Helen Fields - Perfect Remains

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.

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.’