Helen Fields - Perfect Remains

Callanach retrieved the file from the floor, frowning as he reordered the paperwork.

‘DI Turner, I’d assumed I was alone.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s nearly one in the morning.’

‘I practise my best paperwork avoidance at night. No one here to chase me for it. That and the fact that I’ve done so many night shifts, my brain has long since ceased to differentiate between dark and light,’ she said. ‘What’s your excuse?’

‘I thought I might as well unpack before I’m dismissed,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘I’ve got some single malt in my office. We could toast your welcome and goodbye in one sitting.’ Callanach pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and breathed in slowly, aware that he was gritting his teeth as he tried to find the least offensive form of words he could. ‘Don’t worry,’ Ava said. ‘You’ve had a long couple of days. Some other time.’

‘I just don’t believe that socialising at work is sensible. Maintaining professional boundaries is important.’

‘Not a problem.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve hit the ground running. Probably best to leave the unpacking ’til morning.’

He ran a hand through his hair and stretched his neck. ‘Look, you’re right, I do need a drink.’

‘No, I think you were right. One in the morning is no time to be here. I’m going home. You should too, judging by the look of you. Goodnight.’ She let his door swing softly shut as he swore under his breath. He could have handled that better. It was time to face his apartment, accept that life had moved on and that he had to move with it.

Edinburgh had been the closest Callanach could get to Lyon, in Scotland. It had the feel of a town, in spite of its size and busy economy, and a history its inhabitants celebrated. The city was easy to love with its sympathetic blend of old and new architecture and a population that seemed to have embraced different races and cultures whilst maintaining its own heritage. If they could only control the wind chill factor, he thought, it would be ideal. Callanach had rented a flat in Albany Street. A hundred years ago, it would have been a grand old terraced house, set over four floors, home to one of Edinburgh’s elite families. These days, the inhabitants were busy professionals who would come and go through the central hallway, marking the nearness of their lives with only a raise of eyebrows or curt greeting. He found it wasteful, how little communication passed between neighbours. It was why dead bodies were noticed only by their unbearable odour and how domestic violence could be perpetrated on the same victim repeatedly without intervention. Good neighbours enabled good policing.

He poured a large glass of red wine and picked up a book. Reading himself to sleep had been a habit as far back as he could remember. It was the only thing that distracted him from work. But tonight concentration was difficult. With every page, the image of the bleak Cairngorm Mountains reappeared, forbidding and harsh. Winter was approaching. The Braemar bartender had told them the town would be full of skiers and snowboarders at the first flakes. It was a couple of weeks off yet, but December would bring snow to the peaks. The crowds of summer hikers were long gone, high winds and rain deterring all but the hardiest. The killer’s timing, then, was either planned to perfection or lucky beyond the very best of odds.

Callanach woke early, realising he had no food, craving the tiny cafe on the street corner near his old apartment where he could eat freshly baked croissants and read a newspaper in French. Instead, he hurried to the only place close by and open, a health food store across Broughton Street, where he was surprised by the friendly reception, and picked up dried fruit, yoghurt and rye bread.

He plugged in his computer as he ate, wondering what his private emails would bring. They’d been stacking up for a week and he was tempted to simply delete the lot before reading.

There were administrative emails from Interpol dealing with his departure, requesting a forwarding address for documentation, nothing important. Then there were updates about local events in Lyon he’d usually have attended – a wine festival, sports rally, the opening of a new restaurant – and he pressed delete with a sense of resignation. Much of it was the usual e-junk but then he spotted it, hidden between a wine-club subscription offer and a newsletter from his last gym. A bounce-back notice had come from his mother’s email address. She had apparently moved beyond steadfastly ignoring his communications and taken action by changing her email completely, as she had already done with her mobile phone number. His letters were returned unopened, his landline calls were screened. Callanach threw the remainder of his breakfast in the bin and slammed his laptop closed, immediately regretting how he’d let it affect him. Getting angry wouldn’t change a thing. He was where he was. What mattered now was Elaine Buxton. Nothing else. He had to make the new start work for him. Offending DI Turner the previous evening was a less than impressive start, and an error it would be tactically sensible to rectify sooner rather than later. With the office still to be organised, he changed from his sweats into a shirt and trousers then left for the station.

Tripp was waiting outside his office when he arrived, looking eager and rested. That was the benefit of being in your twenties, immune to too little sleep and careless of stress. For a couple of seconds Callanach was tempted to send him back to Braemar. Uncharitable, he thought. At least DS Lively hadn’t been waiting for him.

‘DS Lively was wanting to talk to you, sir.’ Callanach rolled his eyes. ‘And I thought,’ Tripp continued, ‘given what we learned in Braemar, you might want to visit Elaine Buxton’s flat today, so I’ve organised that for lunchtime, and her ex-husband’s phone number is on your desk.’ Tripp had been busy. Callanach mentally rebuked himself for wanting to send Tripp back to Braemar. The young detective constable was sweetly unselfconscious of appearing too keen. That was a rarely seen attribute in any police officer.

‘Thank you. Where is the detective sergeant?’

‘In the briefing room. Shall I fetch him?’

‘No, we’ll go to him. Coffee en route.’

Approaching the briefing room, Callanach could hear the exact conversation he’d suspected would be taking place. The door had been left open, sensitivity not a concern, and Lively’s voice boomed out.

‘How the hell did he end up walking straight into a detective inspector post? That’s what I’d like to know. It’s not as if there weren’t plenty of other candidates, people who know the city and understand the people. Rumour has it, some bastard pulled more strings than make a fishing net to get him in here. He wasn’t through the door more than ten minutes before dragging us off our patch into someone else’s investigation.’