Helen Fields - Perfect Kill

‘That was the twenty-four-hour gym at West Side Plaza Shopping Centre?’ Ava clarified.

‘Yes,’ Mr Reilly said. ‘He was part of a ski team and they were expected to train regularly. Helps to avoid injuries.’

‘Looks like he loved it,’ Ava offered, turning her face to the sea of photos.

‘He wanted to be in the Olympics. That was his dream,’ Mrs Reilly said, her face awash with tears. That was the thing about memories. One day they were just ordinary recollections, with more to be made, expectations keeping them in perspective and ready to be replaced. Once death came, those memories were newly precious, gold to be mined and polished at every opportunity, in the knowledge that the total sum of your riches had already been amassed, and that every ounce, every fleck had to be cherished forever.

Ava paused, letting the Reillys recover, then continued.

‘What time did he go to the gym?’ she asked.

‘About five thirty p.m. He came home from work, had a bite to eat, then changed and went. He was usually out until about eight, but that night he didn’t come home. We didn’t start worrying until ten, then we tried his mobile but he didn’t answer. We tried again half an hour later but by then his phone was switched off. His younger brother went out looking for him. Malcolm’s car was still in the gym car park but the receptionist said she’d seen him leave a couple of hours earlier.’

Ava already had a statement from the gym’s receptionist in her file. There was CCTV footage, good quality and in colour for once, that showed Malcolm Reilly looking fit and healthy after exercising, exiting the building at 8.38 p.m. precisely. The receptionist’s estimate had been half an hour out, but no surprise there. It was a busy place with plenty of people coming and going after work. Malcolm had turned left out of the main doors, bag slung over his shoulder. By then he’d changed out of his gym gear into jeans, a T-shirt and a green jacket – there was footage of him on the running machine earlier for comparison – his hair still wet from the shower, then he’d gone to the coffee shop cum bar. That was at about 8 p.m. No CCTV in there but a few regulars and staff had noticed him going in.

‘Did he tell you he was going to go to the coffee shop afterwards?’ Ava asked.

‘No.’ Mr Reilly shook his head. ‘But he was well known at the gym. He’s been a member there for more than two years. He often met friends and went for a drink or bite to eat afterwards.’

‘Anyone in particular he hung out with regularly?’

‘Why did they take his insides?’ Mrs Reilly blurted, suddenly standing up, fists clenched and pressed into her stomach. Her husband turned his gaze to the floor. ‘Even his eyes, for God’s sake!’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Ava replied gently. ‘I think that if we can figure out the motive for doing that, we’ll be able to catch Malcolm’s murderer.’

‘So are we supposed to bury only half of him, and do what … add the rest when you find the missing pieces?’ Mrs Reilly went on.

‘I’m afraid we need to keep Malcolm’s body at the mortuary until the matter is resolved. We can transfer him back to the UK if you’d feel more comfortable having him in Edinburgh. We’re not going to rest until we get answers for you.’

‘He’d met someone,’ Mr Reilly announced, at little more than a whisper.

His wife whipped her head round, the fastest Ava had seen her move since arriving.

‘What are you talking about?’ Mrs Reilly asked.

Her husband rubbed a hand across his forehead.

‘He asked me not to tell you. I don’t know much about it myself. Just that he’d met a woman he rather liked a few times, but that he wasn’t sure it was going anywhere.’

‘Why not?’ Ava asked.

‘Why was I not to be told?’ Malcolm’s mother followed up.

‘I gather she was married, or engaged, or something. Malc was vague about it. He wouldn’t tell me her name. I got the impression she’d asked him not to talk about her.’

‘Why exactly?’ Ava pressed.

‘He said something about how she wouldn’t like him talking about her. I overheard him on the phone one day. Malcolm had sounded excited, younger than normal. He was quite reserved usually, so I asked who it was. I think he wanted to tell me more but was torn.’

‘You should have told me anyway,’ Mrs Reilly said. It was an accusation.

‘Malcolm knew you’d disapprove. He didn’t want to upset you. Neither did I.’

‘And what if she had something to do with all of this? If I’d known, if you’d told me …’

‘How could some woman he liked have taken him to France? His passport’s still in his drawer. And why would she do that? It makes no sense. That’s why I didn’t say anything before. It’s ridiculous,’ he declared, banging his fist against his leg.

Ava gave them both a moment to calm down.

‘Which phone did you hear Malcolm talking to this woman on, and when?’ she asked.

‘His mobile. It was never found after he disappeared. As for when, that would have been about ten weeks ago. It was a Sunday afternoon,’ Mr Reilly said.

‘So two weeks before he disappeared, then. I’ll check his mobile call logs with his telecom provider. I don’t suppose you know where he met this woman?’

‘I don’t, but he was keen on her, and he obviously thought she felt the same or I don’t think he’d have mentioned her to me at all. It couldn’t have been her, could it?’ He stared into Ava’s eyes, looking for more than information. Wanting affirmation, reassurance, perhaps forgiveness.

‘We have to cover all angles when we investigate. I’ll do my best to locate this woman. Until then, it’s best not to torture yourselves with hypotheticals. I’ll leave you to it. If you think of anything else, please do get in touch.’

‘How could you keep that from me?’ Mrs Reilly hissed at her husband. ‘He was my son, I had a right to know.’

‘It was nothing, please, Anne, don’t upset yourself …’

‘Don’t upset myself?’ she raged, looking around the room before choosing the nearest object to seize. It was a vase. Her husband looked on in silence as it smashed in the fireplace. ‘My boy was gutted like a fish, and you’re asking me not to upset myself? What is it that you want me to do? Sit in bed quietly and cry into a hankie? What if this woman’s husband found out about them and decided to get rid of Malcolm? Did you think of that?’

‘No … no, I’m sure Malcolm wouldn’t have let it get that far.’

‘Mrs Reilly,’ Ava said. ‘I understand—’

‘No you don’t,’ Malcolm Reilly’s mother screamed. On the final word she aimed an open palm at Ava’s face, slapping hard enough for Ava’s neck to crack as her head whirled round. ‘Oh my God. I’m sorry. Oh my God,’ she gasped, falling to her knees.

Ava took to the floor beside her, taking Malcolm’s mother’s hands in her own, gently stroking the hand that had slapped her.

‘You’re right,’ Ava said. ‘I don’t understand. It’s okay. The worst thing is, I know that I never want to have to understand, not fully. I never want to be feeling what you’re feeling now. That’s why I do this job. I want to make sure that as few people as possible have to go through what you’re experiencing. All I can promise is that I’ll do my best, and that I’ll make everyone else do their best, and I won’t stop until I can give you answers.’

Mrs Reilly drew herself into a ball, rocking back and forth, eventually letting her husband kneel next to her and wrap her in his arms. Ava suspected they would be there, on that cold wooden floor, for an awfully long time. She let herself out.

An hour later Ava was at home changing out of her uniform. In spite of the Major Investigation Team’s non-uniform policy, she had always felt more comfortable treating visits to the recently bereaved with the utmost formality. That mark of respect was the least she could offer. The rest of the day was going to be briefings and normal graft, though, and her jeans were beckoning. She was almost ready to leave for the station when her doorbell rang. Ava sighed. Her cheek was still raw from the monumental slap dealt by a grieving mother. The blow had been well delivered, and while Ava didn’t resent it at all, it had left fingermarks that would be like carrying a physical part of Malcolm Reilly with her for the rest of the day. Fitting perhaps, given that so much of him was actually missing. She wandered towards the door, feeling less than charitable towards whoever was out there, ringing her doorbell so persistently.