Helen Fields - Perfect Remains

‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ two-faced Deirdre had hissed. ‘Natasha didn’t even want to interview him but Human Resources told her she should. They didn’t want a challenge to the fairness of their long-listing process. His CV is quite impressive.’

‘How do you know so much?’ Bleached-blonde had sounded amazed. ‘Oh my God, I never hear this stuff.’

‘I had to type up the notes of her session with HR. Professor Forge called me in especially to tell me I wasn’t to say anything to anyone, so don’t you go blabbing. I think he makes her skin crawl like he does everyone’s. She’s not giving him the job, that’s for sure.’

‘Bloody right,’ the yellow-haired whore had replied.

King hadn’t moved, not until they’d finished tarting themselves up and he’d heard the ladies’ door swing shut behind them, giggling viciously as they’d trotted up the corridor. When their grotesque laughter had finally faded, he’d let rage take him, slamming a fist into the mirror that was reflecting his reddened face and swelling tears. A second time, then a third, he punched the shattered glass, no pain transferring from hand to brain because everything was black and buzzing and he wasn’t sure what he was doing there, why he’d come, only that he had to get out, get out, get out!

He’d grabbed a toilet roll and wrapped the paper around his hand until the bleeding was hidden, shoved the fist into his pocket, wiped the sweat and other unthinkable liquids from his face, and marched down the corridor. He’d forced his pace to slow, held his head high, put his dignity back on like a helmet and left the building. He couldn’t remember the drive home, nor unlocking his door and throwing all his notes, all that work, into the bin. He didn’t remember cleaning and binding the fist that really required hospital treatment but that still, in spite of all the abuse it had taken, he could not feel. Nor could he recall falling asleep on his bedroom floor, flat on his back, arms over his face as if blocking out the world that had insulted him so badly, the same room where his mother had spent hours patiently teaching him and his sister algebra, French, chemistry, anything and everything. A whole history in this house. He’d wanted his parents to be proud of him then. Had been sure that even in death, this new career path would make them proud of him now. But he’d been tricked. Lied to. Made a fool. What he did remember, with startling clarity, was waking up and knowing he was better than all of them. He would show them how superior he was, humble every one of them with his brilliance. He would not run, wouldn’t be forced out, would never let them know the humiliation he’d suffered. Reginald King was a man born for recognition, adoration even, and he would not quit until he had conquered.

He smiled at the memory. What a moment that had been, a pivotal instant in his life. Still, there was work to do before he could progress further. Work that paid for him to live. He couldn’t afford to slack. There were mouths to feed. He filed a faked doctor’s letter with Human Resources, citing chronic gastroenteritis as his illness then fired off a few emails searching for a speaker. He was particularly keen to secure the attendance of a representative from Professionals Against Abortion. That would get right under Natasha’s skin, women’s rights being her regular ride of a high horse. It seemed unlikely that they’d be overwhelmed with invitations to speak at such a prestigious institution as the University of Edinburgh. He would follow up his email with a phone call to them in a couple of days.

The rest of the afternoon was spent clearing his desk of trivia before a trip to the supermarket on his way home. There were certain women’s supplies that needed buying. Not a chore he looked forward to, but a necessity. He went through the self-service checkout to avoid a nosy employee thinking too hard about the contents of his basket, treated himself to a good bottle of white wine – he might even share a glass with the ladies if they were behaving themselves – and set off to prepare dinner for them. It would be an interesting evening, he thought. Time for them all to get to know each other better.

At Ava’s suggestion they were meeting at a pub in York Place, just around the corner from Callanach’s apartment. She’d refused to give him the name of it, telling him he’d know it when he saw it.

She was right. Callanach spotted the Conan Doyle at the top of the road and knew immediately he was in the right place. Ava had promised to take him somewhere none of the rest of the squad would go, gossip was a price neither wanted to pay for a quick drink. It was warm and welcoming, eschewing the pretentiousness of trendy wine bars in favour of cosy chairs and a relaxed atmosphere. DI Turner was already there, checking emails on her phone and hugging a glass.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Callanach asked.

She smiled. ‘No, sit down and let me get you a drink. I started early, didn’t expect to find a parking space so easily.’

‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

Ava held up the glass mug and he caught the scent of apples and spice in its steam. ‘Mulled cider,’ she said. ‘I can never resist it. I’m guessing I can’t tempt you to join me?’

‘Glass of red, I think,’ he said. While she went to the bar, he held her glass in his hands, enjoying the heat of it as he inspected the place. A large painting of Sherlock Holmes’ creator hung above the stairs from the doorway. Callanach wondered what the writer’s personal demons had been, to have conceived such an eccentric hero.

‘You’re a fan?’ Ava asked as she handed over a large Cabernet Shiraz.

‘When I was young, I consumed his work. It all fed subconsciously into my decision to become a police detective, I suppose. You?’

‘I should read, I know, but by the end of the day I’m so drained that concentrating on a book feels like more work. I love the cinema. I go all the time, often to the midnight showings, sit on my own, eat popcorn. It helps me switch off.’

Callanach raised his glass and Ava met it with hers. They sat in silence and sipped until a barman appeared, placing menus casually on their table.

‘You said you wanted to talk about your case,’ Ava said. ‘Anything specific?’

‘Not really. I keep wondering why we’re not making progress, if it’s my fault. Maybe the move to Scotland has distracted me. If I’d found Elaine Buxton’s killer, Jayne Magee would be safely at home tonight.’

‘You don’t know for sure that the same person took them both,’ she said.

‘There are too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. I studied their profiles today. Excelled at school, both graduated with a first-class degree, each highly regarded in their own profession, hard-working, dedicated. And both disappeared from their home without a trace.’