‘Did she die here?’
‘I can’t say for sure, and with only bones left I may not be able to pinpoint a cause of death, unless the skull gives me something. Many of the bones are broken, the jaw is in pieces. It seems to me though that this was about disposing of the body. Your murderer didn’t want anything left, was probably hoping she’d be unidentifiable,’ the pathologist remarked, pulling off rubber gloves and stretching his neck.
‘You believe she was killed elsewhere and transported here?’
‘You’re the detective. That part’s up to you. If you’re staying overnight, you can come to the morgue in the morning, see what we’ve got.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Callanach replied, looking around for Tripp. He found him stealing a sip of coffee from Sergeant Lively’s flask. ‘Tripp, interview the hikers, mark their precise position on a map and the time they first saw the fire. I want to hear their call to the emergency services and you’ll need to go to the spot where they were standing to photograph the view they had across to here,’
Sergeant Lively interrupted. ‘Statements will have been taken already so I don’t see what good that’ll do.’
The man’s too-long-in-the-job attitude was tiresome to deal with, but far from unusual. Callanach fought the desire to reprimand him and concentrated instead on the matters at hand.
‘The number of hours this fire was burning will help us determine the time the murderer left the scene. The height, and perhaps even the colour of the flames when the hikers saw them, might help establish that, enabling us to question local people about unusual vehicles within a specific time frame.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Lively mumbled, not bothering to hide his lack of respect.
‘Where are we staying tonight, sir?’ Tripp asked, stamping his feet and shoving his hands ever deeper in his pockets. For all his usual enthusiasm, Tripp looked distinctly uncomfortable in the great outdoors and the freezing cold.
‘Ask the local officers what’s around. There must be accommodation reasonably nearby. Tell Salter she’s to attend the morgue with me in the morning and I want Barnes at the scene until it’s completely documented. Feedback from each one of you, every two hours.’
‘What if that’s not Elaine Buxton? It’ll have been a complete waste of our time.’
Callanach glared at Lively. ‘Whoever’s corpse that is, Sergeant, they were almost certainly murdered and if we can contribute to the investigation then only an idiot would regard it as a waste. So unless you have something professional to contribute, from now on you can keep your personal opinions to yourself.’
The landline rang. King studied the number before picking up. It was a local code.
‘Dr King,’ he snapped.
‘Hello, this is Sheila Klein from Human Resources. I’ve been asked to ring and see when we can expect you back. University policy is that we need a doctor’s note for medical leave beyond three consecutive days.’
Reginald King sighed. He hated the petty rules and regulations that tied him into his banal public existence. The woman on the phone couldn’t possibly comprehend that there were aspects of his life demanding more attention than his underpaid, under-appreciated and underwhelming job.
‘I’m aware of the terms of my employment contract.’
‘So, any idea when we might see you or have confirmation from your doctor?’ Sheila asked, her voice trailing off towards the end of the sentence.
King took a key from his pocket as she whined. ‘A few more days,’ he said. ‘Maybe a week. The virus has gone to my chest and set off my asthma.’
‘Gosh, that sounds awful. You know we have an open-door policy. Do call if you think you’ll need more leave. I’m sure the department head will be sympathetic.’
The Head of School in the Department of Philosophy would not be sympathetic, King thought. She would be as ignorant as ever, and the ignorant always failed to appreciate him. Just because he was an administrator rather than an academic, because his qualifications came from a university she chose not to recognise, because he hadn’t climbed the ranks through socialising and networking, she was not interested in him. Well, the Department of Philosophy could pay his wages while he had some time to himself. Professor Natasha Forge, the youngest Head of School of any department at the University of Edinburgh, would no doubt fail to even register his absence.
King unplugged the phone. Twelve steps down into the cellar he went, switching on the basement light and sliding a wooden panel in the wall to reveal a keyhole. Unlocking the hidden door and stepping inside, he rose twelve steps back up, parallel to the first staircase but concealed behind a layer of plaster, brick and sound proofing. At the back of his house was a secret space, windowless, silent, timeless. It was a place of beauty. He congratulated himself on how well he had designed it with pastel colours to soothe, with gently piped classical music, and art prints adorning the walls. Unless you surveyed the house inside and out, you would never know the back section existed. It was his island. He recited John Donne’s lines as he took a key to the last door. The great poet was right. He could not be entire, if alone. That was why he had gifted one fortunate person with the chance to accompany him on his journey. As he opened the door, the woman on the bed began to scream.
Elaine Buxton, recently presumed dead, the bones attributed to her corpse already laid out on an autopsy table, strands of DNA in code form swirling through cyber space so that her death could be formally recorded, cried out until her voice was hoarse.
‘Your gums are healing nicely,’ King said. He spoke softly to her. It was a point of pride that he didn’t lose his temper, no matter how much she screamed. Not so with the other woman. When he’d taken her, she’d scratched, bitten and kicked him so hard his groin had been agony for a week. She’d required no delicate handling. She had been beneath him.
‘Pleath, ’et me go,’ Elaine mouthed, the tears starting again. That irritated him, as he knew it would any man, but it was to be expected for a while. Until she learned to appreciate him.
‘In a week your mouth will have recovered enough to fit dentures, then we’ll commence speech therapy. It won’t be instantaneous but you’re a bright woman. You need another shot of antibiotics and more steroids. Please don’t fight me, I’m only trying to speed the healing process.’
Elaine began to shudder although the motion made no impact on the metal ankle and wrist cuffs with short chains, binding her to the bed. King took out two syringes. He was respectful when he touched her, would never cause unnecessary pain. She didn’t understand that yet, obviously believing that at any moment she might receive the same treatment as her decoy. It was a shame he’d had to kill the woman in front of Elaine, but it had all been part of the education process. She needed to know that he was capable of being strict. Every pupil had to be shown stick and offered carrot. Knowing that one’s teacher would not tolerate a failure to comply was an excellent motivator.
He stroked Elaine’s arm with his pale, silky hand. She shivered as their flesh made contact but did not tell him to stop. Perhaps, he thought, she was learning already. That was why he’d chosen her. Months of watching, waiting, consuming her days and nights from
