Helen Fields - Perfect Kill

‘Fuckin’ pig,’ the girl said. The boys laughed.

‘What do you lot know about the man who lives in there?’ She motioned towards Gene Oldman’s house.

‘My mam says he never washed his clothes, not ever,’ the smallest boy said.

‘Would you shut your gob? You know we’re not supposed to talk to ’em,’ the girl warned him.

‘Is he dead? He’s gotta be. My dad said the polis never bother with us here unless someone’s dead,’ the boy continued.

The girl dug him in the ribs.

‘So none of you are supposed to talk to me, then,’ Ava said. ‘If I was going to ask who’s in charge round here, who would that be?’

‘Dunno what you mean,’ the girl said.

‘Yes, you do. The person your mums and dads warn you to steer clear of. Everyone either goes quiet when they walk round the corner, or talks to them like they’re the headteacher. Who does that sound like?’

‘Are you stupid?’ the girl asked.

Ava looked at her. She wasn’t being cheeky. There was genuine curiosity on her face.

‘You think I should be too scared to ask?’ Ava directed at her gently.

‘Fuckin’ right you should,’ the girl replied.

‘Are you scared of him?’ Ava continued.

‘You kids, get out of here!’ The woman DI Graham had been questioning stormed down her front path, waving her arms at them. ‘Go on, get home, right now.’

In the second Ava turned away to tell her to leave them alone, the kids were gone, sprinting along the pathway between the terrace of houses and a tenement block.

‘I’ll look into that problem with your scooter,’ Graham told her as he approached Ava.

‘Don’t bother,’ the woman said. ‘I just remembered, I sold it last month.’ She waddled back inside, slamming her front door.

‘Nothing?’ Ava asked him.

‘I learned a few new words,’ Graham said. ‘Which is impressive given how much time I’ve spent undercover with drug dealers and gangs. What next?’

‘I’m going in to the station,’ Ava said.

‘I’ll follow you in.’

‘No, don’t worry. It’s your rest day. We won’t get much further until the postmortem’s been done and we’ve got the forensics report. We sure as hell aren’t going to get anything useful from local witnesses.’

‘I’d like to come in and help,’ Graham said. ‘And you could use some breakfast.’

She began walking towards her car. He fell into step beside her.

‘Listen, Pax, last night was … a one-off. It can’t happen again. It makes things too complicated at work.’

‘I hear you,’ Graham said. ‘But you should know that I’ve never given up on anything I really wanted in my life.’

‘I’m not an achievable goal. Also, I’m not worth the effort. I don’t do healthy relationships. I guess I’m asking you to forget what happened between us. Would you try to do that?’

He dug his hands deep into his pockets, head to one side, his long hair moving in the breeze, jaw flexing.

‘You’re not particularly forgettable, I’m afraid,’ he said eventually, smiling before turning slowly and walking away.

Ava searched for an expletive that would adequately give voice to her frustration and failed to find one.

A building site just off Rue Curial, at the side of a hotel whose star rating Callanach estimated to be in the negatives, was where Malcolm Reilly’s body had been dumped, and it was about as far from the image of romantic, starlit Paris as it was possible to get. No building work had taken place there for several weeks while the builders settled disputes over safety regulations, so Malcolm had lain face down, between a cement mixer and a cherry picker, until some unfortunate labourer, who couldn’t possibly have been paid enough to have discovered a hollowed-out body, had turned up on a routine safety-hazard walk-around one day, only to have the site immediately closed down again as a crime scene.

Callanach looked around. There was some regeneration happening in the area, but he guessed that was only because land in that district was so cheap. Low-cost modern flats rose above lock-ups that harboured decades-old secrets. Cracks in walls were papered over with plaster, and alleyways led into dark places that no sensible person would enter. This was not the Paris of tourist fantasies. It was a world riddled with debt and a multitude of illegal ways to pay it off. This was a space where a body could rot and no one would notice, or care if they did.

A tarpaulin shielded the patch where Malcolm’s body had lain. Beneath it, a brown stain marked the concrete and brick rubble.

‘Was he naked when he was found?’ Callanach asked Jean-Paul.

‘Wrapped in a plastic sheet. We’re assuming he was left here at night to avoid witnesses. He was there for several days before the corpse was found. Did you speak to your boss about getting his medical records?’

‘It’s in hand. So how did they get access to the building site?’

‘They forced open two sections of wooden panelling and walked in. Dragged the body across the site – there was a build-up of rubble around the plastic sheet – left him, then put the panel back in place. We know from the construction company that building work was behind schedule though. It’s possible they’d planned to dump him in a foundation pit ready to be cemented over, but their timing was off.’

‘Fingerprints on the sheet?’

‘None. All the DNA belongs to the victim. The only unusual chemical identified was lanolin, and that was in quantities found only by swabbing the sheet. Not large patches or smears. Nothing visible to the naked eye.’

‘Lanolin’s from sheep’s wool, right?’ Callanach asked.

‘Yes. We’re compiling a list of possible sources – farms, animal movement vehicles, textile factories.’

Callanach looked upwards, checking which buildings had aspects that overlooked the building site. ‘And all these properties have been canvassed to check if they saw anything suspicious?’

‘As much as we could. We’d have needed twenty different interpreters to get round every apartment. You know what it’s like here. The police are the enemy.’

‘These people don’t want dead bodies in their back yard any more than anyone else,’ Callanach said.

A brick whistled past Callanach’s head and smashed at his feet. He leapt away and dived towards a cherry picker for cover as another hit Jean-Paul on the knee. Clutching his leg, Jean-Paul limped towards a half-built wall, crouching down with his back to the brickwork as a broken metal pipe smashed into an abandoned paint can.

The projectiles were flying at them from behind the main entry gates, and the aim was accurate enough that whoever was throwing had a decent view of them.

‘Get their attention,’ Callanach shouted to Jean-Paul.

‘Just stay where you are. I’m calling for police backup.’ Jean-Paul waved him back into the sheltered area.