Perfect Death

by Helen Fields

  Ava grabbed the knife, wrestling it from Knuckles’ hands and holding out both knife and the taser towards the two men on the floor.

  ‘The money’s gone,’ Ava said. ‘It’s become a generous donation to a local charity, anonymous obviously. You’re too late. I’m leaving, and I’m giving you two minutes to get out after me. After that the police will be waiting outside to escort you from the premises. Come back here again and it’ll be your final resting place.’

  She ran down the stairs, unwilling to test her theory as to how slowly both men would now be moving. Taking her coat from the kitchen, she disappeared through the back door, hiding behind bushes in a garden opposite and waiting for them to appear. They took longer than she’d hoped but that was probably because they appeared to have been rummaging through Glynis’ freezer for a bag of peas, which the big man was clutching to his groin as he hobbled away. Knuckles’ face and shirt were a mess of blood, and he too was unsteady. Ava watched them climb into a car with a licence plate so muddy she couldn’t make it out, and drive away. She left it five more minutes before exiting the garden, returning to the house only to lock Glynis’ door before going to her car.

  Her right hand was warm and sticky, the pain just beginning to register. There was a substantial cut running along the palm, splitting the skin between thumb and forefinger. It was deep, throbbing and no amount of positive thought was going to persuade her that she could avoid getting professional help. She checked the time. It was close to 4am. Accident and Emergency was what she needed, only someone there would recognise her and this was such an obvious knife wound that questions would be asked. She wrapped her hand in the towel she kept stuffed in her gym bag on the back seat and began to drive.

  Dr Ailsa Lambert lived on Belford Park not far from the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, an institution of which she was a prominent member. Ava knew that because her own mother had worked with Ailsa on the board, just one of many ways in which their paths had crossed before her mother’s death in the summer. The pathologist had been a fixture in her life well before Ava joined the police force. Ailsa was never given to dramatics, never pre-judged a situation, yet was always the first to deliver painful truths. And she was a master of discretion. Ava hoped that was an attribute she could rely on now. She rang the doorbell.

  The dogs barked first. Ailsa had three King Charles spaniels. They kept her company, Ava supposed. Ailsa’s husband had left her after five years of marriage and she’d never bothered to find another partner, remaining childless and making a maternal commitment instead to her career. After a few seconds an upstairs light came on, then the hallway light and finally the door of the grand old, double-fronted house was opened.

  ‘Ava Turner, that towel had better be clean,’ Ailsa said. ‘Get in here right now and let me see what you’ve been up to.’

  Ava walked straight through to a kitchen where she’d eaten more than her fair share of cakes and drunk hot chocolate when she and her mother had visited. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ she said. ‘I just need to get cleaned up.’

  ‘I am not given to swearing, young lady, but if I were I’d be turning the air blue by now. How much are you going to tell me?’

  ‘Not much,’ Ava said. ‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’ She sank down onto a chair and closed her eyes.

  Ailsa peeled the bloody towel away over a bowl as the kettle boiled. ‘You’re going to have to offer me some sort of explanation. I need to know what I’m dealing with. Take your coat off, we’re going to be a while.’ She held Ava’s hand up to the light, wiping the blood away with antiseptic wipes. ‘You’re fortunate the cut hasn’t gone through any tendons. It’s deep. You’ve lost a fair bit of blood and you’ll have scarring for life.’

  ‘I take it my career options as a hand model are limited then,’ Ava said.

  ‘Joke with me after 6am when I might be prepared to listen. You’re obviously here because you can’t go to the hospital so we’ll dispense with needless evasion. How did this happen and how long ago? More to the point, is your tetanus up to date?’

  ‘I got stabbed by an angry man as I was disarming him about twenty minutes ago and yes, it is. Does that cover everything?’ Ava replied as Ailsa first handed her a glass of cold water, then poured hot water into a bowl and took a pack of cotton wool down from a cupboard.

  ‘Hardly. I take it you haven’t registered the damage to your left arm yet.’ Ava looked to where Ailsa was staring. Her left forearm had blackened already, the tread of a boot visible in relief on the skin. ‘Close your fist,’ Ailsa instructed. Ava tried, making her hand close halfway before giving up. ‘You ought to get an x-ray. I take it that’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Correct again,’ Ava said. ‘Thanks, Ailsa. I didn’t know where else to go.’

  Ailsa sat down to riffle through a medical bag. ‘I still keep everything needed for the living but you’ll remember I’ve only stitched corpses for thirty years now. Just in case I do a bad job and you consider suing me.’ She smiled as she took a needle and surgical thread from the bag. ‘It’s a clean wound. I can give you some topical anaesthetic but you really need an injection to numb your hand before I start stitching and that’s something I don’t have here.’

  ‘Glass of brandy, then?’ Ava joked.

  ‘Good idea,’ Ailsa said, walking into the lounge and clinking bottles. ‘Have you given Luc my address? I don’t mind him coming here. I won’t be getting back to sleep now in any event.’

  ‘I haven’t called him and I’m not going to. This is my problem. No one else can know.’

  Ailsa put a large tumbler of brandy on the table in front of Ava, followed by a smaller measure for herself. ‘It’s your problem, is it? If the wound had been to your inner thigh or your neck, you’d be dead. What address would I have been called to for the purposes of examining your corpse, may I ask?’

  ‘You can’t. In fact, you can’t ask anything, Ailsa. The men who did this to me, the people they work for, they’re dangerous. At the moment they don’t know who I am and that’s the way I want to keep it,’ Ava said. Ailsa picked up the needle and Ava braced herself, looking away. She had no particular fear of needles but it seemed wise not to actually watch this one going into her skin.

  ‘So you didn’t tell them you were a police officer. Whoever you’re protecting, are you sure they’re worth it? I’m sorry, there’s no way round it, this is going to hurt a great deal.’ She began stitching.

  ‘They’re worth it, and I’m not in any immediate danger. Jesus, Ailsa, that’s painful,’ Ava said.

  ‘You won’t take the Lord’s name in vain in my house, I don’t care what rank you are these days. Finish your brandy. You’ll not be fit to drive for a few hours in any event.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ava said, reaching out her undamaged hand to rest on Ailsa’s arm. ‘I could use some sleep.’

  ‘That’s the first time since I’ve known you that you’ve taken advice without arguing. I’m not easily scared, Ava, but you’ve put the frighteners on me. Ignore my advice, you usually do, but you should speak to Luc about this. He’s your friend. I trust him. I know you do too,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘He is my friend. That’s why I’m keeping him away from this. If I’m going to commit professional suicide then I’m not dragging anyone else down with me.’

  Ailsa cleaned up and put gauze over the wound. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? I may be old and decrepit but my brain is still functioning properly.’

  Ava thought about it. There was a lot left she didn’t know for sure, like the identities of the men at Glynis’ house and what the Chief had done to create such a horrible mess that he’d killed himself, although a picture was forming more clearly in her head. The Chief and Jones had profited in grand terms from Trescoe and McGill’s imprisonment, exacerbated by being part of the team that had landed the crime bosses in prison. It was hard to quantify the level of vitriol that must have spawned, festering within the confines of a cell over
a period of many years. Whatever the exact mechanics of how Begbie and Jones had ended up in possession of the proceeds of organised crime, it had proved to be a life-shortening decision. It left more than just a bad taste in Ava’s mouth. Her concern, now though, was Glynis Begbie. Ava’s grief over the Chief’s death was becoming a poisonous cocktail of anger, disappointment and fear. Whoever had rammed Louis Jones’ car then nail-gunned his mouth shut, the same week the Chief had killed himself and left his family devastated, had some questions to answer.

  ‘You have an alarm and a CCTV system, right?’ Ava asked her.

  ‘I do, top quality. I put a lot of people in prison with my testimony over the years. No point taking chances,’ Ailsa said, cleaning up the post-operative debris.

  ‘Would you invite Glynis Begbie to stay? She shouldn’t be at her house, not for a while after the funeral. It’s important that she has company,’ Ava said.

  ‘I see,’ Ailsa responded. ‘Does Glynis understand that it might be better for her not to go home?’

  ‘She does. I know she’d be glad of the invitation to stay with you. You’ll keep your alarm on though, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Ailsa said. ‘Now go to bed. Some healing is required.’

  ‘The alarm, Ailsa. I need to know you won’t forget. Promise me,’ Ava said.

  ‘All right, I promise. But you’re not doing anything to reassure me that whatever’s happening is in hand.’

  ‘It is,’ Ava said. ‘It will be.’ She corrected herself, hiding the lie by turning her head away from Ailsa as she spoke. Someone had murdered Louis Jones in cold blood. If they were capable of that, they were capable of anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Randall had been itching to get out of the house to go to The Fret. He’d spent the week practising ‘Stairway to Heaven’ and had been considering getting up to do a solo. A month ago he’d never have contemplated such an overwhelming feat of bravery but the world lately had seemed a better place. His mother, Cordelia, had been increasingly distracted, the fortunate consequence of which had been her failure to ask to check his homework and talk through the minutiae of his college day. That left more time for the guitar, shopping, and for broadening his range of henna tattoos. He still hadn’t quite got the nerve to get a real one. That would also require fake ID, which he had no idea how to obtain. He was pretty sure Christian would have the answer to that one, although he might be cautious about it. Christian was great, but there were times when he made a bit too free with the words of wisdom.

  This evening his mother hadn’t even asked where he was going when he went to the door. True, she would assume he was headed for the library, which was his fall-back excuse, but not having to actually lie was a weight off his shoulders. She’d been lying down since getting home from work, blaming over-tiredness and a poor night’s sleep. Randall knew she hadn’t been well. He’d heard her vomiting a few times in the past week, followed by the furious cleaning of her en suite. She was paranoid about passing germs around; her own worst enemy, never relaxing properly, never just having fun. No wonder she was ill.

  He sauntered into The Fret, aiming a sullen ‘S’up’ at the doorman, who looked as bored as ever, but who managed to raise an eyebrow at him. This was the first time he’d arrived later than Chris, which pleased him. Chris was standing at the bar, chatting with a couple of regulars, texting as he spoke, oblivious to how the world was such an easy place for him. If Randall tried to do that, he would end up dropping his phone or losing the thread of the conversation, or laughing at the wrong time. Randall took the last free table and stowed his guitar beneath it, clutching a handful of pound coins for a drink. He wished he’d remembered to ask his mother to change the coins for a note. It looked so babyish going to the bar and counting out his money. Still, he had to have a drink in front of him, and he needed the alcohol if he was going to risk a solo.

  Christian finally noticed him, raised a hand and continued his conversation. Randall gave a broad smile and waited for him to come over, as he tuned his guitar. It didn’t really need it. He’d sat in a bus stop for half an hour fiddling with it while he waited for enough time to pass so he wouldn’t get to The Fret early. He kept Christian in his peripheral vision as he strummed, realising that if he didn’t go and grab a spare chair, there would be nowhere for Christian to sit, and then he might not come over at all. Not that he needed the company. He was fine on his own. But it was better to look like he had a friend. The problem now was that Christian would see him getting the chair and that was definitely not cool. He should have got there earlier.

  His phone rang. It was his sister, probably wanting to talk about what they should get Mum for Christmas, or worse, to have a go at him for not playing the dutiful son and telling their mother where he was going. She was such a creep. He couldn’t recall her going out once when she lived at home before uni. It was always studying with her. The house had been constantly quiet because she needed to concentrate. Well, he was his own man. He hit the end button without answering the call, propping the guitar against his chair and heading to the bar. His phone began to ring again as he was waiting to be served. He sighed, killed the call, and waved a clinking bundle of coins towards the barman. No sign of his favourite barmaid tonight. Typical. Just as he was about to play solo. He’d dreamed about how she would look at him and wondered if tonight might be the time to stay late and offer to walk her home. He even had a fold-up umbrella tucked away in his backpack. He wouldn’t get it out until they were alone, but she’d appreciate it. They might even hold the handle together.

  When his phone began to ring for a third time, he made a point of swearing loudly, knowing he could ignore two calls but probably not three without someone getting suspicious of his whereabouts and sending out a search party. It was his sister again. He sauntered to a quiet corner, abandoning his place in the bar queue and trying to look nonchalant.

  ‘Yep,’ he said, holding a hand over the mouthpiece in an attempt to dampen the noise. No doubt his sister would be reporting back to his mother.

  ‘Where are you?’ his sister screeched.

  ‘I’m out,’ Randall said. ‘I don’t answer to you. Tell Mum I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘No, you have to get a taxi to the Royal Infirmary. Mum collapsed. She’s in an ambulance.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. I only left home a while ago. She can’t be that ill. I’m in the middle of something,’ Randall said.

  ‘Randall, you stop whatever you’re doing right now. I know you’re not at the library because the library doesn’t sound like that. Mum might be prepared to put up with your bullshit, but I’m not. Just do what I’ve told you,’ his sister said. He heard the squeal of brakes from her end of the line. When she spoke again her voice was softer. ‘Randy, Mum’s really not well. You have to come. The paramedics were worried. Her … her vital signs weren’t good. I’m not sure …’ her voice trailed off.

  ‘You’re not sure what?’ he asked, feeling a sickness snake up from his stomach towards his throat.

  ‘Just get to the hospital fast, okay? We’ll be in Accident and Emergency. Text me when you arrive and I’ll find you.’ She rang off. Randall stared at his mobile, wondering if he’d imagined the urgency in his sister’s voice, trying not to fill in the blank at the end of the sentence. A lurch of guilt unbalanced him, the knowledge that his mother had been ill when he’d left home. He hadn’t even bothered going in to check on her. It had been such a relief to get out of the house without the usual interrogation that he’d thought only of the evening ahead. Perhaps if he’d checked on her, he’d have known she needed a doctor. He reeled, clutching the wall for support, then Christian was at his side, a steadying hand on his arm.

  ‘Hey, man, you look pale. You need some fresh air? Nerves got the better of you?’

  ‘I … I need to get to the hospital,’ Randall said.

  ‘You feeling that bad? Should I call an ambulance?’ Chris asked.

&n
bsp; ‘Not me. It’s my mum. She’s ill. I have to get there really fast but I don’t have enough money for a cab. Could you, maybe …’ Randall said.

  ‘Hey, no problem. I’ll drive you there myself. Wait for me by the door.’

  ‘This is really embarrassing. I’m sorry,’ Randall muttered.

  ‘It’s your mum. You’re supposed to go running. Don’t let all the bullshit going on in here make you less than you really are. Every person in this room is terrified that they’ll make a fool of themselves. Don’t get sucked into it. Appreciate what you have and protect it. I told you about my friend who lost her sister recently, yeah? What she wouldn’t do to turn back the clock. Let’s get going,’ Christian said, putting a gentle hand on Randall’s shoulder and pushing him in the direction of the door.

  The nurses were kind as they walked Randall to the cubicle where his mother was being fussed over by a team of medics. A fan was chugging away at his mother’s face. His sister was standing in a corner conferring intensely with a nurse. Randall stood outside the circle, wondering why it felt as if he didn’t exist. Christian had hugged him as he’d dropped him off. A proper hug, hard, brief, but it had meant the world. In every other aspect of his life, he was a troublesome child. Some days it felt as if that was all he would ever be.