect.

He listened to a language CD as he drove. He liked to learn a new language each year. This time it was Spanish. Easier than many, he admitted to himself guiltily, but then he had an exhausting amount of other matters on his mind. He couldn’t be expected to pick up anything more complex whilst doing so much research and travelling.

‘It’s not as if I’ve had any free time.’ A rabbit dashed out from the verge. He slammed on his brakes, less from a desire to avoid it than with the shock of the movement in his peripheral vision. ‘Damn it!’ He was distracted and he’d been talking to himself again. He only did that when he was overtired. And stressed. He’d stayed up late arguing. Whoever thought it was an easy task persuading an intelligent woman to do what was best for her, was a fool. It was a challenge, even for a man of his faculties. The brighter the woman, the harder it was. But rewarding in the end.

He pulled over at the outskirts of Edinburgh and drank passably warm coffee from a flask. He couldn’t risk going into a cafe. In spite of the lack of interest he was likely to generate – no one wanted to stare at a middle-aged, saggy-bellied man with an unsightly bald patch – it would be stupid to have his likeness caught on CCTV returning to the city along this route.

The Spanish voice droned in the background until he hit the off switch. It was such a big day, why shouldn’t he take a break for once? A lady was waiting at home, needing substantial care and attention. She wouldn’t be able to talk clearly for a while, in fact she would probably need speech therapy. Luckily for her, he was a gifted tutor in many fields. It would be his pleasure and privilege to assist.

Chapter Two

Detective Inspector Luc Callanach wondered how long it would take for the jibes to stop, and they hadn’t even started yet. It was his second day with Police Scotland’s Major Investigations Team in Edinburgh and he’d found himself in a depressingly grey, ageing building that couldn’t have looked less like a hub of cutting-edge criminal investigation. Yesterday had been an easy introduction, consisting only of briefings and meetings with superiors too aware of political correctness to dare crack any gags about his accent or nationality. Those who ranked below him wouldn’t be so obliging. It seemed unlikely that Police Scotland had ever had to integrate a half-French half-Scots detective before.

Callanach was scheduled to give a meet and greet speech, explain how he intended to operate, and what his expectations were of the men and women in his command. It would be bad enough when they saw him – archetypally European with unruly dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin and an aquiline nose. Once he opened his mouth, it would only get worse. He glanced at his watch and knew they’d be sharpening their collective wits. Keeping them waiting wasn’t going to improve things, not that he particularly cared what they thought of him but he was all for an easy life where he could get it.

‘Quiet. Let’s get started,’ he said, writing his name on a board and ignoring the incredulous looks. ‘I’ve only recently moved from France and it will take some time for us to adjust to one another’s accents, so speak clearly and slowly.’

There was silence until what sounded like, ‘You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding,’ came from the far end of the room, where too many bodies were crowded together to identify the speaker. It was followed immediately by a shushing noise that was distinctly female in origin. Callanach rubbed his forehead and reined in the desire to check his watch as he prepared to tolerate the inevitable questions.

‘Excuse me, Detective Inspector, but is Callanach not a Scottish name? It’s just that we weren’t expecting anyone quite so … European.’

‘I was born in Scotland and raised bilingual. That’s as much as any of you needs to know.’

‘Bi-what? Is that even legal here?’ a blonde woman called out, to the enjoyment of her fellow officers. Callanach watched her watching the others, waiting for their response and saw that she was trying to impress, to fit in with the boys. He waited blank-faced and bored for the laughter to subside.

‘I expect regular case updates. Lines of command will be tightly managed. Investigations falter when one person fails to pass on their knowledge to others. Higher rank is no excuse for you to blame those beneath you and inexperience is no defence for ineptitude. Come to me to discuss either progress or problems. If you want to complain, phone your mother. We have three live cases at the moment and you’ve been allocated tasks on those. Questions?’

‘Is it right that you were an Interpol agent, sir?’ a detective constable asked. Callanach guessed he was no more than twenty-five, all curiosity and enthusiasm, as he had been at that age. It seemed a lifetime ago.

‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tripp,’ he replied.

‘Well, Tripp, do you know the difference between assisting an international murder investigation with Interpol and conducting one in Scotland?’

‘No, sir,’ Tripp answered, eyes shifting left and right, as if terrified that the question was the start of some unexpected test.

‘Absolutely nothing. There’s a corpse, grieving relatives, more questions than answers, and pressure from the top to get it sorted in no time and at minimal cost. Even under the constraints of budgeted policing, I won’t forgive sloppiness. The stakes are too high to let your dissatisfaction at the current overtime rate affect the effort you’re willing to put in.’ He took a moment to stare round the room, meeting every pair of eyes full on, making his point. ‘Tripp,’ he said, when he’d finished, ‘grab another constable and come to my office.’

Callanach exited the room without farewells or niceties. No doubt Tripp was already getting it in the neck for being singled out, the team was bemoaning their newly allocated detective inspector and bitching about Police Scotland’s failure to promote from within. Policing was the same all over the world. Only the coffee really changed from place to place. Here, he was unsurprised to find, it was bloody awful.

His office could best be described as functional. It would take promotion to a higher rank before he transcended into actual comfort. Still, it was quiet and light with two telephones, as if somehow he could split himself in half and take two calls at once. On the floor were just two boxes of personal possessions awaiting transfer into drawers and onto shelves. Not that there was anything vital in them. He’d come to Scotland for a clean start. The country of his birth had seemed the logical place to put down new roots, not to mention one of the few places he could apply for a police position as a passport holder.

Tripp knocked on his door, a young woman behind him.

‘Ready for us, sir?’ Tripp asked.

Callanach beckoned them in. ‘And you are?’

‘Detective Constable Salter. Nice to meet you, sir,’ she said, looking down at her shoes part way through the introduction. Her awkwardness was irritating in its predictability. Callanach suffered from the least likely affliction of being good looking to the point of distraction, with a face that could – and had – stopped traffic. Few people understood that it was more burden than blessing these days.

‘Salter, take me through procedures from initial crime report, ordering forensics and into trial preparation. Tripp, I want comprehensive notes on forms, filing, the works. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir, not a problem.’ Tripp seemed delighted to be of use. All Salter managed was a downcast mumble which Callanach took as agreement.

‘Would you give us the room please, constables?’ a voice cut in behind them. Standing in the doorway was a female officer in dress uniform. Salter and Tripp scattered as she entered and kicked the door shut behind her.

‘I’m DI Turner, Ava as we’re the same rank.’ She gave a wide grin, suffering none of Salter’s inability to look him in the eyes. Callanach’s fellow detective inspector was around five foot five and slim. Her chestnut, shoulder-length hair was curly although an attempt had been made to restrain it in a ponytail. She wasn’t beautiful, not in modern advertising terms, but handsome would have been an insult. Her features were fine, grey eyes widely spaced.

‘Callanach,’ he responded. ‘By the look on your face, I’d say you’ve been party to something I haven’t. Did you want to share it or am I supposed to guess?’

Ava Turner ignored the dismissive tone and answered unabashed. ‘Well, I did hear one of the sergeants asking why they’d been sent an underwear model instead of a proper policeman.’

‘I get the picture,’ he said.

‘I’m guessing you’re used to it. If it helps, the fact that you’re French will be more acceptable to the majority of them than I am.’

‘English?’ he asked, as he shifted the position of a filing cabinet.

‘Pure Scottish, but my parents sent me to an English boarding school from the age of seven, hence the accent. That makes me about as welcome as the plague. Don’t worry about it. If they actually liked you at this stage, you’d be doomed to fail. Presumably you’ve arrived with a suitably thick skin. Give me a shout if you have any problems, you’ll find my numbers on the contact sheet in your desk. I’d better go and change. I’m just back from a community awards ceremony and I can’t stand being in uniform. Your team are a good bunch, just don’t take too much shit from them.’

‘I have no intention of taking any shit from anyone,’ he replied, picking up one of the phones and checking for a dial tone. When he looked up again, he was speaking to an empty space and an open doorway. Callanach dropped into the chair behind his desk. He took out his mobile, programmed in a few of the more important numbers from the contact sheet and was just considering emptying the first of his boxes when Tripp bundled in.

‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but we’ve just had a call from an officer at Braemar. They’ve found a body and are asking to speak with someone about it.’

‘And Braemar is in which area of the city?’

‘It’s not in the city, it’s in the Cairngorm Mountains, sir.’

‘For God’s sake, Tripp, stop saying sir at the end of every sentence and explain to me how that could possibly be an Edinburgh case.’

‘They suspect it’s the body of a woman reported missing from the city a couple of weeks ago, a lawyer called Elaine Buxton. They’ve found a scrap of clothing that matches a scarf she was wearing when last seen.’

‘That’s all? No other link?’

‘Everything else has been burned, sir, I mean, sorry. Braemar thought we might want to be involved early on.’

‘All right, Constable. Pull together everything there is on Elaine Buxton then get Braemar on the phone. I want detailed information on my desk in fifteen minutes. If that is Edinburgh’s missing person then we’re already running two weeks behind her killer.’

Chapter Three

Callanach put down the phone feeling weary and decided it was down to the effort of decoding the Scottish accent. He barely remembered his father and, although his mother had insisted he learn to speak English as well as her mother-tongue French, he hadn’t been prepared for full immersion. The sergeant from Braemar managed to mix the singsong cadence with a regular dose of colloquialisms. Callanach suspected it might have been largely for his benefit and, a couple of sentences in, had stopped bothering to ask what any of it meant. He made an idle note of the word ‘haver’. Tripp would have to double as interpreter. In the meantime, Callanach had agreed to consult on a case that should technically speaking have been out of his jurisdiction. That wouldn’t endear him to anyone, additional money and manpower being expended where it could be avoided, but it certainly sounded as if the body in the mountains was Edinburgh’s missing woman.

He saw Salter going past his office and stuck his head out of the door.

‘Which of the current cases is nearest to resolution?’ he shouted after her.

‘Brownlow murder, sir. Culprit’s been apprehended, we’re just prepping the files for the Procurator Fiscal. Preliminary court hearing is next week.’

‘Right. I want you, Tripp and two others from the Brownlow team in the briefing room in ten minutes. Organise it. And how far away are the Cairngorms?’ The look Salter gave him was all the response he needed. An overnight bag was required.

The briefing was tense. The squad he’d shifted from the Brownlow case obviously wasn’t thrilled at the two-hour drive they had coming, nor starting a new batch of paperwork while they were still finishing another. Detective Constables Tripp, Barnes and Salter were led by Detective Sergeant Lively. The detective sergeant was studying him as if he’d just crawled out of a cesspit. Callanach ignored him and gave the fastest explanation he could for what they were doing, then handed over to the officer sent to update them on the missing person investigation.

‘Elaine Margaret Buxton, thirty-nine years of age, divorced, no children, worked as a commercial lawyer at one of the biggest law firms in the city. She went missing sixteen days ago. The last confirmed sighting was on a Friday night as she left the gym to return home. Her mother reported her missing the following evening after she’d failed to turn up for lunch and couldn’t be raised on either her home phone or mobile. Her car was in her garage, no clothes or cases gone, passport still there. It was out of character for her not to have checked her emails on the Saturday morning. Her keys were found in a communal hallway. She’s described as incredibly organised, borderline workaholic, hadn’t taken so much as a day sick in the previous two years.’

‘Any boyfriend or obvious suspects?’ DC Barnes asked.

‘The ex-husband Ryan Buxton is working abroad with a full alibi. There’s no known boyfriend. Everyone we’ve spoken to has confirmed that she was completely obsessed with the law. She was either at the office, at home or an exercise class. We had no leads, until this.’

‘Why are the Braemar police so convinced this is your missing person?’ asked Callanach.

‘The last person to see Miss Buxton had a photo of her on their mobile. She’d stopped by the gym bar to have a drink at a friend’s birthday celebration. We circulated the photo and listed the clothes in detail. That’s how they came up with the match.’

‘Has anyone contacted her family yet?’ Tripp asked.

Callanach took that one himself. ‘No, and mouths had better stay shut until we’ve seen the body and crime scene for ourselves. DNA evidence is required before we make a positive link.’

‘This might be our missing person but it’s not our homicide. What’re we doing chasing up country when we haven’t got so much as a confirmed identification?’ asked DS Lively. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t got our own cases to be getting on with and there’s some detective inspectors on that patch who could work this case as well as any former Interpol bigshot.’

‘If that is Elaine Buxton, she was abducted from Edinburgh, meaning there’s a reasonable chance she was murdered here too. I’m not prepared to lose the opportunity of inspecting the crime scene because you can’t be bothered to make the drive. As for any outstanding work on the Brownlow case – learn to multitask.’ Callanach snatched his notes from the table. ‘We have some distance to cover, so get moving.’

Back in his office, Callanach threw a toothbrush, raincoat and boots into a bag. He considered leaving DS Lively behind instead of putting up with his sour face for the next two days, then thought again. Better to deal with the man than let him win. His squad needed to know from the outset that he wouldn’t stand laziness or insubordination. It didn’t matter what they thought. For the next six months they would criticise whatever decisions he made, right or wrong, until they found a more interesting target.

Chapter Four

They met with local police at the rural satellite station in Braemar and were transported into the mountains in a four-wheel drive. Some off-roading was required to get near the crime scene and the weather was closing in. It took another hour to get there. The temperature had dropped dramatically by the time Callanach saw the lights and tents of the investigative team. The only blessing, courtesy of the location, was that there was no sign of the press.

‘Who found it?’ he asked the driver.

‘A couple of hikers saw the flames from a distant peak but had to walk fifteen minutes before they got mobile reception to phone it in. By the time the fire service had located the bothy it was nearly burned out. Not much left to see, I’m afraid.’ Callanach took out a camera. He always took his own photos at crime scenes. Later, the images would cover his office wall.

The bothy, more refuge than accommodation, was a stone hut left unlocked for hikers caught in storms or mid trek, consisting of a single room, its rear wall set into the rock face. Callanach guessed the original building dated back a couple of hundred years. Now the roof was completely gone, fallen in once the fire had taken hold, making the forensic investigation painstaking. Even the huge stones of the wall base had shifted in the intense heat. Callanach surveyed the horizon. This wasn’t a place you could stumble across. Whoever had brought the woman here had chosen carefully, made sure it was nowhere near regular trekking routes, and had been inside before.

‘Where is the body?’ he asked.

‘They’ve collected the bones already, but their positions are marked inside,’ the driver told him.

‘Just bones? That’s all that remains?’

‘Afraid so. The soft tissue was completely incinerated. We’ve no precise idea how long the fire was burning but it was a matter of hours, for sure.’

They walked to the doorway of the hut, now ablaze with portable floodlights, and watched as two forensics officers trod gingerly through the dusty debris. It was a grim place to die. A hand on Callanach’s shoulder stopped his imagination from filling in the details.

‘DI Callanach? I’m Jonty Spurr, one of Aberdeenshire’s pathologists. Not much left here for you, I’m afraid.’

Callanach shook his head. ‘I was told you had located an item of clothing. How did that survive when everything else is ashes?’

‘It’s not a complete item, just a scrap of a scarf, but the pattern was sufficiently remarkable that one of the constables recognised it as the same as your missing person’s. It got trapped under a rock and the lack of oxygen protected it. It’s already on its way to the lab for DNA testing. Looks as if there’s some blood on it.’

Callanach frowned. ‘That’s all you’ve got? Surely there must be something more.’

‘These are the cards we were dealt, Detective Inspector. Fire is a crime scene’s worst enemy. The accelerant can usually be identified fairly quickly. Unfortunately, it’s a peat floor in this part of the Cairngorms which quite literally added more fuel to the flames. Without it, I’m sure it wouldn’t have burned so long or so hot. The bones are badly damaged.’

‘What about tyre marks? There must have been tracks.’

‘You’d hope so, but the fire trucks were called in first and tore up the ground. They had no idea what was inside. We’ll get the dogs out tomorrow and do a fine-comb check of the area but it’ll do no good tonight, not enough light left.’

Callanach took out his camera again and began collecting images of the grey and black charcoal mess of floor.

‘Did she die here?’

‘I can’t say for sure, and with only bones left I may not be able to pinpoint a cause of death, unless the skull gives me something. Many of the bones are broken, the jaw is in pieces. It seems to me though that this was about disposing of the body. Your murderer didn’t want anything left, was probably hoping she’d be unidentifiable,’ the pathologist remarked, pulling off rubber gloves and stretching his neck.

‘You believe she was killed elsewhere and transported here?’

‘You’re the detective. That part’s up to you. If you’re staying overnight, you can come to the morgue in the morning, see what we’ve got.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Callanach replied, looking around for Tripp. He found him stealing a sip of coffee from Sergeant Lively’s flask. ‘Tripp, interview the hikers, mark their precise position on a map and the time they first saw the fire. I want to hear their call to the emergency services and you’ll need to go to the spot where they were standing to photograph the view they had across to here,’

Sergeant Lively interrupted. ‘Statements will have been taken already so I don’t see what good that’ll do.’

The man’s too-long-in-the-job attitude was tiresome to deal with, but far from unusual. Callanach fought the desire to reprimand him and concentrated instead on the matters at hand.

‘The number of hours this fire was burning will help us determine the time the murderer left the scene. The height, and perhaps even the colour of the flames when the hikers saw them, might help establish that, enabling us to question local people about unusual vehicles within a specific time frame.’

‘You’re the boss,’ Lively mumbled, not bothering to hide his lack of respect.

‘Where are we staying tonight, sir?’ Tripp asked, stamping his feet and shoving his hands ever deeper in his pockets. For all his usual enthusiasm, Tripp looked distinctly uncomfortable in the great outdoors and the freezing cold.

‘Ask the local officers what’s around. There must be accommodation reasonably nearby. Tell Salter she’s to attend the morgue with me in the morning and I want Barnes at the scene until it’s completely documented. Feedback from each one of you, every two hours.’

‘What if that’s not Elaine Buxton? It’ll have been a complete waste of our time.’

Callanach glared at Lively. ‘Whoever’s corpse that is, Sergeant, they were almost certainly murdered and if we can contribute to the investigation then only an idiot would regard it as a waste. So unless you have something professional to contribute, from now on you can keep your personal opinions to yourself.’

Chapter Five

The landline rang. King studied the number before picking up. It was a local code.

‘Dr King,’ he snapped.

‘Hello, this is Sheila Klein from Human Resources. I’ve been asked to ring and see when we can expect you back. University policy is that we need a doctor’s note for medical leave beyond three consecutive days.’

Reginald King sighed. He hated the petty rules and regulations that tied him into his banal public existence. The woman on the phone couldn’t possibly comprehend that there were aspects of his life demanding more attention than his underpaid, under-appreciated and underwhelming job.

‘I’m aware of the terms of my employment contract.’

‘So, any idea when we might see you or have confirmation from your doctor?’ Sheila asked, her voice trailing off towards the end of the sentence.

King took a key from his pocket as she whined. ‘A few more days,’ he said. ‘Maybe a week. The virus has gone to my chest and set off my asthma.’

‘Gosh, that sounds awful. You know we have an open-door policy. Do call if you think you’ll need more leave. I’m sure the department head will be sympathetic.’

The Head of School in the Department of Philosophy would not be sympathetic, King thought. She would be as ignorant as ever, and the ignorant always failed to appreciate him. Just because he was an administrator rather than an academic, because his qualifications came from a university she chose not to recognise, because he hadn’t climbed the ranks through socialising and networking, she was not interested in him. Well, the Department of Philosophy could pay his wages while he had some time to himself. Professor Natasha Forge, the youngest Head of School of any department at the University of Edinburgh, would no doubt fail to even register his absence.

King unplugged the phone. Twelve steps down into the cellar he went, switching on the basement light and sliding a wooden panel in the wall to reveal a keyhole. Unlocking the hidden door and stepping inside, he rose twelve steps back up, parallel to the first staircase but concealed behind a layer of plaster, brick and sound proofing. At the back of his house was a secret space, windowless, silent, timeless. It was a place of beauty. He congratulated himself on how well he had designed it with pastel colours to soothe, with gently piped classical music, and art prints adorning the walls. Unless you surveyed the house inside and out, you would never know the back section existed. It was his island. He recited John Donne’s lines as he took a key to the last door. The great poet was right. He could not be entire, if alone. That was why he had gifted one fortunate person with the chance to accompany him on his journey. As he opened the door, the woman on the bed began to scream.

Elaine Buxton, recently presumed dead, the bones attributed to her corpse already laid out on an autopsy table, strands of DNA in code form swirling through cyber space so that her death could be formally recorded, cried out until her voice was hoarse.

‘Your gums are healing nicely,’ King said. He spoke softly to her. It was a point of pride that he didn’t lose his temper, no matter how much she screamed. Not so with the other woman. When he’d taken her, she’d scratched, bitten and kicked him so hard his groin had been agony for a week. She’d required no delicate handling. She had been beneath him.

‘Pleath, ’et me go,’ Elaine mouthed, the tears starting again. That irritated him, as he knew it would any man, but it was to be expected for a while. Until she learned to appreciate him.

‘In a week your mouth will have recovered enough to fit dentures, then we’ll commence speech therapy. It won’t be instantaneous but you’re a bright woman. You need another shot of antibiotics and more steroids. Please don’t fight me, I’m only trying to speed the healing process.’

Elaine began to shudder although the motion made no impact on the metal ankle and wrist cuffs with short chains, binding her to the bed. King took out two syringes. He was respectful when he touched her, would never cause unnecessary pain. She didn’t understand that yet, obviously believing that at any moment she might receive the same treatment as her decoy. It was a shame he’d had to kill the woman in front of Elaine, but it had all been part of the education process. She needed to know that he was capable of being strict. Every pupil had to be shown stick and offered carrot. Knowing that one’s teacher would not tolerate a failure to comply was an excellent motivator.

He stroked Elaine’s arm with his pale, silky hand. She shivered as their flesh made contact but did not tell him to stop. Perhaps, he thought, she was learning already. That was why he’d chosen her. Months of watching, waiting, consuming her days and nights from the shadows. Studying her. Real study with commitment, not the poor excuse for it that universities accepted these days, had borne fruit. She was perfect. Adaptable. Fast. No husband or children to distract her. He’d seen her pick up a set of legal papers at six in the evening and work all night, only caffeine for company, springing into court the following morning as if she’d slept ten hours. Then she’d go to the gym and work the tension from her body. There was no excess. She was driven, like him. Constantly improving.

That was why her choice of body double had been so ironic. King couldn’t have found a more dynamic opposite. All he’d needed was a woman of roughly the same age, height and build. The fact that she was a prostitute, stick thin (presumably from years of drug abuse) and barely able to string together a coherent sentence, had made it all the easier to dispose of her. He could have been kinder, but she wouldn’t listen when he’d tried to explain the service she was performing, giving him a life partner who was his perfect match.

He’d never even learned her name. As it was, she would forever be the missing Elaine Buxton. And Elaine Buxton, erased from the living world, belonged wholly and exclusively to him.

‘I could rename you,’ he said. ‘It might be an important part of the adjustment process. Compile a shortlist in your head of say three or four. You can explain why you selected each of them, then I shall choose the one I find the most pleasing. It’ll be a good way for us to move forward together.’

‘You’re crathy,’ she whispered as he withdrew the needle from her arm.

‘You shouldn’t use such base terms. But you’re upset and I’ll be lenient for a while.’

‘Wha’ ’id you do with the girl?’

‘You needn’t worry about her. At the end, her sacrifice made up for her wasted life.’

Elaine was staring at the area where he’d carefully laid out a vast sheet of plastic for the girl’s body. King had used an old car, hired from a sufficiently disreputable dealership that wouldn’t want any contact with the police, and kept it in a garage away from his home. One night he’d driven to Glasgow, picked up the girl who was soliciting in her usual spot (he’d been there several times to select the right one) and driven round a few streets to find a quiet place for her to earn her money. He’d found that concept amusing, even as he’d pressed the chloroform-soaked rag over her face. Earning money. That was all young women thought they had to do for a few pounds these days, believing that men existed to pay for them, that they simply had to don a short skirt and paint their mouths red. It was pitiful. And she’d wanted to charge him thirty pounds to put her filthy tongue inside his trousers. He was ridding the world of a scourge. He may well have stopped the spread of a dreadful disease by bundling her unconscious body under a tarpaulin and driving her away from her next customer.

It had taken immense physical effort to cart her into the hidden room. Down one set of stairs and up another had seemed like a genius plan when he’d conceived it. The reality was more cumbersome. Several times he’d banged her head hard on the steps, not that it mattered. He’d kept her body wrapped in plastic, but allowed her to breathe. Asphyxiation wasn’t the plan.

Elaine hadn’t liked it when he’d brought the girl in. Perhaps the tiniest hint of jealousy behind the melodramatic hyperventilation and wide-eyed head shaking, he’d thought. How could she ever have believed he would bring such a filthy, low creature into their lives?

King had returned the woman to consciousness long enough to obtain details of past fractures. Previous injuries could tell tales. The thickening of bones long after they’d healed could reveal an unhelpful story, even if all the DNA had been destroyed. She’d been remarkably forthcoming. He’d just had to promise he’d let her live if she provided the information he wanted.

In the event, there wasn’t much to be concerned about. A finger broken in a car door and a dislocated shoulder that wouldn’t show up. By far the more important thing was to ensure that the girl’s left upper arm was fragmented where Elaine’s had been fractured after she came off a bicycle as a teenager. If that bone was left intact and the pathologist was thorough, then all of King’s hard work would have been for nothing.

Once he had all he needed, King had told Elaine to watch and not look away. When he’d put on the protective glasses the prostitute had only looked curious. When he’d snapped on rubber gloves and a face mask she’d begun to plead. Elaine, for once, had grown silent. When he’d picked up the baseball bat, well, that was a different story. He had no memory of Elaine’s reaction for those few minutes. He’d experienced what he assumed was tunnel vision, for the first time in his life. It had been a breathtaking episode. Everything but the screaming, whimpering, dribbling, blubbering pile of living flesh before him had faded out. There had been no peripheral vision to distract him. He couldn’t hear anything beyond her feral cries. It was the most intensely concentrated sensation he had ever felt.

He’d awoken, and it was an awakening, standing before her, bat clutched in his hands, to find his pulse racing as if he’d run a marathon. It had been quite the adrenaline rush. For a while there was silence, then gradually Elaine’s intermittent sob-screams had broken through. The girl’s face was a mess, as he’d intended. He’d needed to bash every one of her teeth out of their sockets and damage the jaw beyond x-ray comparison for the identity exchange to work. He hadn’t foreseen that he’d get so carried away, he felt rising shame at the guilty pleasure he’d taken, seeing his handiwork in the bruises on her neck and breasts, guessing there were marks on her stomach and legs too, but unwilling to lift her undoubtedly infested clothing to see. He’d lost control – nothing to be proud of – but didn’t he deserve to vent? Better to let it out with her than Elaine. He had no desire to diminish his prize.

King shook himself out of the memory and stared at the woman whose identity the prostitute had taken in death.

‘How are we doing with those tapes? I’m sure you’ve been glad to have an activity to occupy you. I know you already speak French so I thought Russian might be a more exciting challenge. When you’re talking properly again, I’ll test you and we can make some real progress.’

He flicked a switch on the sound system and a voice began speaking words that Elaine had no inclination to listen to, or repeat. With a baby-soft kiss on her forehead, King placed a protein drink at her side and left.

Chapter Six

The autopsy table looked more comfortable than the bed he’d slept in. That was before it was occupied by the remnants of what was presumed to be Elaine Buxton’s skeleton. It had been a bad night. Callanach would have self-medicated with a decent bottle of red, but the only wine on offer had a label with all the appeal of a bargain-bucket binge drinker’s delight. Braemar was a slightly touristy but pleasant village lacking much choice in accommodation and the better options had been fully booked. In the absence of good wine, he’d settled for a dilapidated TV with crackling reception, soup he’d admired only because he’d previously thought it impossible to cook it so badly, and half decent coffee.

Jonty Spurr, the pathologist, was quiet as he worked. Callanach appreciated that. He’d witnessed too many autopsies to be disturbed by the body. What he found more disquieting was the forced cheer some pathologists had about them. Too talkative, too determined to lift the atmosphere. Spurr was slow, not annoyingly so, but unhurried and probably unflappable under even the worst pressure.

‘The victim was an adult female, aged between thirty and forty, I’d say, approximately five foot six.’

Callanach glanced at DC Salter. She was young but not new to the job and showed no sign of being troubled by what she saw.

‘Has the accelerant been identified yet?’ she asked.

‘We’ll need to do more tests on the bones for that. The fire department might have picked something up at the scene.’ Spurr chose a bone fragment and held it up for Callanach to inspect more closely. ‘The heat and length of time the fire was burning destroyed any chance of getting DNA from the bone marrow. The skull, jaw and upper chest sustained damage not caused by the fire. You can see a pattern of fractures indicating repeated use of a heavy, blunt weapon. Must have taken quite some force.’

‘Was that the cause of death?’ Callanach asked.

‘I’d put my money on those injuries occurring before death. The resulting trauma to the brain may well have been what killed her. With no soft tissue left, I’m not going to do much better than that. Given the planning put into disposing of the body, there’d have been no other practical reason to disfigure the face after death.’

‘Bastard,’ Salter said.

‘Indeed,’ Spurr replied. ‘We’re cross-checking the teeth against Elaine Buxton’s dental records. Some have fillings or caps, so it should be easy enough.’

‘How soon will we have that?’ Callanach was keen to leave. Morgues made him claustrophobic in spite of the bright light and fierce air conditioning. It felt like a prison cell and he’d had enough of those.

‘Maybe as early as tomorrow. Will you still be here?’

Callanach wasn’t even going to consider another night in the same accommodation.

‘No, in Edinburgh. We’re going back to the crime scene to get a daylight view then we’ll set off. You’ll call when you have more information?’

Spurr nodded, stripped off a glove and offered Callanach a hand. He disliked the dry, powdery feel of it against his own, as if death was contagious.

‘Is there any news from the crime scene this morning?’ he asked Salter once they were on the road.

‘No. I tried to speak to DC Tripp but mobile reception was poor. He and DS Lively were off to speak with the hikers first thing, but they should be back at the crime scene by the time we get there.’

‘She wasn’t murdered there,’ Callanach said.

‘Surely it’s hard to tell at this stage,’ the young constable commented quietly.

‘Why bother taking her so far to kill her? It makes no sense. It may be the perfect site to dispose of a body, but it’s not a comfortable or convenient place for playing out his fantasy about her death. A great deal of time passed between her disappearance and the corpse turning up, time the murderer spent elsewhere with the victim. Whoever abducted her had this place in mind for weeks, if not months.’

An hour later the bothy was back in sight. Forensic investigators were shouting to one another, the excitement plain on their faces. Callanach was out of the car before Salter could put on the hand brake.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked a passing officer.

‘The dogs tracked a weapon some distance away, buried under a pile of stones.’ Callanach watched the back slapping among the handlers.

There would be no fingerprints, he thought. A man who found such a perfect place to destroy a body didn’t leave prints.

‘Good news, right, sir?’ came Tripp’s voice from behind him.

‘Tell me what you’ve got,’ Callanach replied. Tripp wiped the smile off his face and looked down at his notebook.

‘The hikers repeated what they’d said in their statements. Oliver Deacon and Tom Shelley, both in their early twenties, had been hiking for about three hours, reached the midway point in their route and saw the blaze from’ – he looked around, identified a peak and pointed into the distance – ‘over there. They had binoculars and took photos with their phones, not that they show anything except a distant orange dot. I’ve drawn a map of their route.’

Callanach nodded. ‘We’ll head back to Edinburgh tonight,’ he said. ‘If I authorise any more overtime, I’ll have no job to get back to.’

Two hours later, they were fighting the city traffic.

‘Something wrong, sir?’ Tripp ventured after dropping Salter home.

‘I think so,’ Callanach replied. ‘I just don’t know what yet.’

‘We’ll be taking over the case, will we, if it proves to be Elaine Buxton’s body?’

‘As soon as I’ve cleared it with the Detective Chief Inspector. Take me straight to the station.’

The Major Investigations Team offices were all but deserted. Callanach liked being alone. He could concentrate, undisturbed by slamming doors, the hiss and gurgle of drinks machines and the constant undertone of voices. Quiet was uncomplicated. And it delayed returning to his flat. Somehow the act of unlocking that door would make his transition to working and living in Scotland real. He longed for France, for the culture that ran in his blood. Having one Scottish parent and being fluent in the language was no substitute for the country that had been his home for all but the first four years of his life. Even the cloud under which he’d left hadn’t tainted his memories of Lyon.

He opened a box and began dumping the contents into drawers.

‘So was your trip to the Cairngorms worth the bollocking it’s going to get you?’ came a voice from the doorway. Startled, he dropped a file, getting a laugh from his fellow detective inspector. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t meant to scare you. Apparently Interpol agents are easily caught unawares.’

Callanach retrieved the file from the floor, frowning as he reordered the paperwork.

‘DI Turner, I’d assumed I was alone.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly one in the morning.’

‘I practise my best paperwork avoidance at night. No one here to chase me for it. That and the fact that I’ve done so many night shifts, my brain has long since ceased to differentiate between dark and light,’ she said. ‘What’s your excuse?’

‘I thought I might as well unpack before I’m dismissed,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘I’ve got some single malt in my office. We could toast your welcome and goodbye in one sitting.’ Callanach pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and breathed in slowly, aware that he was gritting his teeth as he tried to find the least offensive form of words he could. ‘Don’t worry,’ Ava said. ‘You’ve had a long couple of days. Some other time.’

‘I just don’t believe that socialising at work is sensible. Maintaining professional boundaries is important.’

‘Not a problem.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve hit the ground running. Probably best to leave the unpacking ’til morning.’

He ran a hand through his hair and stretched his neck. ‘Look, you’re right, I do need a drink.’

‘No, I think you were right. One in the morning is no time to be here. I’m going home. You should too, judging by the look of you. Goodnight.’ She let his door swing softly shut as he swore under his breath. He could have handled that better. It was time to face his apartment, accept that life had moved on and that he had to move with it.