Perfect Death

by Helen Fields

  Christian turned his phone off. The calls from Mina had been incessant, and now Randall was asking him to visit. The last contact from Randall had come from a number his phone hadn’t identified, although given the contents of the message the reason for that was clear. It appeared that Randall’s mobile had been taken away when he was admitted as an inpatient to a secure facility where he was, from the sound of it, being very heavily medicated indeed. Presumably he’d been able to find a landline to call from. Christian shook his head at the inevitability of it all. Randall had reeked of weakness from the outset. His inability to deal with his mother’s death had been so foreseeable that it was almost boring. There had been a blade involved though, which had been a surprise. Christian had anticipated something easier – a softer exit – sleeping tablets, perhaps. The grief Randall had been feeling must have been absolutely overwhelming for him to have attempted such an immediate and unpleasant escape from it. Christian allowed himself the luxury of imagining the scene for a few moments.

  Right now, though, Bradley was the one who needed him most. Sweet Bradley with his soft hands and beseeching eyes, slowly coming to understand that Sean wasn’t really right for him at all.

  Christian had been looking for someone like this. Someone who wanted to listen to him as much as they wanted to be listened to. Chris had his own story to tell. He too had burdens and struggles. With Bradley, he could let some of that out. There was Sean, of course, between them like some invisible reminder that all new friendships bore the guilt of stealing time from existing ones, but things would change.

  Speaking of Sean, his career seemed to be going from strength to strength. The theatre company he’d recently joined had commissioned a black comedy from a local playwright and rehearsals were getting a lot of press attention, Bradley was telling him.

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ Christian murmured over his coffee. ‘I’d love to see it.’

  ‘God, yes,’ Brad said, bringing the sentence to a short close and losing his smile. ‘You know I’d love that but I … I still haven’t really talked about you to Sean. And now that I haven’t talked about you for so long, I feel kind of weird explaining how we know each other so well. Not that well, obviously. I think I probably should have mentioned you to him before now, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t stress. I completely get it,’ Christian said, reaching out a hand to Bradley’s knee. ‘We try to protect the people we love, and then before we realise it our very attempts to make things simple have grown into a new form of threat.’

  ‘How do you always know exactly what to say?’ Bradley grinned. ‘That’s precisely what’s happened, even if I couldn’t have put it into words. So, what about you? What’s been happening in your life this week?’

  ‘The boy I told you about who lost his mum – he attempted suicide,’ Christian said.

  ‘Oh no, you should have called me. Are you okay? That must have been a terrible shock. What’s happened to him?’ Bradley leaned forward, taking the hand Christian had put on his knee and gripping it between both of his.

  ‘He’s being looked after at a hospital. I feel kind of responsible. I know that’s stupid but maybe I wasn’t there when he needed me or I gave him bad advice. I don’t know,’ Christian said.

  ‘I don’t believe that for a second. All you did was offer him a shoulder. I bet he’d say you were a true friend.’ Bradley sighed. ‘You’ve had a tough time of it recently, what with your break-up as well. You know I’m just a phone call away if you ever need to talk. Don’t worry about the Sean thing. I’ve decided it’s time to talk to him about you anyway. I don’t want to pretend you don’t exist anymore.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Christian said. ‘It’ll sound crazy but this time we have, that no one else in the world knows about but us, it’s all that’s been keeping me going. I’ve had so many people relying on me so to find you, in this perfect place, I’m not ready to burst the bubble yet.’

  ‘I’m in your hands,’ Bradley said, flushing slightly as the words came from his mouth. Christian leaned forward, slid one hand round the back of Bradley’s neck and rested his forehead against Brad’s shoulder. He stayed like that for a minute, eyes closed, listening to Brad’s pounding heartbeat. Finally, satisfied, he sat back up.

  ‘I’ll meet Sean soon. We’ll put all of this right. There won’t be any awkwardness or competition. Trust me,’ Christian whispered. ‘I’d never do anything to hurt you.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The incident room was full. Every new photograph and evidential detail had been pinned to the board alongside the details of Cordelia Muir’s death, and in the centre of it all hung the artist’s impression of Jeremy Dolour.

  ‘The employees put hair colour between light brown and dark blonde,’ DS Lively told the room. ‘Jeremy is, they estimate, in his late twenties, which reflects the date of birth given on his volunteer application form. At present there’s no substantiated link between him and Cordelia Muir’s death, so the official line is to interview him as a witness. However, none of the information he provided to Mrs Muir was correct and we can find no record of anyone of that name and approximate age. You should assume he took steps to conceal his true identity. His motives for that, if they are innocent, are unknown.’

  ‘Where are we supposed to look for him then, sir? Seems we haven’t got much to go on,’ an officer shouted from the rear of the room.

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, son, we are the police. It is our job to find people. Sometimes those people don’t want to be found, which makes things more difficult, but if you expected the bad guys to be standing around waving flags then you’d best change careers,’ Lively replied.

  Ava intervened.

  ‘We’re struggling to find any CCTV footage on which we can positively identify Jeremy. Too many hoods up and umbrellas at this time of year, and the low light doesn’t help. We’ll need most of you chasing former employees, donors to the charity, going back through diaries to see who has been in the office in the last six months and obtaining their fingerprints for exclusion. Jeremy’s DNA will be in that office somewhere, as will his prints. Any other ideas?’

  ‘The interior of the fridge, ma’am,’ a voice said from the corner. Everyone turned around. Eventually chair legs scraped the floor and a young woman stood up. She was Hispanic, delicate, and absolutely tiny except for her belly, which she was holding protectively as she spoke. ‘I looked at the photos of the office earlier. One of the witnesses, Mr Hood I think, said that Jeremy had regular access to the fridge. If that’s right, you can expect the visitors not to have touched it. The outside will have been wiped down by cleaners occasionally. The inside, though, will be a discrete area, cleaned less often. It’ll cut down the enquiries we need to make to eliminate people.’

  ‘PC Monroe?’ Ava asked. The woman nodded. ‘Let me introduce you. This is Janet Monroe who is helping swell our numbers for the next few weeks and who will provide backup from here. Thank you, Constable. That’s a good start.’

  Callanach’s mind drifted as tasks were assigned and a timetable agreed. He and Ava had run through those details prior to the briefing. It was Tripp he was interested in. The Detective Constable was facing the opposite direction from the remainder of the team. In the time Callanach had been with MIT in Edinburgh he had never once witnessed Max Tripp less than one hundred per cent focused on a briefing, usually taking notes, with his hand constantly raised to ask questions. Today his head was elsewhere. He was staring at the board where the paperwork containing details of Lily Eustis’ death were starting to curl slightly at the edges. There had been frustratingly little progress. It wouldn’t be long before Superintendent Overbeck ordered the allocated squad to be reduced.

  The conference broke up. Men and women scattered, collecting equipment, claiming computers and desks, forming smaller groups to talk through what their day would entail. Tripp stayed where he was, staring at Lily Eustis’ face.

  ‘Tripp,’ Callanach said. Nothing. He walked ove
r and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Max, are you all right?’

  Tripp looked at him.

  ‘Too many coincidences, sir. It’s the same killer.’

  ‘In my office, Tripp,’ Callanach said. ‘Coffee first.’ They walked together to the tiny kitchen where not enough value was placed on hygiene. Callanach and Tripp opted for throw-away cups rather than the lottery of bacteria-laden mugs. Tripp walked half a pace behind Callanach as they made their way to his office.

  ‘Sit down,’ Callanach said. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘This mysterious man walks into these women’s lives. No one knew who Lily Eustis was with that night. There’s no CCTV, no DNA. More importantly Lily didn’t see anything dangerous coming or there’s no way she’d have been outside in December. She was sedated with easy to obtain drugs. He established a relationship of trust, then he sat back and watched Lily die. With Cordelia Muir, it’s the same. This time he showed his face publicly, but he gave false details. Jeremy is in the sort of age group that would have appealed to Lily. The description from the workers in Muir’s office say he was physically attractive. Not stand out, or stunning, but a good-looking man. Slim, 5’11”, blondish.’

  ‘What about the stutter?’ Callanach asked. ‘Why would a murderer with such a specific and recognisable trait put themselves in the public view before killing, especially if he was at pains to hide himself so well when it came to Lily.’

  ‘Because we’re assuming the stutter is real,’ Tripp said. ‘I had a boyfriend with a stutter once. When he tried to talk to people at parties, they’d look away, find someone else to chat with. They literally didn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t bear the embarrassment of attempting to communicate with him. Worn carefully, the most outrageous outfit becomes a disguise. I wonder how many of Jeremy’s co-workers spent time actually talking to him. My guess is that it was easier not to.’

  ‘You’re saying the stutter was a performance?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘I’m saying it may have helped him avoid people, which is what he wanted. It may also have had the effect of making Cordelia more prone to taking him under her wing. Think about it, he goes into the office, is struggling to talk easily to the first person he meets, so Cordelia intervenes. He doesn’t need to pour out his heart or tell a sob story. Mrs Muir is already feeling protective, empathising. That’s the kind of woman she was. If she was a pre-planned target, he’d have known that.’

  ‘Tripp, you’re not just describing an organised killer but one with a high IQ, stunning impulse control and perfect planning. Not to mention his acting ability. It’s hard to imagine that no one would have been suspicious of him,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Liam Hood was. He didn’t know why, but his instinct was that he didn’t like Jeremy and didn’t trust him. Other members of staff discuss the same lack of ease when he was in the office,’ Tripp said.

  ‘If that was the case, why didn’t they raise it with Cordelia?’ Callanach mused.

  ‘Would you want to be the one pointing the finger at a man volunteering his time for free to help a charity? A man with a speech impediment, who Cordelia had already decided should be given a chance. Do you think she’d have listened? It would have taken a brave person to have made a complaint based only on gut feelings of dislike.’

  Callanach sat back in his chair. ‘It would have taken a reasonable knowledge of pharmaceuticals to have killed both women. Lily and Cordelia must each have trusted whoever got close enough to kill them, so a high-functioning sociopath ticks the boxes in terms of having the social skills required. The general physical description, vague though it is in Lily Eustis’ case, is an approximate fit. We’re still without a motive for either killing, though. There’s no discernible link between Cordelia and Lily. So, what is it, the joy of ending a life? If that was it, wouldn’t he abduct them, watch them die, knowing he had the ultimate power over them? We’re not sure if he hung around long enough to witness Lily’s final breath, but he must have known he wouldn’t be there to see Cordelia pass. It doesn’t fit any known profile, no established pattern. There just isn’t the sort of pay-off psychopaths need from their offending.’

  Tripp folded his hands together in his lap. ‘Lily’s ring’s missing, an object deeply meaningful to her family. We haven’t properly explored the issue of Cordelia’s missing pen, but it’s another object with far-reaching emotional ties. The list of coincidences keeps getting longer. I don’t know why this killer is taking these lives,’ Tripp said. ‘But if I’m right, the second killing was much more audacious than the first. So far he’s got away with it, which means he’ll kill again. He’ll be planning it already.’

  ‘I’ll talk to DCI Turner,’ Callanach said. ‘Your theory has to stay quiet for now.’

  ‘Understood,’ Tripp said, standing up and leaving quietly.

  Something about his exit felt wrong. It took a few minutes before Callanach realised why. It was the first time Tripp had ever left his office without his last word being ‘sir’.

  Callanach walked into Ava’s office without knocking, a move that earned him a hard stare from Ava and a questioning look from PC Janet Monroe.

  ‘I take it you need me urgently, DI Callanach,’ Ava said.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Monroe muttered.

  ‘Constable Monroe, this is Detective Inspector Luc Callanach. Janet has joined us from CI Dimitri’s squad,’ Ava said.

  ‘Right,’ Callanach said. ‘Your team handled the Louis Jones car crash. Perhaps you could review the papers for me. I still don’t seem to have all the forensics back. I need the results to compare with the murder scene evidence. Speak to DS Lively about it, would you? You can’t miss him. He’ll be eating biscuits and talking more loudly than anyone else.’ Callanach smiled. Monroe excused herself to start work as Callanach sat down. ‘You’ve borrowed a uniformed officer from another squad? What prompted that?’

  ‘When I chased the Louis Jones crash report, Dimitri disciplined Monroe for not getting it to me and sent her off on early maternity leave as a thinly veiled reprimand. I felt bad and we could use her. So, no progress on the Louis Jones case then?’

  ‘I have someone making enquiries,’ Callanach said, adding, ‘and it’s better you know nothing about it. Plausible deniability, is that the phrase?’

  ‘I think we’re both past denying anything,’ Ava said. ‘Do you have an update on the man currently known as Jeremy?’

  ‘No but I have an update about DC Tripp,’ Callanach said. ‘He’s convinced that Lily Eustis’ killer and Cordelia Muir’s killer are the same man. For what it’s worth, I’m starting to agree with him.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Ava let the words float out on her breath. ‘Sum it up for me.’

  ‘Two deaths, unexplained, unexpected. Both pharmaceutically facilitated. Short time span. Key witnesses failing to come forward. Males from each case we are interested in are the same age, gender, race, rough description. Close geography. Planned and well-executed avoidance of a forensic trail. Both victims missing personal items, which might have been taken as trophies. Could be two separate killers but really, what are the odds of that?’

  ‘What you’re not saying, is that you’re here because I need to notify the Superintendent about it. Wonderful. I can drop that bombshell during the phone call when I’m explaining that there’s no case progress for Louis Jones,’ Ava said.

  ‘Qui court deux lièvres à la fois, n’en prend aucun,’ Callanach said. Ava tipped her head to one side and looked unimpressed. ‘It’s an old French saying. It translates as, he who chases two hares at once, catches none. Leave Louis Jones and the Glasgow trouble to me. Take control of the Muir and Eustis murders. If both women were killed by the same man …’

  ‘Then he’ll kill again soon,’ Ava said. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ava’s conversation with Superintendent Overbeck had been brief and brutal. More than one threat had been issued and some swear words used that Ava had ne
ver heard before. She hadn’t thought that possible after several years of providing police cell bed and breakfast to some of Scotland’s most accomplished drunk and disorderlies, but Overbeck was the queen of profane hyperbole.

  ‘That’s all you’ve got,’ Overbeck had cut in to the middle of Ava’s explanation.

  ‘There are too many coincidental similarities between the Eustis and Muir cases to ignore the possibility that it might be a series of murders, ma’am,’ Ava had replied.

  Overbeck had laughed, reminding Ava of nails being dragged along on a chalkboard.

  ‘You’re asking Police Scotland to fund a case based on the fact that, in the absence of positive evidence, you can see a lot of coincidences. Goodness me, we must be hard up for work to do. I tell you what. Why don’t you see if we can’t find a few other cases where there are dead bodies and we’ll lump them into the same investigation.’

  ‘It’s a bit more than that, if you don’t mind my saying, ma’am,’ Ava had responded quietly.

  ‘I do fucking well mind you saying, actually. The victims are from different races, different ages, were sedated with different drugs, and came from different areas of the city. You have to be out of your tiny, apparently underused mind!’ Overbeck had snapped.