by Helen Fields
‘Prostitutes not using public health care?’ Callanach suggested.
‘Wouldn’t they just have terminations if they didn’t want the babies?’ Ava ran her hands through her hair, grimacing.
‘I suppose some men have fantasies about having sex with heavily pregnant women. Maybe their pimps are forcing them to go full term, making money out of it then dumping the babies.’
‘I knew I should have gone home without talking to you. That’s such an appalling thought.’ Ava put her coat on. ‘Do you want a lift?’
‘You have two dead babies and one alive with no mother and no name. There won’t be a happy ending. And yes, a lift home would be appreciated.’
They walked down to the car together in silence, lost in their own cases. A noise behind them as Ava unlocked her vehicle made them both turn at once, staring into the darkness. When nothing else happened, they climbed into their seats. They were nearly at Callanach’s apartment before either of them spoke.
‘Did you ever contact the florist to find out who sent the roses?’ Callanach asked.
‘No time,’ she replied. ‘What made you think about that?’
‘Earlier it felt as if we were being watched. Reminded me about your secret admirer.’
‘You have an overactive imagination. It’ll be the caffeine,’ Ava said as they pulled up in Albany Street.
‘Just be careful,’ Callanach muttered getting out of the car. He considered whether or not good manners dictated that he should invite Ava up for coffee, looked at his watch and thought better of it. If he was lucky he could grab four hours’ sleep before returning to the station. She drove away before he could thank her for the lift.
He was climbing into bed before the realisation struck that he’d nearly invited a woman into his home. A month ago it would have been inconceivable that he could ever be so relaxed around a female work colleague, but DI Turner was different. She was comfortable in her own skin, unimpressed by anything, it seemed, except good cinematography. More than that, she was starting to feel almost like a friend. It had been too long since he’d had one of those. As he rolled over to get comfortable, his hand slid under the pillow to find a cold, hard object. At first when he tried to pull it out, it spun in his hand. In the pale moonlight that spilled through the crack in his curtains it flashed silvery, but the bedside lamp showed a multitude of colours and lines printed on its surface. The miniature globe was part of a key ring, no keys attached, and had previously sat on the Reverend Jayne Magee’s dressing table. Did she look at it each night, Callanach wondered, and think of all the places she could go, imagine the sights and sounds of a wider world than the one she ministered? Or was it only of sentimental value? A memento brought home by a travelling parent to show they’d been thinking of her whilst away. Glancing across at Elaine’s paperweight, now perched on a book on the table beside his bed, Callanach forced himself to bring the faces of both women into sharp focus in his mind. The physical presence of those two simple objects was his version of a shrine. There could be no forgetting, no avoidance, so long as he kept them close. He fell asleep clutching the tiny globe, and wondering where in the world Jayne Magee might be.
The next day brought confirmation of double wheel tracks embedded into the gravel outside Elaine Buxton’s garage. It should have felt like a victory, but the image of a woman bound and folded into a wheelie case was too vivid for him to feel pleased at the step forward. Callanach called a team meeting in the incident room that resembled a living jigsaw. One wall was dedicated to Elaine Buxton, her home, office and what forensic evidence they had. Another wall displayed photos of Jayne Magee. There was more to show for her, including press cuttings, papers she’d written, letters from the congregation and photos of the few people DS Lively had discovered were not in favour of having a female member of the clergy in their church.
Callanach had asked DS Lively to open the case update. ‘What we know is that both women were abducted on their arrival home. Their attacker, a male, packs his victims into a wheelie case after drugging them with chloroform in order to transfer them to another location. The presence of chloroform in the soft tissue attached to Elaine Buxton’s tooth was confirmed this morning. You’ve got copies of the witness statements. Police are on the alert in the Cairngorm area in case he tries to dispose of Jayne Magee’s body in the same manner as Elaine Buxton’s.’
‘What about profiling? If we can’t find Jayne Magee, can we not find out more about the man who’s got her?’ a constable asked from the back.
Sergeant Lively looked to Callanach to answer the question.
‘It’s not possible to formulate a suspect profile for a single murder,’ Callanach said.
‘Why the hell not?’ Lively asked.
‘There are restrictions on cases where that assistance is accessible and we don’t meet the criteria yet.’
‘Because we’ve only got one dead body? Or is it that profiling is just too bloody expensive to bother with? Reverend Magee is locked up with a lunatic. How many more hours is she going to survive?’ Lively was raising his voice. Callanach could see he was more affected by the case than he’d been letting on.
‘It’s not just a matter of finances,’ Callanach explained. ‘You cannot profile until there’s more than one body because there is no pattern. At this stage, making assumptions about the murderer might blinker us, lead us the wrong way. You can’t assess one murder and say the killer has features like this or like that. Right now, keeping an open mind is the greater asset.’
‘Bullshit,’ Lively said. ‘Bloody red tape.’
Callanach was saved from another confrontation with the detective sergeant when a uniformed officer stuck his head in and called two others into the corridor. It was a good enough excuse to call a halt to the meeting. From a hushed conversation outside the door Callanach caught the words ‘threat’ and ‘lockdown’ before Tripp handed him a bundle of overtime sheets.
‘These came back from the processing office, sir. You initialled them instead of writing your full signature. Accounts are refusing to pay the overtime until they’ve all been put right.’
Callanach cursed as he took the sheaf of paper from his detective constable.
‘Is it always like this?’
‘Not usually, but someone new’s handling it and it seems they’re a stickler for procedure.’
‘Of course they bloody well are. What’s so important that the briefing was interrupted?’ Callanach asked.
‘DI Turner had a threatening letter posted under her office door. It’s being taken seriously. All CCTV in and out of the building is being checked. The detective inspector’s with the Chief.’
Callanach arrived outside Ava’s door a minute later only to find himself being ushered away by the forensics team who were taking fingerprints and photographing the letter in situ before taking it for analysis. He opted to wait in the corridor outside DCI Begbie’s office until she appeared.
‘Busy morning?’ Callanach asked.
‘You could say that,’ Ava said. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Trying to establish why my briefing was interrupted. I thought I should get the information first hand. Police officers are generally unreliable sources.’
She tutted. ‘It’s a lot of fuss about nothing. Comes with the territory. Someone dropped off a note to make it clear they don’t like me. The most annoying side effect is that my office is out of bounds for a while. I wouldn’t mind, only I might as well have got a few more hours’ sleep.’
‘Could be related to the flowers. Maybe whoever left the note decided they needed to do something more extreme to get your attention.’
‘It’s a bit of a leap from roses to death threats, don’t you think? It’s not the first time someone’s wanted to kill me and it won’t be the last. This morning’s good news, however, is that the lab came up trumps with the DNA from the clotted blood, rushed it through the system and we’ve got results. It’s definitely not the baby’s DNA but they’re pre
tty sure it’s the mother’s. They’re running it through the database for a match.’
‘Unlikely,’ Callanach said. ‘Chances are she’s not been through the criminal justice system.’
‘Haven’t you got a squad of your own to depress?’ Ava asked.
‘You didn’t tell me what the note said,’ was his response. Ava rolled her eyes and tried to look bored. Callanach saw a woman glossing over the unpleasant knowledge that she was a target.
‘Something about taking an ice pick to my face and making me wish I’d never been born. I’ve been ordered not to go home until the forensic results are in. Like that’s going to happen.’
‘Take the advice,’ Callanach warned. ‘You never know.’
‘Thank you, Detective Inspector, I’ll bear that in mind.’ She gave a mock salute and marched away.
Chapter Sixteen
The chess game had dragged on for forty-five minutes. King was exhausted, getting bored and aware that Magee was taking advantage of his fatigue. He’d enjoyed it at first, the silence in the room as they’d both settled down to concentrate. Grace had remained restrained in her sack on the floor, rolling over occasionally and emitting a muted groaning, presumably phasing in and out of consciousness. Even the hysterical Elaine had remained quiet, face pushed into her pillow, either asleep or unconscious, he didn’t care which. Magee had turned out to be far the more fascinating specimen. He hadn’t anticipated that she would do anything either so brave or so brazen as to challenge him to a game for the woman’s life. It was a gutsy move, taking responsibility for another soul like that. Not that he’d been fazed by it. His father had required him to study expert gameplay and read books on the subject. He was never quite the player his sister had been, that had been made abundantly clear to him, but he was sure he could beat a woman he’d been clever enough to abduct without a trace.
For the first half hour, he was able to pretend that he was allowing her to succeed, giving her a false sense of security. Jayne was at a disadvantage and bound to be nervous. What was the harm in letting her take an early lead? By the time he’d realised how skilled a player she was, he was trying to catch up and failing, only just managing to retain his outward calm. After three-quarters of an hour he was fading. He should never have agreed to play when he could hardly keep his eyes open. It couldn’t possibly have been a fair match and she knew it. She was a cheat, luring him in, making herself sound desperate but knowing all the while that he was in no state to concentrate. When she moved her king to the centre of the board he knew they were in endgame. It was an effort to stop his hands from shaking. That was the lack of food and sleep. And his fury at the cheating bitch taking advantage of him. He wouldn’t concede, couldn’t. It was inconceivable that she should beat him.
She declared checkmate a few moves later without a hint of celebration or boastfulness and King loathed her for it. Had she been so sure of victory that she didn’t need to appear surprised or pleased by it? Had she assumed him to be such an incompetent that it was a foregone conclusion she would beat him?
‘Why aren’t you happy?’ he hissed. ‘It was a game and you won. Only because I’m suffering from exhaustion, but still, you beat me. Isn’t this what you wanted – to make me feel small? You’ve got it, I lost, so the least you can do is be gracious and sociable.’
‘Untie her,’ Jayne said. ‘Let me clean her up.’
‘That’s it?’ he shouted, standing so abruptly the table tipped. Chess pieces scattered at his feet. ‘That’s all it was about for you? To save her? I brought you here for me!’ He was screeching, his voice like a child’s. He realised it and hated it and still couldn’t stop. ‘You’re supposed to be interested in me! We were playing a game. It was my time with you. My time. Not hers!’
‘We made a deal,’ Jayne said. ‘You agreed. You knew the terms from the start.’
‘Don’t lecture me about terms!’ he shouted. ‘It’s all about me, do you get it? For once in my life, I’m the important one. You do what I want, when I want, and you do it for me!’
Jayne’s composure was breaking, he could see it. Her eyes were shining with a glimmer of gathering tears that made him feel victorious. He wanted her to cry, to carry on crying and never, ever to stop.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please just calm down. I’m sorry. We can talk as much as you want. You played really well. If you hadn’t been tired I’d never have been able to beat you.’
‘There’s going to have to be a punishment,’ he said, ‘and it must fit the crime.’ He picked up the black queen from beneath the upturned table and held it in front of Jayne’s face.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. There was a tear on her cheek now. He liked it a lot.
He ripped the sack off Grace’s upper body and sat behind her, one leg either side of hers, an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. Even in a questionable state of lucidity, and unable to move her hands or legs for their bindings, she was making a good show of protest, whipping her head forward and back, side to side. Scooping chess pieces into a pile beside himself, he yanked her head back against his shoulder. King pulled open Grace’s mouth and caught Jayne looking at the pliers.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not that again. You chose this for her. You chose it when you asked me to play chess, knowing I couldn’t win. You did this to her.’
King dropped the queen into Grace’s mouth and snatched a castle off the floor. In it went, followed by a pawn and a knight. He thought fleetingly of how furious his parents would have been to see the treatment their precious chess set was receiving, but then they’d never let him win either. This seemed to be a better use of the antique carved ebony and ivory than it had ever been put to before. He’d suffered enough humiliation from this particular toy.
The blocked airway brought Grace back to consciousness, her body doing its best to make her cough and expel the foreign objects being pushed further down into her throat. Her eyes began to bulge, the lack of oxygen making her thrash even as it weakened her resistance. King decided it was time to skip straight to his favourite verse of the hymn.
‘Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail.’ He shoved two bishops in together, scraping them hard against her wounded open gums, blood joining the chess pieces, filling her mouth and sending Jayne into a frenzy. ‘And mortal life shall cease, I shall possess within the veil …’ Finally he seized whatever pieces were left around him in one fist and shoved them down her gullet. Limbs flailing, gurgling and retching, he held her mouth shut, closed his eyes and listened. It was, he thought, the sound of death rising to couple with life. Finally, when his joy at Jayne’s tears was starting to ebb, Grace became still. King finished his song. ‘… A life of joy and peace.’
‘I told you,’ a tiny voice said. He’d forgotten Elaine. She was sitting up on her bed, knees drawn to her chin, rocking from left to right and panting. ‘I told you.’
King went to her. ‘You did, my darling, didn’t you? You told her what would happen and she didn’t listen. She’ll pay better attention from this point on, I think.’ He pulled a blanket over Elaine to keep her warm for the night, smoothing her hair as he tucked her in. ‘I’ll take out the rubbish in the morning,’ he said, kicking Grace’s corpse as he walked past it. ‘Sleep well, ladies.’
The next day he arrived late to work, hoping Natasha hadn’t noticed, horrified by his unironed shirt and the smell of his own body. He’d fallen straight to sleep and not had the time to shower on waking. Any further leave days would attract attention and, much as he’d wanted to sleep the day away, it just wasn’t an option. The women in the administration office were staring at him. It wasn’t in their breeding to greet him or make small talk but today they were being openly rude. He checked himself. What could they see that he couldn’t? He had his usual suit on, hadn’t forgotten his tie. It wasn’t until he reached the mirror in his office that he saw what had attracted their attention. A blackening bruise sat at the temple corner of his right eye, still in the process
of reaching its fullness of colour. He couldn’t remember the blow but supposed Grace must have caught him in her writhing and fighting. It didn’t hurt unless pressed but it wouldn’t do to let Natasha see him in such a state. She’d love it, would revel in his discomposure, would no doubt be desperate for the details. He considered retreating home and knew that would be worse – an admission that something was amiss.
His phone rang. He sighed when he heard the voice on the other end.
‘Dr King. We had a meeting scheduled. Did you forget?’
‘No, Professor Forge, I was delayed, there was an accident.’
‘Come through, would you?’ Natasha spoke fast. She always spoke fast to him, as if rushing to end the conversation. He heard her talking to other people and her voice seemed softer, her words slower. She was so tense around him. The atmosphere between them had been charged since the day they’d met. She knew it as well as he. The difference was that he had the courage to admit it to himself.
‘Can you tell me what you need on the phone?’ He didn’t want her seeing him in such a state, couldn’t bear to be near her. The thought of Natasha smelling the sweat growing stale on his body was too much.
‘Just come to my office, please. I have a biography and photo to give you for the lecture handout.’ A click on the line ended the conversation. King took one more look at the bruise on his face and prepared his explanation.
He walked straight into her room.
‘I have asked you before to knock and let me know you’re coming in. Everyone else does. Could you try to remember?’ She was marking papers on her desk and spoke without glancing up. When she did, he saw her eyes flick to the bruise and enjoyed the moment more than he’d anticipated. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to challenge her perceptions of him. He waited for the inevitable questions.
‘Here are the details of the speaker for the lecture this week.’ She turned her attention to her desk and held out a folder to him.
