Perfect Death: The gripping new crime book you won’t be able to put down!. Helen Fields
nothing,’ Ailsa replied, typing as she spoke. ‘But for argument’s sake, say I was experiencing moderate to severe stage hypothermia, enough to make me strip off my clothing and throw it down the hillside. What sort of state am I in?’
‘Agitated. Probably distressed. Frantic even,’ Callanach guessed.
‘Exactly,’ Ailsa replied, pointing to another photo on the screen. Lily Eustis lay on the ground as Callanach had first seen her, on her back, fully naked, shades of blue already darkening to black, arms out at her sides, as if she had just fallen asleep.
‘What’s your point, Ailsa?’ Ava asked.
‘She doesn’t look distressed or frantic here, does she?’ Ailsa asked. ‘She looks as if she’d decided she was a wee bit tired and wanted to take a nap. Her body isn’t folded up, twisted, scrabbling. Certainly there are no signs of terminal burrowing syndrome that can occur near death, during which she would have been curling up, seeking shelter, making herself as small as possible. There’s nothing unexpected beneath her fingernails. No dirt, no skin. There is only a single mark on her skin, about two centimetres long over her abdomen, which is the imprint of a zip.’
Callanach looked down at his own notes. ‘The log shows she was wearing zip-fastening jeans. We have them in the evidence vault.’
‘Exactly. It’s as if she was struggling with the zipper for a long time, perhaps in her confusion becoming clumsy and pressing the metal into her skin as she tried to get the jeans off. Other than that she’s exceptionally clean, as if she never experienced any trauma through the whole process of losing heat and passing away.’
‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing,’ Ava snapped. ‘Are we supposed to have wanted her to be traumatised?’
‘Of course we are,’ Ailsa said, ignoring Ava’s irritated tone. ‘The human instinct is to fight death, to run from danger. They also call terminal burrowing from hypothermia hide-or-die syndrome. Her body position, the very state of her, makes no sense to me.’ Ava sighed heavily. ‘Lily’s toxicology screen will go off tomorrow at the same time as George Begbie’s specimens. Before then I wouldn’t like to speculate.’
‘If you’re convinced Lily died of hypothermia, why run a tox screen?’ Callanach asked.
‘There was a slight odour to her stomach contents. Nothing I can be certain about, and it’s hard to tell with the variety of food and drink available, but I thought I smelled something odd on her skin too. It was fleeting. Gone as soon as she was out of the body bag. As I said, I won’t speculate now.’
‘All right,’ Callanach said. ‘Tox screen involving what?’
‘Hair, liver, bile, vitreous humour and the gastric contents, obviously. Blood and urine as standard. Some skeletal samples for good measure,’ Ailsa said. ‘That’s as far as I can take Lily’s case at the moment. Questions?’
They both shook their heads, Ava putting her coat on before Ailsa had even switched off her screen. Callanach said goodbye as Ava made her way into the corridor.
‘Ava,’ he called, catching up with her as she hustled out of the exit into the carpark. ‘You were a bit tough on Ailsa back there.’
‘I was assessing the cases,’ she said.
‘I know that, but Ailsa worked with the Chief longer than almost anyone in MIT. If she thought there was reason for suspicion, she’d be pursuing it.’
‘You finished?’ Ava asked. Callanach didn’t bother to respond. ‘Good. Now I’ve got work to do and you’ve had a difficult day. I suggest you go home. Follow up with Lily Eustis’ parents tomorrow morning. Leave an update on my desk.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Callanach replied. This time Ava didn’t bother to correct him as she climbed into her car and sped away.
Leaning against a pile of props backstage, he checked out the group of wannabes preening, flexing their necks and warming up their voices. It was pitiful really. So many young men and women clamouring to build a career in pretence. Acting was simply professional lying. He allowed himself a smile then checked a non-existent text on his phone to avoid conversation. The truth was that he would probably have been ideally suited for the part. Play-acting was, after all, a skill he had honed to perfection. He glanced over at Sean O’Cahill – youthful, brimming with enthusiasm, shimmering with nerves – who was next in line. Forcing himself to concentrate, he did what he was there to do. Sean’s height he estimated at 5’9”, and the would-be actor was slim, probably weighing no more than nine and a half stone. Those measurements were well within what he could deal with.
Taking lives was more complicated than people imagined. You didn’t just blunder in unprepared. He had to know he was capable of carrying Sean. A daily work out with dumbbells ensured that would be possible, and the exercise had the added effect of keeping his body toned and desirable. He wasn’t vain, but there was no point in false modesty. Good looks and taut muscles made life easier. Then there was fight or flight. Life was unpredictable. Better to imagine potential conflicts and prepare for them. He liked a fight though. Dominance. Exertion. But he knew when to run. The first lessons of his childhood – when to run, when to hide, when to remain silent. Staying in shape reduced the chances of capture.
Watching Sean warm up, he saw a man who prided himself on being jovial. There was a smile for everyone around him, one of those ‘what a wonderful world’ smiles too, nothing fake about it. Sean wanted to like and to be liked. That would make approaching him much easier. Manipulating him would be almost no challenge at all. A shame, really. Sean’s height and weight were the key to knowing how much sedative he would need for incapacitation. He didn’t want to kill him too quickly. That would give no satisfaction at all. Grief was best enjoyed slowly, a drip-drip-drip of emotion, and he wanted to be there to lick every tear from the face of Sean’s best beloved. There was more to do yet. Trust to be built. A fire to kindle. That made him think of Lily. He shut his eyes, willing himself not to be distracted by the memory. He studied Sean instead. There was something vital about him. Utterly intoxicating. His hands itched to hold him.
‘Sean O’Cahill?’ a young man called. Sean stepped away from the mirror and waved his hand in the air. ‘You’re up. Good to go?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ Sean blustered, trying to enjoy the moment. ‘No audition was ever a waste.’ That was his agent’s mantra. It was all one continuous learning curve. Sometimes there would be failures, less often successes, but every time you stepped onto a stage was a step closer to where you wanted to end up. Sean wasn’t convinced that was right. He’d had plenty of days when stepping onto a stage was simply a short cut to rejection. Being an actor was hard. Not hard like being a surgeon or a soldier, he knew that, but the constant disappointments were an ointment that thinned the skin, and his felt worn through.
‘Sean, right?’ a woman called from a few rows back in the small theatre. ‘Tell us a bit about yourself.’
‘Sure, well I’m Northern Irish. I moved from Belfast to Edinburgh quite recently.’ He remembered to smile.
‘Why Edinburgh?’ the woman – he assumed she was the theatre company director – interrupted.
‘Obviously because I couldn’t afford the air fare to Los Angeles,’ Sean said. There was an immediate laugh from the group of note-takers surrounding the woman in charge, echoed from the wings where a line of other hopefuls waited to audition. ‘And because I was at The Fringe last year. I saw the production your theatre company put on and decided this was the place I wanted to be. Also tartan really suits me and in Scotland I can get away with wearing what feels like a skirt when I go shopping.’ Another laugh, bigger this time, more ready to engage with his style of humour. He began to relax.
‘How old are you, Sean?’
‘You