Helen Fields - Perfect Remains

‘I see the similarities,’ Callanach said, ‘but do you not have anything more tangible that connects this to Elaine Buxton?’

‘Only this.’ A new photo filled the screen. As one, the people in the room leaned forward to make out what they were looking at amidst the green tangle in the picture. ‘Here, at the very bottom, is where Jayne Magee’s mobile phone was found. Just inside her front garden, at the roots of a bush. Whether she dropped it or someone else discarded it, we don’t know. It’s been sent off for prints and data.’

‘She could have been trying to make a call, perhaps worried that she was being followed, was disturbed and dropped it,’ Salter suggested.

‘Or whoever took Magee didn’t want us tracing the signal and getting a location,’ Ava muttered. ‘I’ll manage without your lot,’ she whispered to Callanach. ‘Looks like you’ve got work to do now.’ She left.

That wasn’t much to go on as far as linking the cases went. If it was the same person who’d taken Elaine, the one thing they knew was that Jayne Magee might not have much time left. Callanach rose to his feet, running a hand through his mop of hair as he walked to the front. It took all of two seconds for the noise level to reach a point where he couldn’t be heard.

‘ Arrêtez ,’ he snapped, reverting to French in his frustration. ‘Stop. There is no time.’

Someone tried a derisive oohing at Callanach’s loss of temper, only to be met by DS Lively cutting in.

‘We’ve work to do and the inspector’s trying to organise things. So if whoever that was can’t get a grip, then get out of the goddamn room,’ Lively yelled.

Callanach stared at him a moment, then opened his notebook to go through the list he’d compiled during the briefing, wondering if Lively had suffered some sort of character changing concussion. No doubt it wouldn’t last long.

‘CCTV footage, see if we can catch any part of her journey home. Neighbours, anyone who might have seen her near her home last night. Presumably the forensics team is already there?’ There was a nod from the officer who’d given the briefing. ‘Find the last person she talked to before she left the church. Ask what sort of mood she was in, what they discussed, what she was wearing. I want diaries, computer, make the mobile a priority. Tripp, you and Salter find anything that might connect her with Elaine Buxton. I want a full background on them both, from childhood to date. Understand?’ There were nods all round. The piss-taking was conspicuous in its absence, which showed Callanach that everyone thought what he was thinking. The clock was ticking. ‘Good. Now get back to work.’ The team filed out swiftly, buzzing with the combination of adrenaline and pressure. The next twenty-four hours would be crucial.

Lively managed to be in Callanach’s office before him. ‘I’d like to interview the witnesses at the church,’ he said. He was red faced and breathing hard, all evidence of his former cocky bloodymindedness evaporated.

‘Any particular reason?’ Callanach asked.

Lively nodded and stared at the floor. ‘It’s that, er, it’s where I go. To church, I mean. I know the Reverend Magee. Not personally, we’ve not spoken or anything, but I’ve seen her at services. She’s a good person and if this is the same man who abducted Elaine Buxton then I’d like to be able to handle the people at the church myself. Sir.’ He didn’t look at Callanach while he waited for a response. The humiliating addition of the respectful form of address was all Callanach needed to comprehend just how strongly Lively felt.

He wanted to say no, to punish his detective sergeant for the earlier thinly veiled threats and nastiness. But at least by having Lively centred on the church, the man would be out of his way. And there was the fact that Callanach had gone too far in shoving him, not that a man with Lively’s ego was going to make a complaint, but it was better to have a rival beholden than aggravated. Reason triumphed over anger.

‘It makes sense, as long as this isn’t too personal. I need you to be focused,’ Callanach decided.

‘I’ll be fine. I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves,’ Lively muttered.

It was beyond irony, Callanach thought, for Lively to have threatened to reveal whatever muck he’d heard about the forced departure from Interpol, only to ask for his own private life to be respected.

‘Take a constable with you and get started straight away. We’re already too many hours behind this bastard,’ was all Callanach said.

Jayne Magee was about as unlikely a target as anyone could imagine. There was no suggestion that Elaine Buxton was a regular at any church at all, so religion wasn’t the link. The pathologist hadn’t been able to estimate Elaine’s time of death, meaning they had no established pattern to follow, only the knowledge that she’d been missing sixteen days before her body was found. This time, the abductor might keep Jayne alive for weeks or she could be dead already. The killer had become a male in Callanach’s mind. There was no evidence, nothing solid, only years of past cases and what was screamingly obvious. Maybe it was more than one person, he considered, but Ava was right about looking at personality first. He couldn’t see such an obsessive character working well as a team player.

Callanach met with Jayne Magee’s assistant, Ann Burt, that afternoon. She dropped a dripping umbrella into Callanach’s bin then removed and folded her headscarf before sitting down. Callanach instinctively tidied his desk as she settled in. Stick thin, shrill and at the far end of her sixties, he guessed, Ann Burt told it like it was. She reminded him of his grandmother, distant though those memories were.

‘So I’m talking to the detective inspector, am I?’ she began. ‘You’re the third person I’ve repeated myself to today. Would you like to tell me what’s going on?’

‘It’s just routine, Mrs Burt. We’re covering all the angles.’

‘I may be old but I’ve not lost my faculties. I’ve had a call to say that there are three police officers at St Mary’s and a whole team at Jayne’s house. You’re thinking the worst, no doubt.’

‘There’s no trace of her at present and no one has contacted us to say they know where she is, so it’s all just standard investigative procedure.’

‘And the name Elaine Buxton hasn’t come up, is that right?’ Callanach didn’t say a word. The standard procedure line was one thing. Lying was another. ‘I thought as much,’ she went on. ‘You should know that the Reverend Magee has the heart of a lion. She’s a match for anyone. Don’t you go writing her off just yet.’ The words were brave but her eyes were too bright. Callanach made a few unnecessary notes while she regained her composure.

‘We don’t know who did this but experience tells us that in every case, a quick start is essential. We’re hoping the Reverend will turn up, that it was some personal crisis, perhaps simply that she needed time alone. But if that’s not the case then we have to consider all the possibilities,’ he said.

‘She led a prayer vigil for Miss Buxton shortly after she went missing. Hundreds came, we lit candles, prayed, had a minute of silence. Of course, we had no idea then what had happened to the poor girl.’ This time when the tears started Callanach didn’t pretend he hadn’t seen them.

‘We’re going to do everything we can. You’ve brought us her diary and computer, which will help. Tell me more about the sort of person she is,’ Callanach prompted.

‘She’s lovely, genuinely lovely. Not showy or loud, just warm. She has a wicked sense of humour, too. I never expected that from a lady in her position. Just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge. She’s very approachable, always has time for people. But bright, my goodness. Jayne studied at Oxford University, a master’s degree. Always has her nose in a book.’