PERFECT KILL
Helen Fields

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Copyright © Helen Fields 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Isabelle Lafrance / Trevillion Images

Helen Fields asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008275242

Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008275266

Version: 2020-10-20

Dedication

For David

Who always told me that I could and I would

Who catches me when I stumble

(literally and metaphorically)

And who never stops laughing at me

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Keep reading for a sneak peek of The Shadow Man …

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

At precisely the same time Bart was coming round from a chemically induced sleep, his mother was waking from a herbal insomnia remedy and wondering why the house was so quiet. It wasn’t a Sunday. On Sundays, Bart neither had college nor work, and occasionally he slept in. Not all that often, but sometimes. Maggie rolled onto her side and rubbed bleary eyes, trying to focus on the small travel clock perched on her bedside table – 9 a.m. She’d overslept. Not that she had anywhere to be in a hurry, but mornings – it was a Wednesday, she realised – were marked with the clanging of crockery, the pouring of cereal, and the sound of the dishwasher being loaded before Bart exited the house. He was a good boy. The sort of boy her friends were rather jealous of. She was conscious of the fact, once in a while moaning about him a little to make it clear that he wasn’t perfect, although secretly she knew he was. She might tell her neighbour that he played his music too loud, or pretend to her weekly library social group that he was forgetful about tidying his room. But Bart was neither loud nor untidy. In fact, he was independent, considerate and helpful. An exception among other twenty-year-old men. (Boys, Maggie thought. Twenty was no age at all. Certainly not mature enough to comprehend all the cruelties the world had to offer.) But then Bart had grown up quickly after his father had been killed serving in Afghanistan. Not in battle. That would have been devastating, of course. The truth had garnered more pity and less admiration from the community. Her husband had choked in the mess hall one night when a fellow officer had cracked a particularly hilarious joke. The steak he’d been chewing was sucked up into his airways where it had stubbornly lodged and refused to move in spite of no end of back-smacking, then a desperate attempt at the Heimlich manoeuvre which had broken ribs but not allowed any oxygen to his lungs. How did you explain that to a fourteen-year-old boy? That his father, who’d been a military man since before Bart was born, had been dispatched not by bomb or bullet, but by a mouthful of protein.

Perhaps Bart was ill, Maggie thought. Or maybe she’d taken too many sleeping tablets and not heard him leave the house. That had happened before. Distracted after a long shift at the call centre, she’d returned home and taken a SleepSaver, eaten dinner, then swallowed another pill without thinking. Such were the perils of tiredness. Living on a military widow’s pension and her wages was too tight for comfort, even with Bart earning a few extra pounds waiting tables on a Saturday.

‘Bart, you all right, love?’ she called, pulling her tatty pink dressing gown over bare shoulders. Bart had bought her a new one for Christmas. It was exquisite. Cream, and so soft it was like one of the really posh cuddly toys you seemed always to find in bookshops, for some inexplicable reason. It was hanging on the back of her bedroom door, and she stroked it every time she entered or exited. But it was too nice to wear. She’d only spill coffee down it, or splash it with the remnants of the previous night’s pasta sauce. The thought of spoiling something so luxurious and thoughtful was enough to keep her in her threadbare robe, at least for another six months or so. She’d start wearing it before Christmas came around, she told herself.

Bart hadn’t replied by the time she’d reached his bedroom door, knocking politely, always mindful that her boy needed his privacy. He’d never brought a girl back for the night, not that Maggie would have minded if they’d been discreet, but Bart conducted his relationships elsewhere. He obviously had girlfriends. He was a good-looking lad, and that wasn’t just the blur of seeing him through mummy-goggles. At six foot he was big enough to stand out but not so tall that he attracted silly comments on the street. His father had been six foot four and once threatened to deck a man who had somehow imagined that no one had ever asked her husband what the weather was like up there. Maggie’s husband – God rest his soul – had been a decent man, but not blessed with looks, all sharp features and eyes closer together than suited the average face. She was the exact opposite. Broad, flat face, wide eyes (wide hips too, and getting wider by the year, she reminded herself). Perhaps their differences had endowed Bart with the sort of symmetrical, well-balanced face that wasn’t exactly attention-grabbing, but with which no one could find a single fault. Great skin, even teeth, good bone structure, and a fair brain. He was in his final year of a business studies college course that he was hoping would offer a career in London. Plenty of work in Edinburgh, Maggie always told him. Or Glasgow, if he wanted to leave home. Anywhere in Scotland. But London was his dream. Always had been. Even that was too distant for her liking, but she knew that letting go was all part of the painful parenting experience.

In the absence of a reply to her knocking, Maggie opened the door slowly, calling his name softly as she put a foot inside. The curtains were open and the bed was made. Nothing surprising there, his lectures started at 9 a.m. every day. He’d have left an hour ago to make sure he was in good time. Bart wasn’t the sort of student who ever turned up late. But he hadn’t woken her up. His normal routine was to wake, shower, have breakfast, clear up the kitchen, and to take her a cup of tea before leaving the house. She in turn would rise later, do the washing, shop and leave something tasty in the slow cooker before going off for her shift, which started at lunchtime and went on until 8 p.m. Telesales was thankless but they hadn’t missed a mortgage payment yet.

It wasn’t the lack of a cup of tea that bothered Maggie. Her son was entitled to forget doing that for her. She counted her blessings on a daily basis for him, with or without his little kindnesses. What she couldn’t understand was why his mobile was still sitting on his bed, charging, exactly where he’d left it the night before when he’d dashed out to grab an extra shift at the restaurant. Another waiter had called in sick. Bart had been offered the hours, and the thought of boosting his savings account was too tempting to refuse. The pay wasn’t great but the tips were, and he always attracted enough customer goodwill to make a night’s work worthwhile. His phone had been running on empty so he’d left it on his bed charging ready for the next morning. Maggie had watched him plug it in as she’d delivered a pile of freshly ironed clothes for him to put away. Those, too, were sitting patiently on the bed for his return.

She squashed the stupid maternal panic that made the stable bedroom floor feel suddenly like quicksand. So her boy hadn’t come home. Perhaps he’d met up with friends and gone for a drink, or had a better offer from a pretty girl. Only normally he’d have called her, however late. Let her know to put the chain on the door. Tell her not to worry. Bart was thoughtful like that. His father had taught him well. Maggie took the stairs carefully, and checked the answerphone on the landline. No message. She didn’t have a mobile. It was just one more bill that she didn’t need. Plastering an optimistic smile on her face, she popped her head through the door of the lounge, all ready to have a good laugh in case he’d had a few too many and slept on the couch. She was fooling no one with the false jollity, least of all herself. Bart wasn’t an excessive drinker. He’d never reached a point where the couch looked like a better option than his own bed. Before she could stop it, her mind began conjuring the ghosts of accidents. Somewhere in there, a misadventure with a steak loomed large. Like father like son. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony? Both of them gone, cause of death unchewed meat.

‘Stop it, you silly woman,’ she scolded herself, wandering into the kitchen to make her own cup of breakfast tea. ‘Your boy’ll be back any minute.’

But the truth that Maggie had felt, in that secret, vile part of the brain no parent ever wanted to hear pipe up, was that her boy wouldn’t be back in a minute. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Because by then, Bartholomew Campbell was already two hundred miles away.

It was the stench that woke him. Something acrid with a heavy undertone of sulphur had filled his sinuses and was threatening to make him gag.

‘Mum?’ His first thought was that she must be ill. That she’d gone down with food poisoning or a virus overnight and been too embarrassed or too thoughtful to have disturbed him. Only he couldn’t remember getting home. And now that he registered the pain in his body, Bart realised he wasn’t in his bed. Or any bed at all.

He sat bolt upright, head swimming, before collapsing back down to the floor. Everything was dark. Not the dark of Scottish nights away from the city camping by a loch. Not even the dark of the private rooms at the back of the night club he occasionally attended with his friends. True dark. Not one star. No bloom of pollution. No crack or spill from beneath a door or the edge of a blind.

‘Hello?’ Bart shouted, braving movement again, sitting up more slowly. That was when he felt a tugging on his leg.

He froze. Something had hold of his left ankle. He breathed hard, twice, three times, tried to get to grips with his fear, then he lost it.

‘Get off me!’ he yelled, wrenching his foot upwards, trying to scrabble away. He hit a wall with his head shortly before his foot locked solid and his hip popped from its socket. The scream he let out was loud enough to wake the entire terrace where he lived. He rolled right, instinct kicking in, and the displaced hip shifted again back into the socket, easing the dreadful pain and allowing him to lean forward to take hold of whatever had his foot.

He didn’t want to extend his hand. There was something about reaching his fingers out into the black void that seemed to be inviting a bite. Like slipping your hand into a murky river in the sort of place where, when animals attacked, the general reaction to the news was: What the hell did the idiot tourist expect? What Bart found was both less and more terrifying. His ankle was bound by a leather strap. There was no bogeyman occupying the darkness with him. Not one that had hold of his leg, anyway. The strap was thick and sturdy, with a chunky metal link sewn through it. At the end of that, he realised miserably, was a chain. What was at the end of the chain, Bart wasn’t sure he was ready to discover yet. So he did what all cautious people would do in a foul pitch-black room, finding themselves inexplicably chained up. He began calling out for help.

His cries went in an arc. He called for help. Stopped, listened. Called out again, this time louder. Stopped, listened. Bart could feel the rumbling below the floor more readily than he could hear the engine, but an engine it unmistakably was. He put his hand down flat. The surface was rough but not cold. Neither wood nor metal. More like the sort of industrial liner that was used to insulate modern houses. He’d seen it being carried in huge sheets into Edinburgh’s ever growing new housing estates. Perhaps he was in a factory then, in a room high above the machinery. That made sense. The low-level growl of metal and the lack of sharp sounds from the outside world. He pressed himself closer to the wall and began yelling afresh.

‘Hello! Anyone! Can anyone hear me? Help. I need help.’ His cries got louder, his voice higher. He banged on the wall first then the floor between phrases, punctuating his cries for assistance. His cries became screams. Bart had never heard himself scream before. It was terrifying. Then he was hammering on the wall and stamping on the floor at the same time as he screamed. Just make noise, he thought. Someone would hear him. Someone would come.

But what if it was the wrong someone?

No, he told himself. Not that. Those thoughts were what would stop him being rescued. If all he had was a short window of time before whoever had chained him up was due to come back, he had to make all the noise he could right now. He took some steadying breaths. Think. The chain on his ankle allowed him limited movement. He walked along the wall as far as he could, tapping as he went, feeling for the edge of a doorway or handle, listening for a place where there might be an exit. Nothing. Then he walked the other way along the wall. Tapping all the time.

A crash at his feet made him leap backwards. He tripped and fell, scrabbling away. The darkness made everything nearer and louder. He’d never considered what a threat the lack of light was before. Everything was alien. His sense of distance and direction had completely gone. As the noise faded, he reached out tentatively, groping the floor for whatever it was he’d hit. His fingers found the bucket a couple of feet away on its side, still rolling gently to and fro. He grabbed the handle and pulled it closer, exploring its edges, neither brave nor stupid enough to put his hand all the way inside. The smell coming from in there was its own unique warning. Human waste was remarkably distinctive. Neither cat, cow, dog nor pig excrement came close to replicating its odour. Bart contemplated what it meant. The bucket’s edge was rough with what could only be rust. Its outside was dry and there was no liquid slopping anywhere. Not recently used then. Yet it was there for a reason.

‘It’s here for me,’ he whispered, not liking the rawness in his throat from all the yelling. He’d lost track of the time he’d spent calling out to apparently absent listeners. He’d be lucky if he could speak at all within the hour.

Setting the bucket down, he took stock. There were two options left. Sit down, huddle, wait it out. Someone had delivered him there, yet he had no idea how that had happened. His new girlfriend, if he could even call her that so early on, had met him in the restaurant as he’d finished his shift, and he’d been about to go back to her place for a while. After that was a steady blank in his memory, but his situation couldn’t be accidental. His captors would be back. If he chose not to simply wait, he could assess the situation, explore his surroundings, try to figure out the state of play. That was a phrase he remembered his father using on his infrequent trips home from active duty. He summoned whatever genetic courage might inhabit his DNA. What he learned was that bravery was a myth.

In the end, fear was a more generous motivator. If Bart waited, things could only get worse. He could think of no earthly reason why anyone would want him. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity by some chancer who thought he was from a wealthy family able to pay a ransom. Maybe it was some sort of bizarre terrorist event. And they were the better options. More likely – much more likely – it was some sick fuck who wanted to rape then kill him. He wasn’t sitting on the floor and waiting for that.

Forcing himself to get to his feet, Bart checked his pockets. His wallet was gone, not that he’d imagined it might still be there. The only item still on him was the photo of his father that he carried everywhere, his dad in full uniform, carrying his baby son in his arms. On the back his father had written the immortal words, ‘Bart, I may not always be by your side, but I will always come back to you. Love Dad xxx.’ He clutched the photo for a moment then shoved it securely into his pocket again. Whatever else he’d lost, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing that too. He felt for the wall, arms stretched out so that only his fingertips were touching it, and tried to measure the space. Four walls, rectangular, maybe twelve foot by twenty. Then he followed the length of chain and found that it was attached to a central metal loop in the floor and secured with a hefty padlock. No discernible door. Five other objects turned up as he searched the floor on his hands and knees. A coarse blanket that reeked of damp and sweat. He bundled it up and kept it close to his chest, as much as a comforter as for warmth. A woman’s shoe, its high heel snapped and hanging half off, lay on its side in a corner. A large container of water that smelled fresh enough. A box of food – packets of crisps, biscuits, and chocolate, he decided from the smell – all junk, nothing fresh, but it would keep him alive for a couple of weeks. The thought that he was supposed to stay alive quelled his immediate panic. The cell was part of his journey, not his final destination. He had time to take stock and prepare for whatever lay ahead. Finally, standing, he bumped into something dangling from the wall, also chained, that squeaked back and forth when he knocked it. Reaching out, he identified its hexagonal shape, felt the chill of glass around its sides, then his fingers found the dial. He turned the metal cog.

Light, enough to barely illuminate a one-metre radius, spilled from the lamp. Bart let out a soft coo. Amazing how such a simple thing could suddenly mean more than all the money in the world, given an appropriate degree of terror. The colours it shed were dappled. A sickly yellow nearer the top from the old bulb, graduating into a dull pink in the middle, then brown at the bottom. Bart stepped closer, letting his eyes adjust. It wasn’t that the glass panes were coloured, he realised. Nor that a special effect had been used on the bulb.

The outside of the glass had been spattered red. He reached out his fingers hesitantly, wanting to know, not wanting to know. The lantern’s panes were bloodied with delicate streaks, settling at the bottom. Different layers. Subtly varied shades. A mixture of very old, crackled blood, like a glaze on an antique vase, then newer congealed blood. A single blob came away on his finger. Congealed but not yet fully hardened.

Bart sank to the floor in the small circle of light, an actor mid-stage in a spotlight with no audience to appreciate the beautiful tragedy being played out. Then he pulled the blanket around himself, and wondered how long both the lamplight – and he – would last.

Chapter Two

Elenuta ran.

Three flights down the staircase, she headed for the exit onto the street, hoping no other door opened as she passed it. Each of those other apartments was as dangerous to her as the one she had just escaped. Dressed only in a tattered halter-neck top and Lycra miniskirt, no underwear, no shoes, she raced downwards, jumping the last three steps, praying her ankles wouldn’t sprain. She needed to be able to run. Looking upwards, she checked the situation. No one was following. Yet. It would only be sixty seconds or so before they realised she was missing, though.

Forcing herself not to barge through the outer door and have it slam, she moved carefully, slipping out into the night air. Dumbryden Gardens was still unfamiliar after the month she’d lived there. Inevitable, given that she hadn’t been allowed out of the flat. Planks over the inside of the windows meant she couldn’t even assess the terrain from above. She’d wondered why the police hadn’t become suspicious. Windows covered from the inside were never indicators of lawful activity. One of the women who’d been held in the flats the longest had explained.

‘Looks perfectly normal from outside. Kids’ curtains, flowery curtains, princesses, bullshit rainbows and hearts. They put the planks on with the curtains still up.’ A week later, the woman had disappeared, never to return. None of the other girls knew a thing about it. There were hypotheses and horrified speculation, but nothing solid save for one scrap of information that had got Elenuta where she was now. Perhaps a client had got too rough and killed her, was the most popular opinion. Then there was the option that she’d contracted a disease that would render her useless for sex trafficking purposes. Finlay did his best to keep his girls clean – not for their sakes, but so that his punters kept coming back for more. No one was going to do that with their dick resembling a root vegetable and leaking pus. Perhaps she’d escaped, one of the other women had whispered. There was a rumour about a key being sewn into the hem of one of her skirts. That was why Elenuta had requested that any spare clothes in the house be given to her. She’d pleaded that hers were no longer fit to be worn, and that hadn’t required much acting. Finlay had given her grief about it. As one of the newest members of what Finlay laughingly called his ‘team’, Elenuta was popular with the clients and made more money than anyone else. The clothes landed at her feet one day during her allotted shower time. The key had been shoved roughly into the picked-open hem of a pair of shorts. After that, the problem had been finding a moment when no one was guarding the outer door. That hurdle had suddenly and bizarrely been overcome when a man had walked in carrying a bulging newspaper package smelling of hot chocolate and shouting, ‘Deep fried Mars Bars, you fat fuckers!’ Without a second thought, Elenuta had grabbed the key and gone for it.

Now she had no plan. All she could do was follow her instincts. Turning left, she raced through an alleyway between the block she’d left and another that sat at a right angle to it. Put some distance in place first, then consider what to do, she told herself. Several of the street lights were broken. Sometimes during the day she heard the sounds of rocks being thrown, the odd cheer when there was a hit. The darkness provided both shelter and a disadvantage. Her pursuers knew the area well. A line of terraced houses was on one side, the rear of another block of flats on the other. She couldn’t see a main road, which was what she’d been hoping for. Flagging down a car would be her fastest way out of the area, and it wasn’t as if there was any definable risk of being raped. Not after twelve different men had been allowed into her room already that day. There were rewards and penalties depending on your behaviour. If you wanted to eat, you did what you were told without complaint. If you didn’t want to be beaten raw, you did what you were told. If you didn’t want to be injected with heroin against your will, you did what any man asked you to, without moaning and without tears. Unless they wanted to see you cry. Several of them did.

She wasn’t sure exactly what time it was, but it had to be after 2 a.m. That was when the stream of customers began to tail off. Few lights shone from the windows of the houses. Pausing to get her breath – it had been several weeks since she’d walked more than a few paces in one go – Elenuta considered her options: stand in the middle of the housing estate and scream like a banshee to attract maximum attention and scare off her pursuers, or run from door to door hoping some kind person would open up, immediately believe what she told them, and protect her until the police arrived.

A slammed door, cursing, then a shout from behind her helped make her mind up. She needed to buy more time. If they saw her, they’d be on her in a matter of seconds. The front doors weren’t worth the risk. Dipping low, she headed for the rear of the properties, knowing the problem would be dogs in the back gardens, but discounting the danger. She’d been throttled, beaten, drugged and assaulted more ways than she’d known were possible since being kidnapped in her native Romania. Getting into a fight with a bullmastiff looked like a clean exit from her perspective. If they barked, they were going to give away her location. That was a risk she had no choice but to take.

Her whole body ached. The adrenaline of escape wouldn’t last much longer. Tiredness was setting in, partly through sheer terror, partly because her food had been rationed to weaken her. It was working. She took the first fence easily enough, scratching the inside of her leg on the chicken wire. Didn’t matter. Just one more injury to add to the multitude of others.

The next garden had a higher wooden construction. She looked longingly at the back door, wondering if she could risk giving up running and starting to wake people. The problem was that back doors didn’t have doorbells. She would have to knock and call out if she was going to rouse people at that time. She steeled herself. Better to be cautious and make sure she was safe before revealing her presence. It seemed wiser to get at least four houses in before starting to hammer on a door. Climbing first onto a wheelbarrow, then a barbecue, she took the high fence, making it over the top then losing her hold and falling to the ground, a tool of some sort smashing into her ribs. Still she didn’t cry out. The worst of the noise was soaked up by the mud and wet grass she landed in but there was nevertheless a dull thud as she hit the earth. She’d learned the hard way recently how to stay silent and endure pain. It turned out to be a useful lesson now. Light-headed and suddenly overwhelmed with nausea, she stayed where she was before daring to move.

A light came on in the upstairs window, attracting her attention, and undoubtedly also alerting her pursuers to her whereabouts. This was it then. Just two houses in, and that would have to do. She was hoping a woman would live there, maybe fifty years old, mature enough to know desperation when she saw it, and compassionate enough to want to help. It shouldn’t be a family with young children. They wouldn’t want to invite her in and wait for the police to attend. No one in their right mind would want someone as battered and unclean as her in the same house as their babies. Rolling onto her stomach and pushing herself up, she knew she looked awful. There weren’t any mirrors in the flat, mainly because it would be too easy to break them and create a weapon. It had the benefit of stopping the women from realising how dreadful they looked, but imagination worked just as well.

Elenuta began banging the back door with both hands, with her fists curled one around the other, kicking it at the same time. The owner was already awake. She just had to get them downstairs.

‘Please,’ she shouted. ‘Help me. Need help. Call police. I am kidnapped.’ Her English was good but not perfect. Enough to make herself understood which was all she needed.

An upstairs window slid open at the house next door. ‘Would ye shut yer fuckin’ hole, wench?’

‘Help me …’ she screeched. The window slammed shut.

‘She’s in the gardens,’ a man shouted. ‘Chunky, get over there and shut her up.’

They were coming. Last chance.

‘Which house?’ another man yelled in response.

‘Second one in, I reckon …’

Not going back. I’m not going back.

‘Somebody help, please?’ she screeched into the sky. ‘Call police! Police! Help!’

Bending down, she grabbed a large stone frog from the path, turning her head aside to avoid the shrapnel, and lobbed it through the glass pane in the back door. It shattered instantly, and lights were suddenly blazing in the kitchen. A man’s hand, then his leg, appeared over the wooden fence.

The door opened. ‘Get in here!’ a man hissed, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her just as heavy boots thumped down into the dirt.

‘Please, you must call police,’ Elenuta said. ‘They will take me.’

‘Don’t you worry yerself,’ the man said. ‘I know all about it. Finlay, is this what you were looking for?’

Finlay Wilson appeared in the kitchen doorway. Five foot four, skin and bones, with tiny wide-set eyes that made him appear more reptilian than human.

‘Aye, that’s ma skank,’ he grinned. More teeth were missing than not, and those that remained were a shade of yellow usually reserved only for dog vomit. ‘Good man, Gene. We’ll be out of your way now.’

Elenuta looked from Finlay to the man she’d assumed was about to save her, to the huge figure – presumably the man called Chunky – who was outside the back door ensuring she couldn’t escape into the garden. There was going to be no escape, no police rescue, no return to her home and family. Served her right for falling for such an old trick. The promise of a better job, flattery, more money. Just a job interview to go through. Then there was the back of a truck, a gag over her mouth, ropes around her wrists and feet. Days of travelling like that, lumped in with a few other women, in a wooden box in the centre of a cattle transport. It didn’t matter how much noise they tried to make. They never had a hope of being heard. From there, they’d been transferred into a lined cargo container and lifted onto a ship. Insufficient water had left them all dehydrated. At some point she’d lost hope that they would survive. When they’d reached land, she’d begun to wish they hadn’t. She’d given it her best shot. There wouldn’t be another chance to escape. That left only one option.

Throwing herself forward, she grabbed a knife from the block next to the sink, diving into the opposite corner of the room and holding it to her own throat.

‘I rather die,’ she said, her hand shaking fiercely enough that the blade was already leaving a ragged trail over her skin.

‘Would you now?’ Finlay asked, stepping forward, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. ‘That’s as may be. But what’ll your wee friend back at the flat do without you? There’s a special event on soon, see, and I’ve had my eye on you for it. Problem is, if you act like a little bitch right now and mess up my plans, there’ll be a vacancy.’ He got up close into Elenuta’s face. ‘What’s that kid’s name? Anika, that’s it. I was touched by how you looked after her on her birthday last week. Sweet sixteen. That’s a bit younger than the girls I normally race, but if you fuck with me, I’ll make an exception.’

Elenuta lowered the knife. She didn’t need any time to think about it. Finlay had proved multiple times in the last month that he never joked about anything. Whatever race he was talking about, Anika wouldn’t survive it. It was a miracle she’d survived the trip across Europe to start with and she’d grown more withdrawn with every man they sent into her bedroom.

Not your problem, a wormy voice whispered in her ear. End it now. Better like this. Only that wasn’t her. Anika reminded her of her little sister. It could as easily have been her trapped like a tiny bird in the disgusting cage on the fourth floor of flats, all of which seemed to be controlled by Finlay and his men.

‘Sensible girl,’ Finlay whispered, taking the knife from her compliant hand and getting a grip on her upper arm, ready to march her out.

‘Fin … man … do I no’ get a free suck-off at least, seeing as I told you she was in my garden? After she broke my window too,’ Gene whined.

‘You’ve got your right hand. That’ll have to do. This girl and I have business to sort out.’

Finlay dragged her towards the front door.

‘Am I supposed to pay for the broken window? You fuckin’ wanker. Is that all the thanks I get? I should call the bloody polis on you, see how you like that. Treating everyone round here like shite, thinkin’ yer the big man.’

Elenuta caught the single nod Finlay issued to the man who’d been guarding the back door and who was now standing with his hand through the glass she’d so recently smashed.

‘Well, I’m no’ scared of you. You’ve got some paying back to do. Did you really think we’d all stay quiet about what you’ve got going on up the road?’ Gene continued, oblivious.

There was a single gunshot, more whoosh than bang. The louder noise was the splatter of blood and bone fragments hitting the wall.

Staring at the mess, Elenuta came to terms with what she’d already known, even if her stubborn brain had kept on trying to see a light at the end of the tunnel. She’d left one shoe inside the container on that ship. One of her best shoes, that she’d thought she was wearing to the job interview that would change her life and her family’s fortunes. With it, she’d left behind both hope and her faith in human nature. In every way that mattered, she was already dead. Finlay dragged her across the broken glass and through the back door into the garden. She didn’t even feel the shard that pierced her heel.

Chapter Three

Malcolm Reilly would have been staring at the ceiling of the mortuary if his eyes were still in their sockets. Detective Inspector Luc Callanach found it harder to stare at the young man’s face than the bodies he’d seen before. There was something so macabre, so alien, about a face without its eyes. And that wasn’t all that was missing.

‘Eyes, heart, liver, lungs, pancreas …’ the French pathologist listed, ‘gall bladder, kidneys and testicles.’

‘But the penis is still there?’ Jean-Paul asked. As the Interpol agent heading up the investigation in conjunction with French police, Jean-Paul was in charge.

That was fine with Callanach. He was only in France as Scottish liaison officer to Interpol temporarily, or so he’d been told on arrival three months earlier. After nearly two years in Scotland, he was still more accustomed to hearing English than French, and his head was performing a bizarre unnecessary translation between the two. He’d spent the previous twelve weeks trying to trace human traffickers who were allegedly moving women from Eastern Europe to the west, and from Spain and Portugal up as far as Denmark and Scotland. Now the body of a Scottish national had been found in the housing projects at Flandres, north-east of Paris’ city centre, and it had made sense for Callanach to attend. Local police had reported a corpse. The truth was that only a shell remained.

‘See for yourself,’ the pathologist told them, peeling down the sheet. The body was one long open wound, cut from sternum to groin, with a cross cut below the ribcage.

‘You didn’t make any of these cuts?’ Callanach clarified.

‘I didn’t need to. Whoever opened him up didn’t make any effort to sew him back up. This was how he was found. The incisions were made with a scalpel, though, and with some care. The cuts were deep enough to allow entry but no organs would have been damaged. I’d imagine the organs themselves were removed cleanly. There’s little additional trauma, technically speaking. Whoever did this knew their way around the inside of a human body.’

‘You think we’re looking for a doctor?’ Jean-Paul asked.

‘I wouldn’t insult my profession by calling whatever maniac killed this boy a doctor, but someone with medical knowledge, certainly.’

‘So all the organs were removed in a single operation then?’ Jean-Paul clarified.

‘I would say so.’

‘What else can you tell us about his death?’ Callanach asked, taking photos he wished he wouldn’t have to print out and stare at on a police station wall several hours a day. What most people didn’t understand about a crime scene wall was that the photos weren’t simply there for evidential purposes. Those visuals also ensured that you would work every single minute just so you could take them down again.

‘His stomach was half-full when he died, and he would have been an average weight. His external skin was clean. Save for the removal of his eyes – also surgical in nature – there are no scratches or contusions on his face, nor the rest of his body, save for some old bruising on his knuckles. Chafing on one of his ankles suggests that a restraint was used at some point but that it was padded. It’s hard to talk about cause of death without the major organs to examine, but there’s insufficient other trauma for me to conclude that this young man died from anything other than the result of this surgery.’

‘Given the attempt to dispose of the body, I guess we can discount any legitimate form of organ transplant surgery,’ Jean-Paul commented.

‘I’d say that was a fair assumption,’ the pathologist agreed. ‘There’s no brain trauma, and no signs of long-term illness, but I’m severely limited in reaching conclusions. Superficially, he seems to have been healthy.’

‘Someone looked after him,’ Callanach said. ‘They wanted him in good shape.’

‘It must be organ harvesting,’ Jean-Paul intervened. ‘Except for the testicles, obviously.’

‘No, even those can be transplanted actually,’ the pathologist said. ‘It’s rare, but feasible.’

‘Interpol helped close down an international operation like this two years ago. Most of those involved are now imprisoned, but there were inevitably a few who escaped, mainly on the administrative side. We’ll review the case. It might give us somewhere to start.’ Jean-Paul started texting something on his phone as Callanach stepped up to take a closer look inside the body cavity.

‘How long do organs last outside the body before they absolutely have to be transplanted into the new host?’ Callanach asked.

‘Depends on the organ,’ the pathologist said. ‘Typically a maximum of thirty hours for a kidney, up to twelve for the liver or pancreas, no more than six hours for lungs. Recent developments with storage boxes have meant that we can now keep a heart functioning outside the body for up to twelve hours but you’re talking about having access to the very best technology.’

‘Not a problem if someone’s willing to pay,’ Jean-Paul said.

‘But the chance of having all the recipients ready at the same time – at best within a day and a half of one another. That seems …’ Callanach stared grimly into the half-empty abdominal cavity, ‘well, difficult, given that we’re talking about an off-the-grid transplant.’

‘You don’t understand how professionally these operations are set up,’ Jean-Paul told him. ‘They run fully staffed clinics that look completely above board. Take the donor, have patients ready. It’s last chance for most of them. They’re too far down the waiting list to have a realistic shot at getting a donor through normal channels, or they don’t fit the right model because of lifestyle or genetics. Those people, if they have the money, will try literally anything. The more desperate the patient, the fewer questions they ask. Most have some idea there’s criminality involved, but if it’s that or death, then the thought of prison isn’t so daunting.’

‘If it’s that well-financed and professional they should have been able to find a better method of disposing of the body than dumping this boy on the street,’ Callanach said.

‘Not on the street. In a building site. Perhaps they were planning for him to be concreted in, then got disturbed.’ Jean-Paul stripped off his gloves as he stepped away from the body. ‘These people get other people to do the dirty work. Hired thugs. They were probably paid to dispose of the body securely but got lazy or thought they were being observed and just ditched him the first chance they had.’

‘That doesn’t explain what a twenty year old from Scotland is doing here. It would have been quicker and less risky to have abducted someone locally,’ Callanach said.

‘Maybe he was a good match for one particular donor and they decided to harvest everything else that was usable to justify bringing him over,’ the pathologist suggested. ‘You should have your Scottish colleagues gather all his medical and personal information. Anything that might have made him a target.’

‘Of course,’ Callanach agreed, knowing that meant having to contact DCI Ava Turner. Wanting to and wishing he didn’t have to at the same time. He and Ava had been dancing around the edges of a relationship for a couple of years. Just when it had finally seemed about to start, he’d screwed up and Ava had lost faith in him. Since then they’d barely spoken. Now, a phone call was inevitable. An international abduction and a death under these circumstances meant she would want to visit the victim’s family personally.

‘You coming?’ Jean-Paul asked from the doorway.

Callanach hadn’t even noticed him moving across the room. ‘Sure,’ he said, taking one last look at Malcolm Reilly’s incomplete face and catching an odour on the waft of air-conditioning. ‘Can you smell that?’ he asked the pathologist.

The two of them bent over the body, breathing deeply. The top notes were all gassy – sulphur and rot – with the metallic twang of old blood, but then came something earthier, nutty with a hint of spice.

‘All I’m getting above the normal odours is latex, and we don’t use that in our gloves,’ the pathologist said. ‘I agree, there’s something unusual.’

Callanach started to sniff around Malcolm’s face, moving around to the crown of his hair, putting his nose as close to the hair as he dared without risking contamination. ‘It’s strongest here,’ he said.

The pathologist took his place and breathed in deeply. ‘I’m not sure what that is. I’ll swab the hairs again to see if we can trace any chemicals.’

‘Can you keep the body sealed in an air-tight container so we don’t lose the smell and we’ll arrange for an aromachologist to come in and see what they pick up?’ Callanach asked.

‘No problem. That was a good call. I’m very careful about using my sense of smell during postmortems but I missed that one. Can you have the expert here within the next twenty-four hours? The scent will begin to fade if we leave it longer than that.’

Callanach looked to Jean-Paul for confirmation. Interpol wasn’t his to make demands of any more. Everything he needed had to be assessed and confirmed by someone else. Jean-Paul nodded, then looked at his watch.

‘We should go,’ Jean-Paul said.

Callanach said goodbye to the pathologist and followed Jean-Paul to the car, trailing a few paces behind the man who had once been his closest friend, in and out of work, who had travelled with him, got drunk and partied with him, and who had unintentionally set him up on a date with a woman who later falsely accused him of rape. His reputation in tatters and his career at Interpol crushed – notwithstanding the fact that the case had never gone to trial – Callanach had left France and made a new start in his father’s home country, Scotland. Jean-Paul had disappeared from his life when Callanach had needed him most, ensuring the stain of potential guilt hadn’t rubbed off on him by association. Since he’d left France, they’d spoken only once about a case, managing polite professionalism but nothing more, the gulf between them unbridged.

‘Still top of your game then, Luc,’ Jean-Paul muttered as he climbed into the driver’s seat of his old Maserati – handed down from his father, as Callanach recalled. Jean-Paul had always found it an excellent way to attract women’s attention. A certain type of woman, anyway. It wasn’t a judgement. In his twenties, Callanach had regarded almost every part of his life as disposable. Women had shifted in and out of his life like a tide. These days the opposite was true. Every decision he made was measured and careful, and he was an expert on consequences.

‘Just luck,’ Callanach replied, pulling a Gauloises cigarette from the pouch in his pocket and dragging on it, unlit, tasting bonfires and sunsets, and a thousand different red wines. He didn’t bother lighting it. Smoking, like so many other pleasures, was one he had to forego these days. His move from France to Scotland had prompted a number of changes. Giving up smoking was the most public one. Away from work, he drank less wine and spent more time at the gym. But the real change since the rape allegation was post-traumatic impotence. That one was proving much harder to come to terms with.

‘It was never luck with you,’ Jean-Paul said, pulling away roughly from the kerb. ‘You were always in the right place at the right time. You always overheard exactly the phrase we needed for all the pieces to fall into place. I often wondered if moving to Scotland had changed you. Apparently not.’

Callanach stared at his former friend’s face as he drove. His chin had slackened and there was grey showing prematurely in his muddy blond hair. Jean-Paul had aged considerably since they’d last seen one another, his mid-thirties proving unkind.

‘Let’s not do this,’ Callanach said.

‘Do what?’ Jean-Paul laughed. ‘Be honest with each other? Be real? You’ve barely said a word to me since you came back to Interpol. Are we supposed to act like we don’t know one another – all polite bullshit and small talk? Screw that.’

‘What is it you’re angry about, Jean-Paul?’ Callanach asked, winding down the window and letting the weak sun warm his arm.

Jean-Paul laughed, but his face was all bitter after-taste. ‘You think I’m angry? Jesus, Luc, are you ever going to forgive me for what happened? Astrid Borde is dead. You watched her die. I know you went through some bad shit, but the woman who accused you of rape is gone. It’s time to move on.’

‘I have,’ Callanach said quietly.

‘Like fuck you have. You know what? I messed up. I didn’t know what to do when Astrid accused you, but I’ve said sorry. Do you think I haven’t spent the last couple of years regretting what happened?’

‘Jean-Paul, Astrid Borde played me, and you, even my mother. She was smart, devious, and the evidence she set me up with was overwhelming. Was I angry that you seemed to dump me? Damned right I was, for a long time too. But hindsight’s no bad thing. If a woman you’d been out on a date with turned up with bruises, scratches, internal injuries for fuck’s sake, and you’d lied about what had happened on your date, I’d have done exactly what you did. It’s important to believe victims, even when the accused is a friend. You did the right thing. I’m not angry with you. I’m just sick of thinking about it – of it being a part of my life. That’s why I left Lyon and Interpol, only now I’ve been sent back. It wasn’t my choice. I’m not trying to punish you. This just isn’t where I want to be.’

‘So you just what … rose above it all?’ Slamming a foot on the brake pedal, Jean-Paul pulled the car roughly in towards the pavement. ‘You’ve decided to forgive me? I guess you expect me to thank you for that. God, you’re unbelievable. Do you ever fuck up? It took about ten minutes after you were back at Interpol to have every woman in the place fawning over you. Did you know they’ve found photos of you on the internet from when you were modelling? And the false rape allegation has just made you even more of a hero. All you went through, and you’ve come back stronger than ever, and now twice as magnanimous. Do you need to sleep or are you actually superhuman?’

Callanach knew what women thought of him. His looks were as much a curse as a blessing. Dark hair that curled as soon as it grew more than a couple of centimetres, olive skin that tanned with the slightest hint of sunshine, and a smile that could persuade women to do almost anything he wanted. Not that he wanted anything from women any more.

‘What’s going on with you? You were never like this, Jean-Paul. As for the way I’m being treated within Interpol, I haven’t noticed anyone paying me any attention. A lot of the faces have changed from a couple of years ago. I just want to be left alone to get on with my job. I didn’t ask to be partnered with you on this.’

‘No, you didn’t. I asked to head up the investigation when I realised you were being assigned to it as Scottish liaison officer. I thought that maybe we could reconnect, put the past behind us. I don’t know what I was expecting, Luc. Anger maybe, some bitterness. I was hoping I could help you through the transition to living in France again …’

‘I’m not living in France again,’ Callanach said. ‘I’m visiting.’

‘You’re not visiting. It’s as if you’re not here at all. I knew you better than anyone, but I don’t know the man you’ve turned into. It’s like you’re a ghost. You don’t talk to anyone. You sit silently in meetings. You work, go to the gym and disappear off to wherever you’re staying. If you want to punish all your old friends then go ahead, but did you ever stop to think that we suffered too?’

‘How you suffered? Is that a joke?’

‘Yeah, that’s right. It was hilarious being the best friend of the guy awaiting trial on a rape charge. No one knew what to say to me. Half the squad stopped talking to me altogether. Astrid told everyone that I’d introduced you to her, and made it sound as if I set the whole situation up. And you just disappeared. You wouldn’t take any calls, you refused visitors …’

‘You were a potential witness. My lawyer told me not to see you under any circumstances.’

‘Luc, I was your best friend. You didn’t rape that woman any more than I did, and I knew it. You just never gave me a chance to say those words to you,’ Jean-Paul shouted.

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have been more thoughtful when I was facing the prospect of spending fifteen years behind bars, then living with the label of sex offender and doing casual labour because my career had been stolen from me. It was a lot to deal with,’ Callanach replied quietly.

‘Even now you can’t see it from anyone’s perspective but your own, can you?’

Callanach stared at him, arms folded, one side of his mouth twisted up, half smile, half grimace. ‘Well, now you’ve said everything you wanted to. I’ve heard your side of the story. And I’m not superhuman, I’m just doing my job. As for women paying me attention, I think you’re a lot more interested in that than I am. Maybe you need to figure out why that is. You always did hate the way women reacted to me. At least you’re finally being honest about it. But I’m here to work, and that’s all. I want to find Malcolm Reilly’s killer, close down this human trafficking case and go home. No drama, no conflict, no amateur psychotherapy, and – in the unlikely event that anyone does ask if I’m single and available – the answer is no. I’m committed elsewhere. Now, I’m pretty sure we were headed towards a crime scene, so let’s go.’

Chapter Four

Detective Chief Inspector Ava Turner’s first thought of the morning was that sex was simpler at the anticipatory stage than in the ramifications phase. Staring at the shoulders of the man asleep next to her, her second was to wonder how he ever found shirts to fit. He awoke, stretched, sighed heavily and ran one hand through his long hair before rolling over to greet her with a wide smile.

‘Tell me it isn’t time to get up yet,’ he said. ‘I need at least another twelve hours with you before I’m prepared to let you out of bed.’

‘That’s nice,’ she said, sitting up and wrapping his discarded shirt around herself until she located something more appropriate. ‘But I have to get to the station and I’m no good with early morning company, so if you could …’

‘Get out?’ DI Pax Graham asked. ‘Ava, we both knew this was going to be complicated when we came back here last night, so let’s go easy on one another. I’ve got no intention of making this difficult for you at work. I’m not the enemy. Far from it. All I want is to make this happen between us, on whatever terms you can deal with.’ He reached out and took her fingers in his hand, stroking her palm gently with his thumb.

Fuck, Ava thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck, and one more for good luck. She was such an idiot. Sleeping with an officer under her command was stupid enough, but choosing one who seemed to genuinely care for her was a recipe for disaster. And that was before she pulled back the psychological curtain to take a look at her motivation.

‘This was a mistake,’ Ava said, voice soft, face as neutral as she could make it. ‘My mistake, not yours. I’m really sorry. It was a combination of having some downtime and too much beer – not that I needed to be drunk to sleep with you. I’ve been out of a relationship a long time, and I suppose I got lonely.’

That wasn’t the truth and she knew it, but the lie was easier.

‘You know, you’re allowed to be lonely.’ He sat up, showing off the sort of chest an MMA fighter would be proud of, and leaned over to kiss her bare shoulder. ‘Being a detective chief inspector doesn’t mean your feelings have to get shoved into some lesser status. Also, if I leave now I won’t be able to impress you with my bacon sandwiches.’

‘Could I maybe take a raincheck on the bacon?’ Ava asked. ‘Not that it doesn’t sound good …’ Her mobile ringtone burst through the excuse session. She grabbed it and stood, pulling the shirt fully closed, hating her self-consciousness in the cold light of day. Opening a drawer with her free hand she rummaged for underwear and socks as she answered. ‘Turner.’

‘Ma’am,’ Detective Sergeant Tripp said. ‘We’ve got a dead body, single gunshot wound to the head. Deceased is a Caucasian male believed to be in his sixties.’

‘Where?’ Ava asked, perching on the edge of her bed to pull on knickers, as she motioned at Graham to keep quiet.

‘Dumbryden Gardens, Wester Hailes. The crime scene examiner’s already there. The deputy pathologist’s on his way, as Dr Lambert is away on a lecture tour this month. Uniforms have sealed off the roads locally. Can you come, only I’ve tried DI Graham, but it’s his day off and he’s not answering his phone?’

Ava walked around the bed, picked up Graham’s jeans, reached in the pocket for his mobile and tossed it onto the bed next to him.

‘Try his mobile again. He was probably sleeping. It’s only …’ She checked the bedside clock. ‘God, I overslept, how is it eight thirty? I’ll be with you in half an hour. Ask DI Graham to meet me there and keep the scene secure. It’s not the easiest of patches on a good day.’ She ended the call. ‘Your phone was off. Tripp’s about to call you. We need to go in separate cars.’

‘Can you drop me back to mine on the way?’ Graham asked, standing up and giving Ava the benefit of all six foot four of him stark naked. She looked away, wondering what would be a good alternative career for when she got fired from the Major Investigation Team.

Graham’s mobile rang. Ava’s followed suit. She walked into the bathroom to avoid anyone overhearing their voices on their respective calls.

‘No, it’s fine. I’ve got no plans so I’ll be there,’ Graham was saying as she pushed the door half shut.

‘This is Turner.’

‘Ava, it’s Luc.’

She opened her mouth to talk, catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror, socks in one hand, mobile in the other, hair wild, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, skinnier than she’d been for years. It wasn’t a flattering look. She didn’t recommend a diet based solely on stress and insomnia.

‘Can you hear me?’ Callanach asked.

‘Yes … yes I can. Sorry, you caught me at a busy moment.’ A sheen of sweat suddenly glimmered on her forehead.

‘Shall I call back later? This can wait an hour or so. Where are you?’

Ava coughed, and forced some authority into her voice. ‘At home but I’m just on my way to an incident. Go ahead. Tripp’s covering it so I’ve got two minutes.’

‘You’re at home? I thought I heard Pax Graham’s voice before …’ Callanach sounded distant, foreign. But then he was – both things – Ava thought.

‘He stopped to pick me up en route to the scene,’ Ava thought on her feet, feeling sick, hating the ridiculous sense that she’d been caught cheating, ridiculous given that she was single even if things with Luc hadn’t been properly resolved. ‘It’s a shooting so all hands on deck. MIT went out for drinks last night and I left my car at the station. Is there an update on the trafficking case from your end?’ she asked, moving the conversation onto safer ground, wishing for the tenth time in as many minutes that she’d stuck to beer and not chased it with shots, and that she’d equally stuck to dull celibacy instead of trying to distract herself from the memory of the near miss with Luc by filling her bed with a convenient warm body. She’d broken her self-imposed rules pretty impressively. Drinking with her team was supposed to be limited to one quick glass, then head for the exit.

‘No, this relates to a Police Scotland missing persons case, Edinburgh area. Young man by the name of Malcolm Reilly. His DNA was put on the Interpol database two months ago. A body was found and we’ve only just had official confirmation that the DNA is a match. It’s a definite homicide. I’m sending an encrypted email with the details.’

‘Okay, I’ll have DS Lively take a look at it.’

‘It’ll have to be you, Ava. It’s a bad one. Interpol has been asked to assist local French officers. It appears to be an organ harvesting case. The victim’s been pretty much emptied out anatomically speaking.’

Ava sat down on the edge of the bath and ran a hand over her eyes.

‘You need me to go and interview the family,’ she said softly.

‘I’m afraid so. I’ll send you all the details. We’ll need Malcolm’s medical records, and we’re chasing known suspects from our end. When we have any potential names we’ll cross-check to see if anyone was in the UK at the time the victim was abducted.’

‘Okay, I’ll send uniformed officers in advance to break the news and offer support, then I’ll get on it later this morning. Give me an hour to check out the shooting then I’ll head directly into the station and take a look.’

‘Sorry to land this on you. Sounds like you’re busy enough already,’ Callanach said.

‘Until a few minutes ago we were almost having a quiet period.’ She paused. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Fine.’

‘Good. That’s good. Well, I’ll call if I have any questions once I’m up to speed.’

‘Jean-Paul would like a conference call, tomorrow morning preferably. Is nine a.m. okay with you?’

The bathroom door opened. ‘Hey, Ava, we’d better … shit, sorry.’ Pax Graham exited quietly. Ava cursed inside her head.

‘DI Graham’s calling you Ava now?’

‘You’ve been calling me Ava since we met, Luc.’

‘When we met, you and I were the same rank.’

Ava tried to formulate a response, and failed. ‘We should probably talk some time, about things.’

Things, Ava thought. As if the dead bodies, trafficked women, and the ocean between them weren’t enough. Talking about things meant acknowledging the fact that for two years they’d pretended to be just friends when there had always been something more than that beneath the surface. Then at the moment it had been about to become something tangible, everything had gone horribly wrong.

She hadn’t sent Callanach away exactly, but the request for a Scottish liaison officer to work with Interpol had been good timing. Ava asked herself, for perhaps the millionth time, if in different circumstances she’d still have chosen Callanach to go. She knew better than anyone how hard it was for him to go back to France after everything he’d been through. For a while she’d persuaded herself that forcing him to return was in his best interests. That everyone had to face their demons at some point. Of course, Callanach facing his had meant that she’d been able to delay facing hers. Successful relationships had eluded her all her adult life. There had been a brief engagement a while ago, to another police officer who had turned out to be less than charming. There were the odd random flings over the years but nothing that had lasted beyond the magic make-or-break six-month mark. Then there was Callanach, and in spite of waiting for the right moment and making sure it was real, somehow it had all ended in pain, regret and devastation for them both. Not all of it was his fault, either. Ava had taken a long hard look into the face of potential hurt/failure/let down, and chosen to sever whatever affection lay between them. Irrevocably. The man she’d woken up with this morning was simply her way of decorating her very own poisoned chalice with an extra cherry. Well done her.

‘Ava?’ Callanach prompted.

‘Yeah, sorry, I was checking my diary. Sounds like we’re both going to be too busy to do any talking in the near future. Let’s leave it until we’re in the same country.’

‘Of course,’ his voice was abrupt. ‘I should let you go. Don’t worry about the conference call. We’ll exchange details by email. Tell Pax I said hi.’

He was gone. Ava closed her eyes while her hands stopped shaking.

She had to get a grip. Malcolm Reilly’s family needed her. Whichever poor soul was lying in a pool of his own blood and brains over at Dumbryden Gardens needed her. Her personal screw-ups were just going to have to take second place. Like always.

Chapter Five

Ava stared through the hole in the glass pane at the crumpled body on the floor. The bullet entry wound was clear, as was the fact that the victim had been standing right next to a wall that had caught every fragment of bone, blood and grey matter expelled under bullet force from the exit wound.

‘Did the bullet go through the glass?’ Ava called inside to the technician who was busy collecting fragments from various kitchen surfaces.

‘Unlikely. We suspect something much larger and more blunt given the size of the hole in the pane.’

Ava opened the back door of the terraced house cautiously, careful to sidestep any glass on the floor. Only there wasn’t any.

‘Have you already swept up the glass for forensic testing?’ she checked.

‘No, nothing’s been moved from the scene yet. We need everything in place to track the likely journey through the property.’

‘Do we have an estimate for time of death?’ Ava asked, checking her watch.

‘Six to seven hours ago.’

‘Thanks,’ Ava murmured as she made her way further inside, mindful that it had to be scene examiners first and police officers second, to avoid contamination. Stealing a glance at the victim – scrawny, neck covered in what looked like jailhouse tattoos – she left the kitchen and went into the lounge. Hand-rolled cigarette ends overflowed from every conceivable container, and a few had missed judging by the blackened holes in both the furniture and carpet. Takeaway cartons were strewn liberally about. A yellowing sofa that had obviously been chewed by a dog at some stage sat sadly at one end of the room, collapsing in the centre. It looked embarrassed to be there, Ava thought. Rightly so. The whole place stank. An old vest had been used to soak up some sort of spillage on a cardboard box that was doubling as a coffee table, and the curtains were makeshift scraps of material, hung with gaffer tape.

Ava took the stairs, aware of the carpet sticking to her shoe coverings, glad of the gloves she was wearing that protected her hands from contamination as much as protected the scene from her. Straight ahead was a bathroom she didn’t even dare enter. The stench coming from it was nauseating. The first boxroom bedroom was jam-packed with bits of broken furniture and old suitcases. Beyond that lay the other bedroom, housing an equal number of cigarette butts as the lounge, and a bed with sheets that might never have been changed. No curtains at all upstairs, and no clothes in the open wardrobe. What clothes there were had ended up scattered across the floor in varying piles of slightly worn to absolutely filthy. Next to the bed was a pile of red-inked bills. Ava picked one up and opened it. Apparently Mr Gene Oldman hadn’t been meeting his electricity payments. She looked around. It was a tip. Every surface in the entire house was dusty or sticky. Except one.

Ava took the stairs back down two at a time.

‘Everyone stay still,’ she ordered. ‘Wherever you are. The kitchen floor’s clean.’

‘Ma’am?’ Tripp queried, staring at her from the hallway.

‘Every other surface in this entire house is a bacteria brothel. There’s a dead man lying in the corner of the kitchen with his brains marking the walls – no effort to clean that up – and yet the kitchen floor is absolutely spotless. Somebody cleaned it, so whatever was on there was more important to the killer than the body itself.’

‘I need a complete window blackout and luminal spray asap,’ one of the scene examiners shouted. ‘If the surface was bleached and the victim’s been dead seven hours already, whatever was on the floor will be fading fast.’

Ava stood back and let them work. Every window was lined with blackout blinds and every door shut until no light could enter, then four officers waited to spray a section of floor each.

The entire floor began to glow immediately.

‘That’s the bleach,’ an officer explained. ‘You were right. It’s been recently cleaned, but it was fast and areas have been missed. There,’ he pointed in the direction of the back door, down in the corner near the skirting board. ‘And there. Photos immediately please.’ A faint blue glow came from two lines of grouting, and a semicircle roughly two inches across could be seen clearly near the back wall, furthest from the door.

‘Why does it glow blue?’ Ava asked.

‘The chemicals react with the iron in the blood’s haemoglobin. We’re on borrowed time though. It’s fading. That’s why we have the cameras ready to record areas of the floor where we need to pay special attention afterwards.’

Ava trod carefully in the dark, moving towards the semicircle that was the boldest of all the glowing sections of floor.

‘It’s the edge of a footprint,’ she said. ‘Just the back of the heel. Can we get an accurate foot size from this, do you think?’ she asked the lead scene examiner.

‘I’d say there’s enough definition there for that, and now we know where the blood is, we might be able to ascertain more with further testing. The fact that we’re seeing this much glow probably means the bleach wasn’t very strong.’

‘Any hope of getting DNA?’

‘Depends if we can find a sample unaffected by the bleach.’

‘All right,’ Ava said. ‘The victim’s name is probably Gene Oldman, the property owner. Could you double-check against other fingerprints and DNA in the property? I didn’t see any photo ID lying around.’

She made her way outside. In other areas of the city the presence of so many police officers would have triggered the build-up of an automatic crowd. Onlookers would be waiting for a body to be brought out on a stretcher. Speculation as to what nightmarish events had occurred would be circulating. But this was the heart of Wester Hailes. When the police arrived, doors were slammed and curtains were closed. No one stood out on the street. A loathing of authority overrode natural curiosity.

‘DI Graham,’ she said. He was in the throes of organising a nervous-looking bunch of uniformed officers. Conducting door-to-doors in that region of the city was about as much fun as a colonoscopy.

‘Ma’am,’ he said, face straight, no sign of what had happened the night before. He was professional and discreet, which made Ava feel worse rather than better about what she’d done.

‘I’d like to knock on the immediate neighbours’ doors myself to get a feel for what’s happening, but would you do the talking?’ Ava asked. Years of working undercover meant Graham had developed an easy tone which had the hardiest of potential witnesses opening up to him. In spite of her long, curly hair and unthreatening physique, her English accent courtesy of an expensive education insisted on by her parents rendered her something of an affront to some people, particularly in an area as deprived as Wester Hailes.

They knocked on the first door and waited. Not so much as one curtain twitched, yet there was a clear sense that the property was occupied. Ava motioned to a uniformed officer to check round the back. It took no more than two minutes before a young couple were being escorted around from their back garden.

‘They were just headed through their back gate, ma’am,’ the officer explained.

DI Graham took over. ‘Well, thanks for coming to chat. Won’t keep you long. You’ve probably noticed activity in your neighbour’s house.’ No response. ‘Were either of you in last night?’

‘We went to bed early,’ the man said, glancing sideways at the woman.

‘Did you? It’s really helpful that you were in your property. We have reason to believe there might have been a gunshot. Did you hear anything?’

‘Slept right through. Didn’t hear nothin’,’ the man declared.

‘Is your bedroom at the front or the back of the house?’ Graham asked.

‘The back,’ the man said. ‘So what?’

‘So that would have been above and right next door to the room where we think the gun was fired, likely around three a.m. Are you sure you didn’t wake up at all?’

They both shook their heads.

‘A window was broken, too. I’m guessing there’d have been quite a disturbance. Did you know your neighbour well?’

‘Not really,’ the man said.

‘So you knew him a bit then,’ Graham said. Ava had to give him credit. He was a thousand times more patient than her. ‘What was he like?’

‘He was a creep,’ the woman said. The man gave her a sharp look that Ava didn’t like.

‘How so?’ Graham asked.

She shrugged, suddenly finding the pavement of huge interest. Her partner took over. ‘You know what some blokes are like. Can’t keep their eyes off a woman’s tits when they’re talking to her. That’s why we never chatted to him much. Now we didn’t hear anything and we didn’t see anything, so are we free to go?’

Graham looked at Ava, who nodded. ‘Give your details to the uniformed officer behind you, then you can go. And if either of you should suddenly remember anything, get in touch, okay? We know not to use your names.’

‘Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ the man said, putting an arm around the woman and pulling her away.

It wasn’t a surprise. There were areas of the city where it was understood you just didn’t speak to the polis. Not if you didn’t want your windows smashed first and your face shortly thereafter. Life was tough. Just buying food and staying out of prison was hard enough for some people. You got a reputation as a rat and you’d be looking for somewhere new to live before you even smelled the petrol being poured through your letter box.

‘Let’s try the other side,’ Ava said.

The door opened before they’d knocked and a stout elderly lady stood, hands on hips, ready to do business.

‘Are you here about my disability scooter?’ she shouted.

‘I’m DI Graham and we were wondering if you know your neighbour, Gene Oldman?’

‘I reported it missing two months ago. Left it outside my front door. Do you know how many polis came to see me about that?’

‘I can certainly check up on what’s happening with that case when I get back to the station. Could I take your name?’

‘If you haven’t got my scooter, you can get off my doorstep. I’ve got nothing else to say to you.’ A bunch of kids who’d assembled behind Ava’s back began giggling. She left Graham to deal with the woman who clearly had a prepared script that she was going to stick to no matter what, and turned to the kids.

‘Live round here, do you?’ she asked the group. There were four of them. Three boys and one girl who was trying to make herself look tougher than the company she was keeping – shoulders back, chin stuck out. Necessary, Ava guessed, so she didn’t get ditched. Gender equality wasn’t a priority on Edinburgh’s backstreets.

‘Fuckin’ pig,’ the girl said. The boys laughed.

‘What do you lot know about the man who lives in there?’ She motioned towards Gene Oldman’s house.

‘My mam says he never washed his clothes, not ever,’ the smallest boy said.

‘Would you shut your gob? You know we’re not supposed to talk to ’em,’ the girl warned him.

‘Is he dead? He’s gotta be. My dad said the polis never bother with us here unless someone’s dead,’ the boy continued.

The girl dug him in the ribs.

‘So none of you are supposed to talk to me, then,’ Ava said. ‘If I was going to ask who’s in charge round here, who would that be?’

‘Dunno what you mean,’ the girl said.

‘Yes, you do. The person your mums and dads warn you to steer clear of. Everyone either goes quiet when they walk round the corner, or talks to them like they’re the headteacher. Who does that sound like?’

‘Are you stupid?’ the girl asked.

Ava looked at her. She wasn’t being cheeky. There was genuine curiosity on her face.

‘You think I should be too scared to ask?’ Ava directed at her gently.

‘Fuckin’ right you should,’ the girl replied.

‘Are you scared of him?’ Ava continued.

‘You kids, get out of here!’ The woman DI Graham had been questioning stormed down her front path, waving her arms at them. ‘Go on, get home, right now.’

In the second Ava turned away to tell her to leave them alone, the kids were gone, sprinting along the pathway between the terrace of houses and a tenement block.

‘I’ll look into that problem with your scooter,’ Graham told her as he approached Ava.

‘Don’t bother,’ the woman said. ‘I just remembered, I sold it last month.’ She waddled back inside, slamming her front door.

‘Nothing?’ Ava asked him.

‘I learned a few new words,’ Graham said. ‘Which is impressive given how much time I’ve spent undercover with drug dealers and gangs. What next?’

‘I’m going in to the station,’ Ava said.

‘I’ll follow you in.’

‘No, don’t worry. It’s your rest day. We won’t get much further until the postmortem’s been done and we’ve got the forensics report. We sure as hell aren’t going to get anything useful from local witnesses.’

‘I’d like to come in and help,’ Graham said. ‘And you could use some breakfast.’

She began walking towards her car. He fell into step beside her.

‘Listen, Pax, last night was … a one-off. It can’t happen again. It makes things too complicated at work.’

‘I hear you,’ Graham said. ‘But you should know that I’ve never given up on anything I really wanted in my life.’

‘I’m not an achievable goal. Also, I’m not worth the effort. I don’t do healthy relationships. I guess I’m asking you to forget what happened between us. Would you try to do that?’

He dug his hands deep into his pockets, head to one side, his long hair moving in the breeze, jaw flexing.

‘You’re not particularly forgettable, I’m afraid,’ he said eventually, smiling before turning slowly and walking away.

Ava searched for an expletive that would adequately give voice to her frustration and failed to find one.

Chapter Six

A building site just off Rue Curial, at the side of a hotel whose star rating Callanach estimated to be in the negatives, was where Malcolm Reilly’s body had been dumped, and it was about as far from the image of romantic, starlit Paris as it was possible to get. No building work had taken place there for several weeks while the builders settled disputes over safety regulations, so Malcolm had lain face down, between a cement mixer and a cherry picker, until some unfortunate labourer, who couldn’t possibly have been paid enough to have discovered a hollowed-out body, had turned up on a routine safety-hazard walk-around one day, only to have the site immediately closed down again as a crime scene.

Callanach looked around. There was some regeneration happening in the area, but he guessed that was only because land in that district was so cheap. Low-cost modern flats rose above lock-ups that harboured decades-old secrets. Cracks in walls were papered over with plaster, and alleyways led into dark places that no sensible person would enter. This was not the Paris of tourist fantasies. It was a world riddled with debt and a multitude of illegal ways to pay it off. This was a space where a body could rot and no one would notice, or care if they did.

A tarpaulin shielded the patch where Malcolm’s body had lain. Beneath it, a brown stain marked the concrete and brick rubble.

‘Was he naked when he was found?’ Callanach asked Jean-Paul.

‘Wrapped in a plastic sheet. We’re assuming he was left here at night to avoid witnesses. He was there for several days before the corpse was found. Did you speak to your boss about getting his medical records?’

‘It’s in hand. So how did they get access to the building site?’

‘They forced open two sections of wooden panelling and walked in. Dragged the body across the site – there was a build-up of rubble around the plastic sheet – left him, then put the panel back in place. We know from the construction company that building work was behind schedule though. It’s possible they’d planned to dump him in a foundation pit ready to be cemented over, but their timing was off.’

‘Fingerprints on the sheet?’

‘None. All the DNA belongs to the victim. The only unusual chemical identified was lanolin, and that was in quantities found only by swabbing the sheet. Not large patches or smears. Nothing visible to the naked eye.’

‘Lanolin’s from sheep’s wool, right?’ Callanach asked.

‘Yes. We’re compiling a list of possible sources – farms, animal movement vehicles, textile factories.’

Callanach looked upwards, checking which buildings had aspects that overlooked the building site. ‘And all these properties have been canvassed to check if they saw anything suspicious?’

‘As much as we could. We’d have needed twenty different interpreters to get round every apartment. You know what it’s like here. The police are the enemy.’

‘These people don’t want dead bodies in their back yard any more than anyone else,’ Callanach said.

A brick whistled past Callanach’s head and smashed at his feet. He leapt away and dived towards a cherry picker for cover as another hit Jean-Paul on the knee. Clutching his leg, Jean-Paul limped towards a half-built wall, crouching down with his back to the brickwork as a broken metal pipe smashed into an abandoned paint can.

The projectiles were flying at them from behind the main entry gates, and the aim was accurate enough that whoever was throwing had a decent view of them.

‘Get their attention,’ Callanach shouted to Jean-Paul.

‘Just stay where you are. I’m calling for police backup.’ Jean-Paul waved him back into the sheltered area.

‘Don’t do that. As soon as they hear sirens, they’ll scatter. Just divert their attention for a minute,’ Callanach said, ducking low and running towards the far end of the site where pallets had been stacked precariously high near the boundary.

Jean-Paul took a few steps away from the wall, shielding his head with one arm as he bent to pick up the broken pipe, then swung it high in the air and back over the fence from the direction it had come.

There was a cry, followed by a furious yell. As Callanach allowed himself a glance over his shoulder, multiple projectiles appeared over the top of the fence. He hoisted himself up on the nearest pile of pallets hoping they’d been stacked carefully, disliking the wobble as he rose higher. Jean-Paul yelled. Callanach turned to check he was unharmed. His foot slipped, the pallets groaning beneath his weight, and he grabbed at the stack to his side. Splinters slid diagonally into his right palm.

‘Fuck,’ he muttered, seeing Jean-Paul using a stray sheet of corrugated iron as an anti-assault umbrella. He smiled in spite of the pain in his hand and his concern for Jean-Paul. It was such a throwback to years gone by. He and Jean-Paul had travelled the world assisting police forces from other countries to track drug cartels, arms dealers and money launderers, and situations like these had been the days they’d looked forward to. Just enough physical jeopardy to get their pulses racing with the unshakeable belief that a few hours later they’d be sitting in some bar, empty beer bottles spread like trophies, and another credit on their Interpol files. Simpler times.

He hauled himself upwards, the splinters folding beneath his skin as he closed his fist, knowing he was facing a lengthy session with a needle and antiseptic later that night. The top of the fence was too thin to do anything except angle his foot onto its side to give him the boost he needed to jump. He took a literal leap of faith, hoping there wasn’t too much smashed glass or jagged metal on the other side. Landing well initially, he stumbled over a half-buried paving stone, falling sideways to avoid planting his splintered hand in the dirt. He opened his eyes to stare into the empty barrel of a syringe, the needle encrusted with blackened blood and pointing in the direction he needed to be going.

Getting to his feet carefully – avoiding the needle that he could see and what he presumed were several others better hidden – Callanach rounded the edge of the fence and sprinted for the far corner. There he paused, putting his mobile in camera mode and exposing it beyond the edge of the fence, filming as he assessed the situation.

Between eight and twelve young men packed into a tight group were picking up whatever they could find at their feet and lobbing it over the wooden security fence. Two others were standing with eyes pressed up to the gaps in the vertical planks, yelling instructions to the others. Middle Eastern in appearance and speaking rapidly in a language Callanach couldn’t understand, they looked more like bored teenagers than a serious threat, except for one who was keeping his distance, watching the others, making the odd comment. Callanach focused his camera as tightly as he could on the faces, hoping the sound recording wasn’t too muffled, as he decided what to do. These were local boys, that much was clear. It was a fair bet they realised he and Jean-Paul were police officers.

Calling for backup was the only way to ensure controlling the youths until each could be spoken to individually, but it was hard to achieve a completely silent police approach anywhere in Paris with tail-to-tail traffic. He wondered how much longer Jean-Paul could remain unhurt with so many projectiles raining down.

A gunshot stopped his strategising. The boy who’d been keeping out of the fray had apparently grown tired of the situation, aiming directly at the wooden fence and sending shrapnel flying at his mates. They leapt away shouting as the man-boy walked forward, gun out in front, towards the hole he’d created. Callanach knew that Jean-Paul would be calling the situation in and searching for better cover. More of a problem now would be stopping the inevitable move of the gang towards the entrance Jean-Paul and he had used, thereby preventing a safe exit. He and Jean-Paul were both unarmed. Interpol agents rarely took guns out during investigations unless there was a known or specific threat. Today was supposed to be about information gathering, not engaging in an anti-police showdown. Worse than that was the prospect that a stray shot might hit an innocent passerby. There was only one thing left to do.

‘Police!’ Callanach shouted. ‘Put down your weapons. Hands up and get on your knees.’

The shot came in his direction before he saw the young man move, glancing the corner of the fence and pinging away at an angle. Callanach ducked. Feet were pounding concrete but the high rise of flats in a square around them created an echo chamber. There was no way of knowing if the gang was running towards him or away. Callanach bolted for a nearby doorway.

There were shouts from just beyond his line of vision, frantic fury mixed with questions and instructions. Callanach forced his body back further into the recess. Footsteps indicated an approach in his direction, and he readied himself to fight.

Sirens sounded in the distance just as he was about to throw himself out of his hiding place. There was an instantaneous hush – everyone listening, trying to assess the direction from which the emergency services were coming. Then the scatter began. People running in all directions, calling to one another, their panicked voices revealing their immaturity. Less aggression, more uncertainty.

Callanach stuck his head out and watched them go. They ran at extraordinary speed, jumping railings, disappearing across the road, one leaping from a garbage can to grab a second-floor railing and haul himself up onto the exterior corridor of flats. Only one voice remained, calling, listening in silence, calling again.

‘Huznia.’ A pause. ‘Huznia!’

Callanach looked around. The caller was nowhere to be seen and his voice was fading. The sirens were getting closer, closing in from both ends of the road.

‘Huznia!’ The shout was more insistent.

A scraping noise came from behind a pile of bin bags. Callanach crept over to take a look as Jean-Paul appeared from the far end of the building site sporting a large graze across his cheek. He gave a thumbs-up. Callanach responded with a nod and a finger over his lips to keep him quiet.

Covering the final distance to the bin bags quickly, Callanach found a young girl crouched, tears in her eyes, looking absolutely terrified. He smiled at her gently, hands slightly raised in the international signal that no harm was intended. She looked less than convinced.

He spoke in French to her, quietly, slowly and clearly. ‘Everything’s all right. Do you speak French?’

There was a brief pause then, ‘Yes,’ with a sob.

‘Are you Huznia?’

She looked surprised, then relieved – nodding – young enough to believe that anyone who knew her name must be friend rather than foe. Callanach wished life was really so black and white.

He smiled gently. ‘My name is Luc. Don’t be scared. Who are you waiting for?’

‘My brother,’ she said, looking away to the side. Her French was good considering her age – he guessed she was five or six years old – but then desperation was often the most compelling teacher of foreign languages.

‘Who’s your brother?’ Callanach asked.

‘Azzat,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I think he’s looking for you. Are you hungry, Huznia?’ Callanach asked, lowering himself to one knee to get closer to her.

She frowned. Good girl, Callanach thought. At least she’d been taught to be wary of strangers.

A pair of boots appeared in his peripheral vision, scruffy, a hole in front of the big toe of one. Callanach took his time turning round to assess their owner. The boy was in his mid-teens, but his eyes were older. He was ready to fight, ready to run, ready to do whatever he had to. His clothes were in the same state as his boots, ragged and ill-fitting. Stolen or hand-me-downs. His face and hands were bruised, and darkened with the sort of dirt you couldn’t really shift without soap. He and his sister were obviously living rough.

‘Leave her alone,’ the boy said. His French was fluent, not just the words but the accent, impressive for a second language.

‘I’m not going to hurt your sister,’ Callanach told him. ‘I’m not here for you, but I have some questions about the body that was left at the building site. Do you know about that?’

‘Huznia, come to me,’ he said.

Callanach took a few notes from his pocket and held them where the little girl could see them.

‘Your sister’s hungry,’ Callanach said. ‘And she needs new clothes. I just want some information.’

‘We don’t need your money,’ Azzat said. ‘We’re fine. Now get out of the way and let my sister get by.’

‘I’m not going to stop her from getting to you. You have nothing to fear from me. We’re just talking.’

A police car roared into view. Azzat pushed forward, grabbed his sister by the arm and began pulling her out from between bin bags.

‘But I am hungry!’ she whined.

‘I’ll get you food,’ Azzat said.

Callanach stepped aside to let them get past him. ‘Where are you from originally?’ he asked.

‘Afghanistan,’ Huznia said. ‘Do you have food in your pockets?’

Callanach passed her a twenty-euro note, keeping another in his hand but on show. Other police officers were approaching cautiously.

‘Do you live near here?’ The two children stared at one another. ‘All right. You don’t have to tell me. Take my card, though. Keep it. I need to find out who brought the body that was found in this building site. Call me if you know anything. Maybe I can help you.’

‘You’ll take my sister away from me!’

‘Will he?’ Huznia cried.

‘No, I won’t. And I won’t let anyone else either. I can see how much you love each other.’ Callanach held a hand up to the approaching officers, keeping them at bay some twenty metres away. ‘Take this money, buy some food and make sure you have somewhere safe to stay. If you get in trouble, call me.’

Azzat snatched away the cash and the card, shoving them in his pocket as he and his sister began to run.

‘Huznia, don’t let him throw my card away,’ Callanach shouted after them.

The girl looked back, gave a half wave, then they were gone down an alley that was no more than a crack between buildings.

Callanach supposed he should have called family services and had them taken to a children’s shelter. There was obviously no adult caring for them. They were skinny and unkempt. But there was every chance they’d be separated. It was difficult housing a young girl with a teenage boy. The psychological damage done by separating dependent siblings was enormous. They would get lost inside a system that did its best, but which too often left children sitting in the dirt at the bottom of life’s slide. The truth was that maybe they were happier living rough, but together.

‘Why didn’t you bring him in?’ Jean-Paul demanded from behind him. Callanach turned round. His colleague was holding a gauze pad to a bleeding wound on his head, and looking shaken.

‘He wouldn’t have told us anything,’ Callanach replied.

‘He might have, if he’d thought the alternative was having his sister taken away,’ Jean-Paul said, tossing the gauze into a skip and setting his free hands on his hips.

‘I wasn’t prepared to do that.’

‘Yeah, well lucky for you, you’re not the person who’s going to have to explain to Malcolm Reilly’s parents how he died. Did you go soft in Scotland?’

‘Maybe I just grew up a bit,’ Callanach said quietly, wondering where Ava was at that moment, part of him wishing he could have been with her to give the news to Malcolm Reilly’s family, and the other part equally glad he wasn’t.

Chapter Seven

Bart woke up feeling sick, rolling dramatically to his left and smashing his face against the wall. Metal screeched and the world shifted around him, tilting forwards then back, until he lurched for the ring in the centre of the floor and held tight. The feeling of movement wasn’t new. His world had been unstable since he’d first awoken, but this was something different. Almost – although he told himself it was the lack of fresh water and decent food making him delusional – like flying.

The box he was trapped in shifted again, and this time there was a different noise. Whistling, a gust, then a spinning turn. He gripped his stomach, wishing it would stop. It was a desperate thing to have become resigned to dying alone in what amounted to little more than a cell. The air stank from the bucket he’d had no choice but to fill, avoiding the overflow where it had tipped twice during the journey. Despite turning off the electric lamp for increasingly lengthy periods whenever his sanity could stand it, the battery was fading now. Alone in the dark, cold and starving, at least fear had deserted him too. There was nothing with him in the dark that could hurt him more than his own imagination, and he had conquered that. For the briefest of periods he had managed to meditate, sitting upright, blanket wrapped around his stiff body, breathing in a rhythm with his heartbeat, imagining sitting on a beach at sunset, listening to the waves. Just the waves. Letting nothing else in. It was a neat trick when you learned to do it well. Having an ex-girlfriend who’d been training to become a yoga instructor had helped. The effects just didn’t last very long.

His ribcage protested as a huge crash beneath his prone body reverberated through him. Bart realised the sensation of flying hadn’t been a product of his nutritionally starved mind. Whatever container he was in had been moving through the air. No more, though. All movement, the sense of rocking, had ceased. New noises invaded his space, muffled and distant, but there were definitely voices blended in with the mechanical din beyond his walls.

Bart stood up, listened, strode towards a wall and took a deep breath. Hammering on the wall he began to shout. He bolstered the noise of his fists with one foot. When that was bloody and raw, he used a knee instead. Nothing. No response. Letting his fists rest – by now his hands resembled a cage fighter’s – he took the strain with his forehead. Unfamiliar with the art of giving a Glaswegian kiss, Bart didn’t let himself be deterred. He headbutted the wall as if his life depended on it, mainly because by then he’d realised that it did. He would die inside that box if something didn’t happen soon. Slamming his forehead into the wall three, four, five times, he went reeling backwards, losing his balance and ending up back on the floor. On his knees, he went for the wall again. The electric lantern finally gave up the ghost. In the perfect dark he hammered, shouting, yelling, screaming, until his voice was nothing more than a whisper. Then an engine started up and everything started moving again. Bart lay down and let defeat shrivel him into submission.

It was impossible to know how long the journey had taken. Bart had either slept or passed out. His head was thumping and there was blood crusted on his forehead and down his cheeks. The memory was vague, but at some point his body had assumed control of his brain and apparently tried to break through the walls. He was paying for it now. Bart tried to stand and failed.

From the far end of his prison box came the squeal of metal then something else, and for a moment he couldn’t identify the change. The quality of the blackness changed. Not dramatically. No one switched on a light, but there was a new duskiness to the dark, shifting from black to the deepest of greys. Particles of light were invading his atmosphere. He’d assumed the space was completely sealed. Not so. Crawling on hands and knees, he made for the wall closest to the noise.

‘Open it up,’ a man shouted. Someone answered with an accent Bart recognised as French even if he couldn’t speak the language.

He stared at the walls, as if by concentrating hard enough he would be able to see the faces that lay beyond. Were these his rescuers? His assailants? Raising one bruised and shaking hand, he paused before knocking. He had no idea how long he’d been trapped inside – days, he assumed – but already his prison felt safer than the unknown beyond. In the outside world he’d been kidnapped and removed from everything and everyone he loved. He had no idea why or by whom. He’d never expected to fall victim to such evil. Now it was all he could think about. Every face he saw would be a mask, every word a lie. He would never be able to trust anyone again.

A scraping-crunching came from one upper corner of the cell before Bart found his courage. He backed away. The first clear light pierced the gloom to reveal a scene that had him cringing with embarrassment in spite of the horrors he’d endured. A blast of fresh air only served to intensify the stench of human waste that Bart had become used to, but now he could see it. The bucket he’d been using had overflowed with the journey and the floor was awash. He held his filthy hands in front of his face. Now he could smell himself, too, and felt a desperate urge to vomit as the end of his prison was crowbarred away to the sound of ripping wood. Beyond the opening it was too bright for his eyes to focus.

‘Help me,’ he whispered.

‘Pick him up,’ a man said. Heavy boots crossed the wooden cell. Two men took an arm each in gloved hands, dragging him out into the daylight.

Bart breathed deeply, his eyes closed, feeling weak sunlight on his face and doing his best to muster some strength in his legs. His eyes were taking their time adjusting to the brightness. After a few steps, the men lowered him to the ground and he sank gratefully to his knees. An open bottle was thrust into his hands. He sniffed it, registered nothing but cold water, and swallowed the bottle in one go. A car park appeared in blurred patches. A few vans, gravel, brown grass around the edges, no buildings in sight – nothing that gave him any indication where he was. Behind him, on the back of a massive lorry, was a cargo container. He blinked, made an effort to keep down the water, and rubbed his sleeve over his eyes. Inside the container was a thick-walled wooden cell, the end wall prised off. A second bottle of water was handed to him.

‘Slowly,’ a man said. ‘Then eat.’ A loaf of bread in a tatty brown paper bag was thrown down to him. The tone and the treatment were all the confirmation needed of his status. His vision was clear now, as was his sense of smell. He stank. Not like he imagined a human who’d been incarcerated would, but like an animal. All filth and sweat, the sort of smell found in farms and abattoirs. The men around him seemed not to notice. They weren’t surprised by the state of him. Which meant they’d done it before.

He grabbed the bread, which looked like a gourmet offering compared to the box of stale snacks that had been left in the container for him. Even so, he’d consumed it all early in the journey and been left desperate for more. Once you realised what true hunger was, seizing food no matter what position you were in was more instinct than choice. As he ate, men wandered into his former home with buckets. The sound of sloshing water hit the floor and streams of filth ran out. Another brought several heavy-duty plastic cartons from the back of a van, with boxes of what must have been food supplies, similar to those he’d found.

‘I can’t go back in there,’ he told the man closest to him through a mouthful of bread. ‘Can’t do it.’

The man ignored him, and barked orders to others, tapping on his watch. Faster movement followed, guns were drawn and men approached the backs of two vans.

‘Head down,’ Bart was ordered. When his reaction time wasn’t fast enough, he was assisted with a slap to the back of his scalp.

He kept his head angled down, but his eyes up. The van doors opened slowly. The men reached in, pulling out the occupants of the vehicles. One by one, women appeared, hands tied, moving slowly, blinking at the sudden change in environment. Their faces were dirty and their clothes shabby, but they weren’t in the same dreadful state as Bart. Not yet, but then they were ushered towards the container. One woman began to cry, and it spread through them like a virus, the women either side succumbing to tears, another going straight into a wailing sound as if she had only been waiting for a prompt. Bart kept count. Four women from one van, five more from another. He hoped for their sakes that they were given several more buckets for the journey.

One woman fell to her knees, then let herself go to the floor face first, sobbing, begging in the universal language of terror and desperation. A guard gave her an order. She didn’t move. That earned her a kick. She reached out for the man’s ankle, grabbing it, pulling herself towards his feet. He leaned down, snatching a bunch of her already matted hair, wrenching her face upwards to look into his eyes. He spat, waved the gun in her face. She sobbed some more.

Bart wanted to say something. In the dim recesses of his mind he imagined a braver man, a stronger male specimen who had not been so broken by his ordeal, springing up, wrestling a gun from one of the men, shooting off a couple of bullets to show he meant business, before taking command of the situation and freeing them all. What he did was let his face fall to the dirt. What he didn’t see couldn’t hurt him. Instead, he heard all he needed. In spite of the constant mechanical noise of the previous days – he wasn’t quite sure of the time period – his ears were as alert as ever. He heard another kick, that soft whoosh of air as foot contacted stomach. More crying. Laughter. Another man’s footfall, heavy, slow, deliberate. Then the unmistakable sound of a zip being lowered. Liquid hitting skin in a constant stream. The woman let out a howl that was end-game hopelessness. The reduction to nothing more than disposable goods was complete. As Bart opened his eyes, the woman was crawling away through the dirt, following the others into the black hole that he’d just escaped. The men picked up the wooden end wall of the cell, took nails from their pockets, gathered hammers, and began to seal it up. The hammering from the outside was matched blow for blow by the sound of fists hitting the inside of the wood. Bart had time to wonder if the men had bothered to replace the batteries inside the lamp. As pathetic as it was, that tiny spark had been everything to him in the endless dark.

He looked past the man standing over him.

‘I need to pee,’ he said. ‘Where do I go?’ The bottles of water had run through him like fresh rain off dried mud.

The man pointed at the ground where Bart sat. He was going nowhere. If he needed to piss, it was right there or not at all. He did what he needed, watching as the enormous container door was swung shut. A wooden cell within a metal prison. Enough noise externally that no one would ever be heard within. He wished vaguely that he hadn’t bothered ripping his vocal chords to shreds for nothing. With one hand taking care of business, he used the other to dip into the rear pocket of his jeans, clutching his most treasured possession, loath to sacrifice it, but who knew where he might end up next? If this was his only chance to leave a note, a record of his passing, then he had no choice. He waited until all eyes were elsewhere, then dropped the photo of his father behind him in the dirt as he zipped up his jeans.

Ten minutes later and the container was gone, driven away on the back of a lorry by three of the men. Two others climbed into the unmarked white vans from which the women had disembarked, leaving one final van and a car. The women were obviously being trafficked, presumably for sexual exploitation or into slavery. What he had no understanding about whatsoever was why he was there. He figured he would find out soon enough, and the answer wasn’t going to be one he wanted to hear. So he just didn’t ask. He wondered what the men thought of him, on his knees between a puddle of his own urine and a stream of someone else’s, not even asking for his freedom. Not begging, not trying to run. Just doing nothing. His life had gone from hopes and dreams to a nightmare in such a short timeframe that his head was spinning with it. Just survive for the next five minutes, he thought. After that, I’ll worry about another five. If I make it to tonight, I’ll worry about the morning. The bread sat in a hard lump in his stomach. He would comply. There was no point annoying his captors. He would watch and learn. Information, he heard his father say inside his head. You can’t run if you don’t know where you’re running to. You can’t fight if you don’t know your enemy’s strengths. And you can’t do anything at all dehydrated and starving. Eat and drink whatever they offer, Bart told himself. Sleep when it’s safe. Don’t hope. Plan.

‘Car,’ one of the men said. ‘Now.’

Bart stood up and stretched.

‘More water?’ he asked.

The men looked at one another, until someone shrugged and reached into the van, throwing another bottle in Bart’s direction.

‘Piss in my car and I’ll cut your dick off,’ he was warned. ‘Turn round.’

He was marched to the boot of the car and told to climb in. The floor was covered in old blankets that smelled of dog. He was given a moment to take another drink before his hands were tied behind his back.

‘I hear you bang or shout, I pull over and fucking gut you. Get in.’

Bart did as he was told. The container lorry had headed north, as far as he could tell from the position of the sun and the fact that the day was still warm with some hours of sunlight to go. The car was pointed in the other direction. It was a straightforward exchange then. Made sense. Why pay for a container if it only held goods to trade in one direction? Two or three of the men had spoken French to each other. His journey, while it had seemed endless, could only have been a couple of days. France seemed like the logical point for them to have docked in that timescale. The women had spoken a language he hadn’t recognised though. A couple of them had been very dark-skinned, but the majority looked more Eastern European. Either they’d been kidnapped or they’d thought they had found a passport to a new and better life. That was almost crueller. Paying their captors for the prospect of safe passage and finding the opposite, their families left to wonder what had happened to them and why they’d never contacted them again.

It made Bart think of his own mother. She, at least, would have called the police by now. People would be looking for him, retracing his last known steps. His friends would be plaguing social media with requests for shares and information. Somewhere, someone had to have seen something that could lead to him. The woman he’d dated twice, if meeting for coffee could be considered a date, had offered him a lift home from the restaurant. Her name had been Kitty, or maybe she’d said it was a nickname. They hadn’t progressed to surnames. That was as much as he could recall. There was no CCTV in the main restaurant dining room, but there was a camera on one of the doors to capture images of any diners who decided that paying for their meal was not a good option. Would Kitty have thought of that? Perhaps she’d worn a wig, or changed her face with makeup. Even he couldn’t quite reconstruct her in his mind.

His poor mother. She would be frantic. That was a good thing in the circumstances. She wouldn’t rest until he was found. The car started up, and he jammed his feet to keep from rolling around and hurting himself. Steady, he told himself. Don’t get injured. He tried to focus on the distance as they travelled. He tried to figure out the left and right turns, and to create a map in his mind. But it was warm, the car rocked gently, and the stinking blankets were a soft enough bed. And he was exhausted. When Bart woke up, the first thing he saw was chain-link fence.

Chapter Eight

Indrani Desai was waiting in Jean-Paul’s office – currently also Callanach’s desk space – at 7.30 a.m., wearing a traditional sari and spaghetti-strap gold sandals. Jean-Paul took the seat nearest her, offering drinks that she refused and his hand that she also opted not to shake. Callanach watched Jean-Paul look at her admiringly. His old colleague had never had much of a poker face when it came to women.

‘Forgive me if it seems rude, but I try not to transfer any oils onto my own skin. Sometimes a residue of a scent can throw me off when I’m working,’ she explained.

‘You’ve been to see Malcolm Reilly’s body?’ Callanach asked.

‘I have,’ she nodded. ‘Not a normal part of my job. Aromachologists design scents for shops and supermarkets. Sometimes I work with athletes putting together aromatherapy packages for them. That was the first time I’ve worked on a dead body and even though I only saw the head uncovered it was … awful.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Jean-Paul said. ‘It’s the worst part of what we do. I know it was an unusual request for you to smell his hair. Were you able to pick anything up?’

‘I was,’ Indrani confirmed. ‘He was in a sealed bag, so when the plastic was first opened I caught a strong whiff. It dissipated in minutes though. I’m afraid it wouldn’t pass a scientific test if you were looking for me to give evidence in court.’

‘At the moment we just need whatever leads we can get,’ Callanach said. ‘What was your conclusion?’

‘Myrrh. Burned near to his head. The smell was smoky and slightly impure, but myrrh itself has a very specific liquorice note to it. Earthy and rich, but with a contrasting lemon scent. Some people say they smell latex, too. It’s quite unique. I’m surprised you picked it up given all the chemical odours in the mortuary,’ she told Callanach.

‘Sorry, how did you know it was me?’ he asked.

‘The pathologist described you to me. He said you were the one with the symmetrical face.’

‘Yes, well, Detective Inspector Callanach gets a lot of that,’ Jean-Paul snapped. ‘Could you tell us where someone might get hold of myrrh and what it might have been used for?’

He gave Callanach a look that was a throwback to days Callanach was happier not remembering, when they’d spent weekends and holidays partying together, and women had been their constant companions. Indrani Desai was far from the first woman Jean-Paul had been attracted to who had seemed more interested in Callanach. In their younger days it had been a source of simple ribbing. Now it seemed Jean-Paul didn’t find it quite so amusing. Callanach himself wasn’t the slightest bit interested. He was only there for Malcolm Reilly.

‘It can be anything from just making a place smell good, to a belief that myrrh is an antioxidant. It’s from a tree sap. There are all sorts of claims made about its medical properties, including a treatment for arthritis, neuropathic pain, for asthma and indigestion. It’s generally regarded as being purifying and cleansing; certainly it has antiseptic properties. It can also be used for embalming. Historically, it’s been used for centuries as part of rituals. You know the Bible reference, obviously, but most cultures have used myrrh at some point. Today you find it in candles or essential oils.’

‘Thank you, Miss Desai,’ Jean-Paul said. ‘I’m guessing it’s easy to get hold of then?’

‘It is. Can I help with anything else?’ she asked, standing up.

‘Just this. The other chemical found in relation to the body was lanolin. Would that ever be used in connection with myrrh that you’re aware of?’ Callanach asked.

She paused, twisting a bracelet around her wrist a few times, and frowning slightly.

‘The only thing I can think of is that it might have been added to create an ointment, maybe for dry skin, or as a way of applying the myrrh, but you have to remember that myrrh’s medical properties are still doubted by many. There’s not much western acceptance of its uses. It’s more often found in Chinese herbal medicine.’

‘Thank you,’ Callanach said. ‘We appreciate your help. I’m so sorry you had to be involved in these circumstances.’

‘I’m sorry for the boy,’ Indrani said quietly. ‘The look on his face. I assumed emotions would leave your face after death. Even with his eyelids shut, I could read the terror, as if his muscles had frozen. It’s etched into him. I consider myself an advocate of peace, yet for the first time I can see why people call for the death penalty in such cases. Why should the monsters who perpetrate such evil continue to have a place on this earth?’

Jean-Paul showed the aromachologist out of the building.

Callanach stood in front of the board in their room, covered in photos of Malcolm Reilly’s body and the building site where it was found. He wrote a series of notes around the images. ‘Organ harvesting?’ ‘Lanolin – uses, sources?’ Then ‘Myrrh – healing, antiseptic, embalming’. The last option made no sense to him at all. Why consider embalming Malcolm Reilly’s body after his organs had been taken from him so unceremoniously, then dumping him at the building site? His body had been used. That was the tragic reality. There was no emotion involved. No crime of passion, or momentary loss of temper. Whoever had taken his life had calculated the value of killing a human being for their own ends, whatever those might have been. He checked his watch. Hopefully Ava would be at her desk soon for him to share what he knew. Not that she’d be in the mood for chatting. Interviewing grieving parents about their dead child was about as depressing as policing got.

Chapter Nine

Ava knocked on the Reillys’ door. Eight a.m. was too early really, but if years of policing had taught her anything it was that grief guaranteed both exhaustion and insomnia in equal measures. The Reillys would have cried, ranted and been consumed with every negative emotion in the dictionary until they’d finally fallen asleep, then awoken only to lie in the cold, early dark knowing that every day would start like that in their foreseeable future. Yesterday, she’d let specially trained police officers break the news of the death and remain with the family for as long as their presence was welcomed. They would continue to offer support in terms of answering day-to-day questions. Now she had to try and figure out why Malcolm Reilly had been chosen as a victim, and how he’d been identified as a target. Nine times out of ten that meant causing offence. She took a deep breath.

The door opened quietly, and a large woman stood, hands on hips, woollen cardigan stretched over a flowery blouse. Her face looked as if it had been attacked by gravity, jowls hanging, bags stretching for the floor beneath her eyes.

‘You’ll be DCI Turner. We were told to expect you. I’m Malcolm’s grandmother. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll fetch my daughter and son-in-law. They’re upstairs. It wasn’t a good night.’

‘I understand,’ Ava said. ‘Thank you for letting me in.’ She sat quietly in a living room that had become a tomb to a missing young man. They’d been expecting him back, of course. Most young men in their twenties who disappeared suddenly also reappeared. The same was less true of missing young women, but males weren’t as likely to be kidnapped, raped, murdered. Not so today.

‘Good morning,’ a man said, walking slowly forwards and offering Ava his hand. It was shaking as Ava grasped it. He looked broken, tall but bent at the shoulders, his hair greasy and unkempt, his shirt untucked at one side. Grief was the enemy of both the physical body and the mind.

He was followed by a sweet-looking woman, dressed in pale grey – trousers, shirt, jumper, even her socks. She looks like a ghost, Ava thought, literally as if the life had bled from her. The woman tried to smile, but the wobble it brought was too much.

‘Mrs Reilly,’ Ava took over. Sometimes it was easier to speak than wait to be spoken to. ‘Forgive me for asking to speak with you at such a terrible time, but I need to know as much as I can about Malcolm and his disappearance. Interpol is working with the French police, and we have a liaison officer out there making sure nothing is missed. I’m in charge of the case at this end. Could we sit?’

Malcolm Reilly’s mother nodded slowly and turned on unwilling feet to head for a sofa. Ava pulled out a notebook, noticing the photos of Malcolm in ski gear against endless bright white backdrops.

‘I appreciate your talking to me. I know the shock of Malcolm’s death is still new. Telling you both how sorry I am for your loss won’t help you, but perhaps finding the person or people who hurt him will offer something more valuable. I want to know as much as you can tell me about your son, particularly about his final day. You’ll have given that information to the police before when you reported him missing, but sometimes additional questions occur to me when I’m listening to people talk, and now that we know it’s a murder investigation I may have different queries. All I can ask is that you bear with me, all right?’

Malcolm’s parents made eye contact with one another, giving their consent only by not objecting. Ava understood perfectly. Words were hard enough to come by when you lost someone you loved through illness or accident. When they’d been cut open and their organs stolen from their body, what could you possibly find to say that did justice to the explosion of horror and grief your life had suddenly been reduced to?

‘He went to the gym,’ Mr Reilly said. His voice was hoarse. Ava had images of the night he and his wife had spent sobbing in one another’s arms as he continued to speak. ‘He went most days, unless he had an injury or needed to rest.’

‘That was the twenty-four-hour gym at West Side Plaza Shopping Centre?’ Ava clarified.

‘Yes,’ Mr Reilly said. ‘He was part of a ski team and they were expected to train regularly. Helps to avoid injuries.’

‘Looks like he loved it,’ Ava offered, turning her face to the sea of photos.

‘He wanted to be in the Olympics. That was his dream,’ Mrs Reilly said, her face awash with tears. That was the thing about memories. One day they were just ordinary recollections, with more to be made, expectations keeping them in perspective and ready to be replaced. Once death came, those memories were newly precious, gold to be mined and polished at every opportunity, in the knowledge that the total sum of your riches had already been amassed, and that every ounce, every fleck had to be cherished forever.

Ava paused, letting the Reillys recover, then continued.

‘What time did he go to the gym?’ she asked.

‘About five thirty p.m. He came home from work, had a bite to eat, then changed and went. He was usually out until about eight, but that night he didn’t come home. We didn’t start worrying until ten, then we tried his mobile but he didn’t answer. We tried again half an hour later but by then his phone was switched off. His younger brother went out looking for him. Malcolm’s car was still in the gym car park but the receptionist said she’d seen him leave a couple of hours earlier.’

Ava already had a statement from the gym’s receptionist in her file. There was CCTV footage, good quality and in colour for once, that showed Malcolm Reilly looking fit and healthy after exercising, exiting the building at 8.38 p.m. precisely. The receptionist’s estimate had been half an hour out, but no surprise there. It was a busy place with plenty of people coming and going after work. Malcolm had turned left out of the main doors, bag slung over his shoulder. By then he’d changed out of his gym gear into jeans, a T-shirt and a green jacket – there was footage of him on the running machine earlier for comparison – his hair still wet from the shower, then he’d gone to the coffee shop cum bar. That was at about 8 p.m. No CCTV in there but a few regulars and staff had noticed him going in.

‘Did he tell you he was going to go to the coffee shop afterwards?’ Ava asked.

‘No.’ Mr Reilly shook his head. ‘But he was well known at the gym. He’s been a member there for more than two years. He often met friends and went for a drink or bite to eat afterwards.’

‘Anyone in particular he hung out with regularly?’

‘Why did they take his insides?’ Mrs Reilly blurted, suddenly standing up, fists clenched and pressed into her stomach. Her husband turned his gaze to the floor. ‘Even his eyes, for God’s sake!’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Ava replied gently. ‘I think that if we can figure out the motive for doing that, we’ll be able to catch Malcolm’s murderer.’

‘So are we supposed to bury only half of him, and do what … add the rest when you find the missing pieces?’ Mrs Reilly went on.

‘I’m afraid we need to keep Malcolm’s body at the mortuary until the matter is resolved. We can transfer him back to the UK if you’d feel more comfortable having him in Edinburgh. We’re not going to rest until we get answers for you.’

‘He’d met someone,’ Mr Reilly announced, at little more than a whisper.

His wife whipped her head round, the fastest Ava had seen her move since arriving.

‘What are you talking about?’ Mrs Reilly asked.

Her husband rubbed a hand across his forehead.

‘He asked me not to tell you. I don’t know much about it myself. Just that he’d met a woman he rather liked a few times, but that he wasn’t sure it was going anywhere.’

‘Why not?’ Ava asked.

‘Why was I not to be told?’ Malcolm’s mother followed up.

‘I gather she was married, or engaged, or something. Malc was vague about it. He wouldn’t tell me her name. I got the impression she’d asked him not to talk about her.’

‘Why exactly?’ Ava pressed.

‘He said something about how she wouldn’t like him talking about her. I overheard him on the phone one day. Malcolm had sounded excited, younger than normal. He was quite reserved usually, so I asked who it was. I think he wanted to tell me more but was torn.’

‘You should have told me anyway,’ Mrs Reilly said. It was an accusation.

‘Malcolm knew you’d disapprove. He didn’t want to upset you. Neither did I.’

‘And what if she had something to do with all of this? If I’d known, if you’d told me …’

‘How could some woman he liked have taken him to France? His passport’s still in his drawer. And why would she do that? It makes no sense. That’s why I didn’t say anything before. It’s ridiculous,’ he declared, banging his fist against his leg.

Ava gave them both a moment to calm down.

‘Which phone did you hear Malcolm talking to this woman on, and when?’ she asked.

‘His mobile. It was never found after he disappeared. As for when, that would have been about ten weeks ago. It was a Sunday afternoon,’ Mr Reilly said.

‘So two weeks before he disappeared, then. I’ll check his mobile call logs with his telecom provider. I don’t suppose you know where he met this woman?’

‘I don’t, but he was keen on her, and he obviously thought she felt the same or I don’t think he’d have mentioned her to me at all. It couldn’t have been her, could it?’ He stared into Ava’s eyes, looking for more than information. Wanting affirmation, reassurance, perhaps forgiveness.

‘We have to cover all angles when we investigate. I’ll do my best to locate this woman. Until then, it’s best not to torture yourselves with hypotheticals. I’ll leave you to it. If you think of anything else, please do get in touch.’

‘How could you keep that from me?’ Mrs Reilly hissed at her husband. ‘He was my son, I had a right to know.’

‘It was nothing, please, Anne, don’t upset yourself …’

‘Don’t upset myself?’ she raged, looking around the room before choosing the nearest object to seize. It was a vase. Her husband looked on in silence as it smashed in the fireplace. ‘My boy was gutted like a fish, and you’re asking me not to upset myself? What is it that you want me to do? Sit in bed quietly and cry into a hankie? What if this woman’s husband found out about them and decided to get rid of Malcolm? Did you think of that?’

‘No … no, I’m sure Malcolm wouldn’t have let it get that far.’

‘Mrs Reilly,’ Ava said. ‘I understand—’

‘No you don’t,’ Malcolm Reilly’s mother screamed. On the final word she aimed an open palm at Ava’s face, slapping hard enough for Ava’s neck to crack as her head whirled round. ‘Oh my God. I’m sorry. Oh my God,’ she gasped, falling to her knees.

Ava took to the floor beside her, taking Malcolm’s mother’s hands in her own, gently stroking the hand that had slapped her.

‘You’re right,’ Ava said. ‘I don’t understand. It’s okay. The worst thing is, I know that I never want to have to understand, not fully. I never want to be feeling what you’re feeling now. That’s why I do this job. I want to make sure that as few people as possible have to go through what you’re experiencing. All I can promise is that I’ll do my best, and that I’ll make everyone else do their best, and I won’t stop until I can give you answers.’

Mrs Reilly drew herself into a ball, rocking back and forth, eventually letting her husband kneel next to her and wrap her in his arms. Ava suspected they would be there, on that cold wooden floor, for an awfully long time. She let herself out.

An hour later Ava was at home changing out of her uniform. In spite of the Major Investigation Team’s non-uniform policy, she had always felt more comfortable treating visits to the recently bereaved with the utmost formality. That mark of respect was the least she could offer. The rest of the day was going to be briefings and normal graft, though, and her jeans were beckoning. She was almost ready to leave for the station when her doorbell rang. Ava sighed. Her cheek was still raw from the monumental slap dealt by a grieving mother. The blow had been well delivered, and while Ava didn’t resent it at all, it had left fingermarks that would be like carrying a physical part of Malcolm Reilly with her for the rest of the day. Fitting perhaps, given that so much of him was actually missing. She wandered towards the door, feeling less than charitable towards whoever was out there, ringing her doorbell so persistently.

‘Hey you,’ a voice said, as Ava began to open the door. ‘I was hoping you might be here.’

‘Natasha,’ Ava said, stepping back to let her best friend in, grinning at the unexpected visit. They didn’t see each other often enough, and exchanging texts hardly did justice to the number of years they’d had each other’s backs. It couldn’t be helped. Natasha was Head of Philosophy at Edinburgh University, not to mention chairing numerous panels and writing articles. The two of them almost never managed to make their free evenings coincide. ‘You just caught me,’ she checked her watch, ‘but I’ve got time to put the kettle on. God, it’s good to see you.’

Natasha turned, shrugging off her coat slowly and putting it carefully on a hook before following Ava into the kitchen.

‘You mean you’ve actually got milk in your fridge that’s in date?’ Natasha smiled.

‘You’re so rude. I’m pretty sure I have.’ She opened her fridge door and peered at the label on a milk carton. ‘Aha, see, still good until tomorrow. Now you’ll have to apologise!’

‘Apologise my arse,’ Natasha said, sitting down. ‘Ava, I need to talk to you.’

‘Yes, please, anything. I’ve had a bloody awful morning so far. Seriously, probing grieving parents for details of their child’s life at the worst possible moment. You know it’s going to be bad, but nothing prepares you for the sense of devastation.’ She stretched her arms waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Want some toast?’

‘No, thanks. I’m not hungry. Sit down with me.’

‘No time.’ Ava grabbed a hairband from her pocket and tied her long, curly brown hair up high on her head. ‘I’ve got two different teams working up cases, one here and one in France. Thank God Luc was already there or I’d have lost two officers to liaison posts.’

‘Ava,’ Natasha said firmly. ‘I have cancer.’

Ava looked at her, frowned as she half smiled, shook her head.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I found a lump in my left breast a month ago. The doctor was great, referred me straight to the hospital. The consultant’s been amazing. They operated two weeks ago, removed a sample and did a biopsy. I got the results yesterday afternoon.’

Ava closed her eyes, waited, opened them again, gritted her teeth.

‘A month?’ she said eventually. ‘You’ve been going through this for a fucking month and you’re at my door for the first time today?’ Her voice was at yelling pitch. ‘How the fuck could you ever think that was okay?’ She turned, tried to pick up the kettle but slopped boiling water across the tops of the mugs and her hand.

‘Ava, stop, please,’ Natasha said, standing and walking round the table towards her.

‘No,’ Ava said. ‘If you’re here, it’s because it’s bad news, and I can’t hear it, Tasha. God help me, I know it’s you going through this, not me, but I can’t have anything happen to you. I don’t want to hear it. I can’t stand it.’

Natasha wrapped her arms around Ava’s shoulders, holding her tight.

‘I couldn’t have this conversation before I knew for sure what it was. You’d have made the same choice. It was less painful not to think too hard about it. I knew you’d want to come to every appointment with me, ask every question, cross-examine the doctors, but I just wanted to let it all happen without a fight.’

‘How bad?’ Ava whispered into her friend’s hair.

‘Bad, but not hopeless. I won’t give you all the medical terms. I’ve driven myself mad looking it all up already. It’s stage two. I’ll need another operation, chemo, maybe radiation therapy, then they’ll review again and see how I’m doing.’ She stepped back, wiping tears from Ava’s face with her thumbs.

‘Oh holy shit. I’m so sorry I shouted at you. I’m such an idiot. You came here because you needed me, and I …’

‘Actually, I came here for you to yell at me and get it out of your system. You’re nothing if not predictable,’ she grinned.

‘Go to hell,’ Ava said, more tears falling. ‘Tasha, I have to ask.’

‘It’s all right,’ Natasha said. ‘Roughly speaking, there’s a fifty per cent survival rate for the type of cancer I have at this stage. It’s nowhere else in my body yet which is the good news. Apparently my aunt had it too, so there’s a family history to take into account, although I found out about that, as ever, when it was too late for a heads-up.’

‘So you’ve told your parents then?’ Natasha nodded. ‘How were they with you?’

‘Well, they managed not to ask if it was something I’d caught because I’m a lesbian, so I guess that was progress.’ She laughed, and Ava’s kitchen rang with the hollowness of it. ‘They were shocked, I think, but told me they’re sure I’ll be fine. Not what I wanted to hear, oddly. I mean, I want people to be reassuring, but it’s so bland when it happens like that. Almost dismissive, like they can’t cope with the reality so it’s an easy line to trot out.’

Ava sighed.

‘Still want that tea?’ she asked.

‘Damn right I do. I can’t drink booze at the moment, so tea’s about my only decent option.’ Ava busied herself with the mugs and teabags. ‘Anyway, I’m here to ask you to just stand by me, I suppose. At the moment, I’m not quite sure what’s ahead. I have another appointment at the hospital tomorrow to agree a treatment plan. I know you’re busy with your caseload but …’

‘I’ll be there,’ Ava said. ‘Whatever you need. Just message me about the time. I’ll drive you.’

‘You don’t have to go that far,’ Natasha smiled, taking the offered mug and sitting back down at the kitchen table with it.

‘Oh, that’s just because you’re a liability on the road already. I honestly can’t let the general public be put at risk if you’re even more distracted than usual.’ Ava sat opposite her.

‘Fuck you,’ Natasha grinned.

‘I love you,’ Ava retorted. ‘And I’m so ashamed about how I reacted. I wasn’t angry at you.’

‘I know that.’ Natasha reached across and took Ava’s hand in hers. ‘Do you remember when we were fourteen and that little gobshite Barry Beckwith told everyone he’d put his hand up my skirt? I came to you crying. Everyone was gossiping about it, and I thought my life was basically over.’

‘I screamed at you because you hadn’t punched him in the face as soon as you found out. Did you have to remind me?’ Ava laughed.

‘The next day, Barry turned up at whatever awful party we were at, with a black eye and a cut lip, telling everyone he’d been mugged for his backpack. I knew it was you, even though you never admitted it.’

‘I hated seeing you hurt like that.’ Ava smiled gingerly. ‘I still do. At least I could just go and punch Barry Beckwith. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?’

‘Hold my hand, make me laugh, give me space when I ask for it. What actually did happen with Barry then?’

‘I called at his house, flirted with him, told him I wanted to do the same as he’d done with you. He invited me up to his bedroom, and as soon as he closed his door I smacked him in the face. He tried to grab me to stop me from leaving, so I headbutted him, only he was quite a few inches taller than me, so I only contacted his lip. I knew he’d never have the balls to admit he’d been beaten up by a girl, so I wasn’t worried. He had tears in his eyes as I left, which I figured was almost good enough payment for what he’d done to you.’

‘I’m so glad we’ve always been friends. Mainly because as an enemy you’re terrifying.’

‘Whatever happens, I’ll be at your side,’ Ava said softly, the laughter gone. ‘You can’t leave me, Natasha. I won’t let you.’

‘Not even you can control this one,’ she replied. ‘But I appreciate the fact that you’re going to try, more than you could possibly know.’

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