Helen Fields - Perfect Remains - A gripping thriller that will leave you breathless

‘We’re going to die here,’ Jayne had said, in that plain way of hers.

Reginald King thought that smoked salmon and mushroom risotto would make an excellent choice for supper.

DC Salter fitted neatly into the extra-large wheelie case, once Tripp had secured her arms with gaffer tape. There was no hard evidence that Reverend Magee had been inside the case or that the man pulling it was her abductor, but there it was, in glorious high definition, inside Callanach’s head and he just knew that was how it had played out. Isabel Yale’s shoe comment fit exactly with what Ava had intuited about the abductor’s obsessiveness. What sort of person made sure their shoes were gleaming before a kidnapping?

Lively knocked the door once and walked in. ‘We’ve finished our enquiries at St Mary’s. Only thing that came out of it was a group opposed to women vicars. Seems Jayne Magee had received some nasty letters, a bit of abuse, threats. She didn’t report it to the police but we found the notes in her desk. They’re being examined.’

‘It doesn’t fit with Elaine Buxton’s killing,’ Callanach noted. ‘Collate all the outstanding missing persons reports for women in this age bracket from the last twelve months. And I want the forensic report on the mobile phone. It should have been on my desk yesterday. Also, call the police at Braemar. Ask them to go back up to the bothy and look for parallel marks leading to the hut that could have been made by a wheelie case. It’s a long shot but still worth investigating.’

Callanach left Tripp cutting Salter free of the gaffer tape, and made his way down the corridor to the kitchenette. The coffee machine was broken, not that he was mourning its loss. When he turned around, Ava was behind him brandishing an empty cup.

‘I’ll wash, you dry,’ she ordered, grabbing a second dirty mug off the draining board and running hot water into the sink.

A uniformed officer appeared just as the kettle boiled, puffed out from the short flight of stairs from the ground floor, and thrust a large cardboard box onto the table in the corner before retreating without a word.

‘Biddlecombe,’ Ava called after her. ‘What is that?’

‘Delivery for Major Investigations, ma’am. No name on it. From some posh florist. Must be from a satisfied customer.’

‘Our customers are either dead or psychopathic, depending on your viewpoint, Biddlecombe. They don’t send flowers,’ Ava yelled, picking up the box and eyeing it suspiciously. ‘Should I open it or throw it out of the window?’ she grinned at Callanach.

‘Is it ticking?’ he asked. Ava held it to her ear dramatically and shook her head. ‘Phone down to the front desk and tell Biddlecombe to come back up here and open it for you. She needs the exercise if nothing else.’ Ava was already ripping open the parcel. ‘Nothing like a well-adhered-to security policy,’ he noted, peering over Ava’s shoulder into the box.

Inside was a bouquet of stunning long-stemmed white roses. He reached across and pulled a card from a tiny golden envelope. ‘“ Detective Inspector, The thorn makes the bloom all the more precious. Yours .”’

‘Is that it?’ Ava asked.

Callanach checked the back of the card, the envelope and the box again.

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Have you arrested anyone for crimes involving dreadful poetry or being overwhelmingly sickly recently? Because it seems you’ve caught someone’s eye.’

‘How do you know they’re not for you?’ she asked. ‘My admirers usually just ask for a photo of me in uniform to put up in their prison cell, in lieu of a dartboard, I guess.’

‘Can’t be for me. Don’t Celtic women just hit men over the head with a club and haul them back to their cave?’ Callanach asked.

‘Oh aye,’ Ava mocked. ‘And then only if the man’ll make good eating. Otherwise we dinnae bother.’ She grabbed the flowers, thrust them into an empty desk bin that she filled with water, and left them on the table. ‘Well, if they’re for me, someone doesn’t know I get hay fever, so no points for research.’

‘Shouldn’t you report the delivery, at least?’ Callanach asked. ‘These things can get out of hand …’

‘Because I don’t have anything better to do with my time, and a bunch of flowers is a priority right now?’ She laughed. ‘I’m opposed to undertaking any activity that doesn’t help clear the mountain of paperwork from my desk, DI Callanach.’

‘It’s your funeral,’ he replied. ‘Any joy with your babies?’

Ava flipped straight back into work mode. ‘No. They’re unrelated except for a blanket each was wrapped in. Just white towelling, but identical. There must be two very distressed or confused women out there. What about you?’

‘Some movement, only a little, but it’s progress.’

‘Forensics on Jayne Magee’s mobile.’ Tripp thrust the paper through the doorway. ‘Lab said sorry they’re late, they were working on DI Turner’s baby case.’

Callanach flicked through the paperwork. ‘ Et voilà ,’ he muttered, pouring the remaining coffee into the sink and running his finger along a couple of sentences that were heavy on the scientific language. He read the paragraph twice before calling Tripp back. ‘The laboratory confirms the presence of chloroform on Jayne Magee’s mobile. He’d have been wearing gloves. That means it’s definitely a kidnapping and it fits with the theory that she was disabled before being packed in the case.’

‘Yes, sir. And one of the uniforms working the door-to-doors in Ravelston Park just radioed in about a statement he’s taken from a man who regularly cycles home along that route. Give me five minutes and I’ll get you the details.’

Callanach went back to his office and phoned Jonty Spurr. The pathologist sounded gruff and hassled, the phone obviously on speaker as he continued working while they talked.

‘Do you have time to talk?’ Callanach asked.

‘Four dead teenagers in one car. They’d taken ecstasy and were racing. Never ceases to amaze me how people can be so careless with their lives.’ Callanach said nothing because there was nothing to say. ‘So come on then, what do you need?’ Spurr asked.

‘I have an abducted woman who, I believe, was taken by Elaine Buxton’s killer. She was subdued with chloroform when he took her. Is there any method for tracing chemicals from Elaine Buxton’s remains?’

‘Not from the bones or the environment, no. Normally it would be easy if we had organs to screen but the only soft tissue cells we have are from the tooth found near the baseball bat. I’m not promising anything but I’ll run a tox screen. The results will depend on how recently she’d inhaled the chemical and in what amount.’ Callanach could hear the metallic rattle of tools being picked up and put down.

‘One more thing. How long before the effects of the chloroform would wear off after she was first abducted?’

‘Number of variables with chloroform, such as size and weight of the victim and quantity of the dose. Assuming he didn’t overdose her and she survived, it’s minutes rather than an hour, maybe fifteen if he was being careful not to harm her. It can cause burns to the skin, as well as liver and kidney damage if too much is used. You can’t use it safely for long-term sedation.’

‘Where would someone get chloroform?’ Callanach was pushing his luck and he knew it.

‘That’s two things and you have a pathologist of your own in Edinburgh. The answer is the internet but probably sent from abroad. It’s a commodity in certain eastern European countries, otherwise it’s a common industrial agent. Difficult to pinpoint sources, I’m afraid, but it’s easy to get hold of if you’re determined.’