and enthusiasm, as he had been at that age. It seemed a lifetime ago.
‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tripp,’ he replied.
‘Well, Tripp, do you know the difference between assisting an international murder investigation with Interpol and conducting one in Scotland?’
‘No, sir,’ Tripp answered, eyes shifting left and right, as if terrified that the question was the start of some unexpected test.
‘Absolutely nothing. There’s a corpse, grieving relatives, more questions than answers, and pressure from the top to get it sorted in no time and at minimal cost. Even under the constraints of budgeted policing, I won’t forgive sloppiness. The stakes are too high to let your dissatisfaction at the current overtime rate affect the effort you’re willing to put in.’ He took a moment to stare round the room, meeting every pair of eyes full on, making his point. ‘Tripp,’ he said, when he’d finished, ‘grab another constable and come to my office.’
Callanach exited the room without farewells or niceties. No doubt Tripp was already getting it in the neck for being singled out, the team was bemoaning their newly allocated detective inspector and bitching about Police Scotland’s failure to promote from within. Policing was the same all over the world. Only the coffee really changed from place to place. Here, he was unsurprised to find, it was bloody awful.
His office could best be described as functional. It would take promotion to a higher rank before he transcended into actual comfort. Still, it was quiet and light with two telephones, as if somehow he could split himself in half and take two calls at once. On the floor were just two boxes of personal possessions awaiting transfer into drawers and onto shelves. Not that there was anything vital in them. He’d come to Scotland for a clean start. The country of his birth had seemed the logical place to put down new roots, not to mention one of the few places he could apply for a police position as a passport holder.
Tripp knocked on his door, a young woman behind him.
‘Ready for us, sir?’ Tripp asked.
Callanach beckoned them in. ‘And you are?’
‘Detective Constable Salter. Nice to meet you, sir,’ she said, looking down at her shoes part way through the introduction. Her awkwardness was irritating in its predictability. Callanach suffered from the least likely affliction of being good looking to the point of distraction, with a face that could – and had – stopped traffic. Few people understood that it was more burden than blessing these days.
‘Salter, take me through procedures from initial crime report, ordering forensics and into trial preparation. Tripp, I want comprehensive notes on forms, filing, the works. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir, not a problem.’ Tripp seemed delighted to be of use. All Salter managed was a downcast mumble which Callanach took as agreement.
‘Would you give us the room please, constables?’ a voice cut in behind them. Standing in the doorway was a female officer in dress uniform. Salter and Tripp scattered as she entered and kicked the door shut behind her.
‘I’m DI Turner, Ava as we’re the same rank.’ She gave a wide grin, suffering none of Salter’s inability to look him in the eyes. Callanach’s fellow detective inspector was around five foot five and slim. Her chestnut, shoulder-length hair was curly although an attempt had been made to restrain it in a ponytail. She wasn’t beautiful, not in modern advertising terms, but handsome would have been an insult. Her features were fine, grey eyes widely spaced.
‘Callanach,’ he responded. ‘By the look on your face, I’d say you’ve been party to something I haven’t. Did you want to share it or am I supposed to guess?’
Ava Turner ignored the dismissive tone and answered unabashed. ‘Well, I did hear one of the sergeants asking why they’d been sent an underwear model instead of a proper policeman.’
‘I get the picture,’ he said.
‘I’m guessing you’re used to it. If it helps, the fact that you’re French will be more acceptable to the majority of them than I am.’
‘English?’ he asked, as he shifted the position of a filing cabinet.
‘Pure Scottish, but my parents sent me to an English boarding school from the age of seven, hence the accent. That makes me about as welcome as the plague. Don’t worry about it. If they actually liked you at this stage, you’d be doomed to fail. Presumably you’ve arrived with a suitably thick skin. Give me a shout if you have any problems, you’ll find my numbers on the contact sheet in your desk. I’d better go and change. I’m just back from a community awards ceremony and I can’t stand being in uniform. Your team are a good bunch, just don’t take too much shit from them.’
‘I have no intention of taking any shit from anyone,’ he replied, picking up one of the phones and checking for a dial tone. When he looked up again, he was speaking to an empty space and an open doorway. Callanach dropped into the chair behind his desk. He took out his mobile, programmed in a few of the more important numbers from the contact sheet and was just considering emptying the first of his boxes when Tripp bundled in.
‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but we’ve just had a call from an officer at Braemar. They’ve found a body and are asking to speak with someone about it.’
‘And Braemar is in which area of the city?’
‘It’s not in the city, it’s in the Cairngorm Mountains, sir.’
‘For God’s sake, Tripp, stop saying sir at the end of every sentence and explain to me how that could possibly be an Edinburgh case.’
‘They suspect it’s the body of a woman reported missing from the city a couple of weeks ago, a lawyer called Elaine Buxton. They’ve found a scrap of clothing that matches a scarf she was wearing when last seen.’
‘That’s all? No other link?’
‘Everything else has been burned, sir, I mean, sorry. Braemar thought we might want to be involved early on.’
‘All right, Constable. Pull together everything there is on Elaine Buxton then get Braemar on the phone. I want detailed information on my desk in fifteen minutes. If that is Edinburgh’s missing person then we’re already running two weeks behind her killer.’
Callanach put down the phone feeling weary and decided it was down to the effort of decoding the Scottish accent. He barely remembered his father and, although his mother had insisted he learn to speak English as well as her mother-tongue French, he hadn’t been prepared for full immersion. The sergeant from Braemar managed to mix the singsong cadence with a regular dose of colloquialisms. Callanach suspected it might have been largely for his benefit and, a couple of sentences in, had stopped bothering to ask what any of it meant. He made an idle note of the word ‘haver’. Tripp would have to double as interpreter. In the meantime, Callanach had agreed to consult on a case that should technically speaking have been out of his jurisdiction. That wouldn’t endear him to anyone, additional money and manpower being expended where it could be avoided, but it certainly sounded as if the body in the mountains was Edinburgh’s missing woman.
He saw Salter going
