Perfect Remains: A gripping thriller that will leave you breathless. Helen Fields

better,’ King congratulated her.

      ‘What are you going to do to me?’ Jayne asked. It was said remarkably plainly in the circumstances, he thought admiringly.

      ‘I’m an educated man, Jayne, not an animal. I am forging a better life for myself and for you.’ He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Though to be honest, I’m not sure how long it’ll be before Elaine has outstayed her welcome. She’s not working out the way I’d hoped.’

      ‘Why are you doing this?’ Jayne asked. King stared into her eyes, wondering what she was thinking. Was she hopeful of release, curious about him, too scared to understand her position yet? She seemed full of exciting possibilities. A paragon of potential. She reminded him vaguely of his sister. Not that Eleanor had lived to see adulthood, but if she had, she might have been a lot like the reverend. Their parents had always said Ellie was destined to be a leader with her extraordinary academic ability, not to mention her flair for music. She had been almost perfect. Sometimes annoyingly so.

      ‘I’m doing it for us. For a future where we can learn together, appreciate one another, stretch our minds in glorious ways.’

      ‘What if I don’t want to?’ Jayne asked. King thought about it. She wasn’t being defiant, he decided, or difficult. It was a genuine question and it deserved a genuine answer.

      ‘You will want to,’ he said. ‘Eventually. I’m here to guide you.’

      ‘This is wrong,’ she said. ‘Please, think about what you’re doing.’

      ‘Jayne, don’t,’ he counselled her. ‘Elaine tried, God knows she begged for days, and it won’t work. There’s a plan, you see. Sometimes a human has to aspire to a life greater than the one they’re born to. I am more than the sum of my parts, as are you. The physical being is unimportant. Elaine’s finger will heal, pain is transient. It’s a conduit for progression, enlightenment.’

      ‘I see,’ Jayne said simply. He waited for more, but that was it. He’d won. For today he should be content with that much.

      He was exhausted, drained by disciplining Elaine and all the cleaning. Locking the door on his way out, he heard a whisper, considered going back in, but decided not to. They would need time to get to know one another. It wasn’t until he reached the bottom of the stairs that his tired brain finally unscrambled the words he’d heard.

      ‘We’re going to die here,’ Jayne had said, in that plain way of hers.

      Reginald King thought that smoked salmon and mushroom risotto would make an excellent choice for supper.

       Chapter Thirteen

      DC Salter fitted neatly into the extra-large wheelie case, once Tripp had secured her arms with gaffer tape. There was no hard evidence that Reverend Magee had been inside the case or that the man pulling it was her abductor, but there it was, in glorious high definition, inside Callanach’s head and he just knew that was how it had played out. Isabel Yale’s shoe comment fit exactly with what Ava had intuited about the abductor’s obsessiveness. What sort of person made sure their shoes were gleaming before a kidnapping?

      Lively knocked the door once and walked in. ‘We’ve finished our enquiries at St Mary’s. Only thing that came out of it was a group opposed to women vicars. Seems Jayne Magee had received some nasty letters, a bit of abuse, threats. She didn’t report it to the police but we found the notes in her desk. They’re being examined.’

      ‘It doesn’t fit with Elaine Buxton’s killing,’ Callanach noted. ‘Collate all the outstanding missing persons reports for women in this age bracket from the last twelve months. And I want the forensic report on the mobile phone. It should have been on my desk yesterday. Also, call the police at Braemar. Ask them to go back up to the bothy and look for parallel marks leading to the hut that could have been made by a wheelie case. It’s a long shot but still worth investigating.’

      Callanach left Tripp cutting Salter free of the gaffer tape, and made his way down the corridor to the kitchenette. The coffee machine was broken, not that he was mourning its loss. When he turned around, Ava was behind him brandishing an empty cup.

      ‘I’ll wash, you dry,’ she ordered, grabbing a second dirty mug off the draining board and running hot water into the sink.

      A uniformed officer appeared just as the kettle boiled, puffed out from the short flight of stairs from the ground floor, and thrust a large cardboard box onto the table in the corner before retreating without a word.

      ‘Biddlecombe,’ Ava called after her. ‘What is that?’

      ‘Delivery for Major Investigations, ma’am. No name on it. From some posh florist. Must be from a satisfied customer.’

      ‘Our customers are either dead or psychopathic, depending on your viewpoint, Biddlecombe. They don’t send flowers,’ Ava yelled, picking up the box and eyeing it suspiciously. ‘Should I open it or throw it out of the window?’ she grinned at Callanach.

      ‘Is it ticking?’ he asked. Ava held it to her ear dramatically and shook her head. ‘Phone down to the front desk and tell Biddlecombe to come back up here and open it for you. She needs the exercise if nothing else.’ Ava was already ripping open the parcel. ‘Nothing like a well-adhered-to security policy,’ he noted, peering over Ava’s shoulder into the box.

      Inside was a bouquet of stunning long-stemmed white roses. He reached across and pulled a card from a tiny golden envelope. ‘“Detective Inspector, The thorn makes the bloom all the more precious. Yours.”’

      ‘Is that it?’ Ava asked.

      Callanach checked the back of the card, the envelope and the box again.

      ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Have you arrested anyone for crimes involving dreadful poetry or being overwhelmingly sickly recently? Because it seems you’ve caught someone’s eye.’

      ‘How do you know they’re not for you?’ she asked. ‘My admirers usually just ask for a photo of me in uniform to put up in their prison cell, in lieu of a dartboard, I guess.’

      ‘Can’t be for me. Don’t Celtic women just hit men over the head with a club and haul them back to their cave?’ Callanach asked.

      ‘Oh aye,’ Ava mocked. ‘And then only if the man’ll make good eating. Otherwise we dinnae bother.’ She grabbed the flowers, thrust them into an empty desk bin that she filled with water, and left them on the table. ‘Well, if they’re for me, someone doesn’t know I get hay fever, so no points for research.’

      ‘Shouldn’t you report the delivery, at least?’ Callanach asked. ‘These things can get out of hand …’

      ‘Because I don’t have anything better to do with my time, and a bunch of flowers is a priority right now?’ She laughed. ‘I’m opposed to undertaking any activity that doesn’t help clear the mountain of paperwork from my desk, DI Callanach.’

      ‘It’s your funeral,’ he replied. ‘Any joy with your babies?’

      Ava flipped straight back into work mode. ‘No. They’re unrelated except for a blanket each was wrapped in. Just white towelling, but identical. There must be two very distressed or confused women out there. What about you?’

      ‘Some movement, only a little, but it’s progress.’

      ‘Forensics on Jayne Magee’s mobile.’ Tripp thrust the paper through the doorway. ‘Lab said sorry they’re late, they were working on DI Turner’s baby case.’

      Callanach flicked through the paperwork. ‘Et voilà,’ he muttered, pouring the remaining coffee into the sink and running his finger along a couple of sentences that were heavy on the scientific language. He read the paragraph twice before calling Tripp back. ‘The laboratory confirms the presence of chloroform on Jayne Magee’s