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

stop the discussion but Callanach put an arm out to prevent him.

      ‘Let it run, Tripp.’

      ‘But, sir,’ Tripp started before Lively began again.

      ‘Go on then, Salter, tell us what you think of him. Some sort of genius, is he, coming out of Interpol and all? Begs the question why he moved here. Maybe the detective inspector couldn’t cut it in the big league and thought this would be a soft option?’

      Callanach booted the door fully open and slammed his coffee down on the desk.

      ‘You asked to speak with me, Detective Sergeant. Is there an update?’ Callanach stared at Lively, ignoring the rest of the crowd.

      ‘They found blood on the baseball bat and some soft tissue on a tooth nearby. DNA from both is a match for Elaine Buxton. Her case has been officially upgraded from missing person to murder. The pathologist’s report will be through later today. And the Chief wants to talk to you.’

      ‘Set up a board, Salter. Maps, photos, forensics, everything we have,’ Callanach called as he walked towards the door.

      ‘It’s still not our case yet, Inspector,’ Lively shouted.

      ‘It’s about to be my case. If you don’t want it to be yours then there’s a large empty desk in my office where you can leave your letter of resignation,’ Callanach snapped.

      Lively stood up. Callanach knew he should leave it there and let tempers cool, but the conversation he’d overheard in the corridor was still worming its way through his veins.

      ‘You want rid of me, do you, pal? I bet you do, ’cos I heard what you did. Shall I tell you what we do to men like you in Scotland? You fuckin’ froggies might think it’s all right to …’ Lively had stepped forward and punctuated his last few words with a finger poke to Callanach’s shoulder. He didn’t get any further. Callanach shoved him backwards so hard that Lively went flying into the arms of his fellow officers who broke his fall and probably saved him a fractured coccyx. Lively hid his embarrassment with a laugh that made its way through the group as a strained echo.

      ‘You wanna watch that temper of yours, Detective Inspector,’ Lively said, his mouth a hard smirk across his face. ‘It’ll get you in trouble. Of course, you’re used to that …’

      Callanach stepped further towards Lively and his support group, his fists itching to punch the smug grin, biting down so hard he could taste blood in his mouth.

      ‘Sir, DCI Begbie’ll be waiting.’ Tripp’s voice was soft and unsure but it broke the tension in the room. The fight had already gone out of Lively. He’d made his point and would no doubt continue making it to his audience at the pub after their shift ended. Tripp picked up Callanach’s coffee and files, holding the door open for him.

      The length and speed of Callanach’s strides made it necessary for Tripp to all but jog alongside him.

      ‘DS Lively isn’t good with new people. And he was really friendly with the old DI. I shouldn’t pay too much attention,’ Tripp blustered.

      ‘If I need your help or your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Now go back to Salter and get those boards up. I want this investigation in order, no more distractions.’

      His appointment with Detective Chief Inspector Begbie was predictably draining. The Chief was approaching retirement age and of an old school type. Dealing with his superiors had never been an issue for Callanach at Interpol. They’d trusted his judgment, and seen him rise through the ranks. Here, as he’d just been reminded, he still had to prove himself. It wasn’t that he minded being spoken to like a wayward child, more that he was embarrassed at having to defend his position when it was predominantly gut instinct that Buxton had been killed in Edinburgh. It sounded so trite. Finally the DCI had given in on a limited basis. Callanach was allowed to visit the victim’s flat, talk to witnesses and put together a sufficiently compelling picture to show that he should head the investigation. It wasn’t much, Callanach thought grudgingly, but it was a start.

      Elaine Buxton’s apartment was as immaculate as the address was desirable, in the much sought after Albyn Place, overlooking Queen Street Gardens. The decor was tasteful, only the light covering of dust betraying the owner’s disappearance. It was the apartment of a life lived elsewhere, of someone so consummately professional that her standards never slipped. The only room showing signs of life was her study, where two books remained off their shelf on the desk, both doorstop sized and on the subject of contract law. He’d have to review whatever cases she’d been working on when she’d disappeared, but it didn’t seem plausible that so dry an area of law could give birth to such a violent crime.

      He sat in her large leather chair and leaned back. It wasn’t comfortable. The headrest wasn’t worn. This wasn’t a woman who used her study to contemplate life. As Callanach sat forward to open the drawers, the cushion shifted slightly beneath him. Yes, that was it. Her constant position, head bent towards book or brief. Always working, concentrating. The interiors of the drawers were as orderly as the surface. A Montblanc fountain pen was in its case, highlighters remained in their plastic container and painkillers, open and half used, were tucked back into their packet. A black glass paperweight, smooth and tactile, held down a neat pile of bills and correspondence. Callanach reached out to touch it, imagining Elaine doing the same as she read or made telephone calls, feeling the cold stillness beneath his palm. It was plain and simple, and it did its job perfectly. Much like the woman herself. Elaine Buxton liked order and routine. What was missing, Callanach thought, was a sense of self. There was not one photo on display. Likewise any plants. No living thing that might require care or attention. Healthy homemade meals were labelled and stacked in the freezer, each in a handy single-person-sized portion. The whole place seemed devoid of human touch.

      Callanach retraced his steps and went back into her bedroom. The bed was bare, the sheets stripped by the forensics team looking for signs of sexual activity and DNA. None but hers had been found. There was minimal makeup in her drawers, only two bottles of perfume in her en-suite cupboard. He opened her wardrobe and found two rows of shoes, split between work and exercise. It was ironic how someone who valued order and neatness so highly could have ended their life in such chaos and trauma. At what point had she realised something was wrong? As soon as she’d left the gym, perhaps. Had someone been following her or was he waiting for her at home? Buxton was fit and healthy. She’d have put up a fight if she hadn’t been taken completely by surprise. There was no sign of a struggle, though.

      Finally, among neatly folded sweaters, Callanach saw the one thing that had been missing. A ragged teddy bear peeked down from the top shelf, much loved, by the look of it, too precious to put away with the other childish things. Something to look at every morning and evening as she dressed and undressed. A fragment of warmth in an otherwise formal home. He closed the cupboard door against the bear’s forlorn, waiting stare. It wouldn’t help him find her killer and it didn’t progress matters to dwell upon the human loss. Only science, logic and research solved cases. Elaine’s house offered nothing further. Callanach locked up and was glad to leave the silence and stillness behind.

      Calls to her ex-husband Ryan proved unrewarding. He’d been out of contact with her for more than a year. Following the autopsy report, police officers notified Elaine’s mother of her death that afternoon. Callanach was pleased it wasn’t his job on that occasion. No amount of training or experience made delivering death notifications any easier. The press was given the information shortly afterwards, with a renewed request for information. Callanach chased up the friend whose birthday celebration Elaine had attended at the gym and found she’d been more of an acquaintance in reality. They’d shared a Pilates class, worked out together each Wednesday and Friday but didn’t socialise anywhere else. Elaine hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend, she’d told Callanach, not that they chatted about that sort of thing. It was in keeping with the way she lived. Work colleagues all said the same. So, surely, Callanach mused, she’d have noticed someone taking an interest in her, watching her, following her. She was a lawyer. She’d have known there were court orders available to protect her. Was her murderer so restrained that he’d never once revealed himself?

      Elaine’s