Perfect Remains. Helen Fields
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hitting her left foot hard. ‘Sohlenstreich, say it with me.’ There were more blows, he’d lost count by then but the miracle had happened. She was chanting the word with him, over and over, with each blow to her feet. There was no more crying. Elaine had learned. He felt a burst of joy, close to exultation. The knowledge that he had triumphed, that he’d been right about this all along, was as powerful as he could ever have imagined. He felt a thrumming inside. The first step was complete. He had changed her, brought her closer to perfection, brought her closer to him.
He threw the ruler down and went to her side. ‘Good girl,’ he crooned into her ear, stroking back hair from the mess of tears and sweat that covered her forehead. ‘You’re my sweet girl, aren’t you? That wasn’t so hard. Obedience will be rewarded but you must behave yourself. Understand that I only want what’s best. Let’s move on.’ He decided on leniency, released the cuffs around her ankles and tenderly laid her legs back together on the bed. She drew them into her chest and bit her bottom lip. ‘Look at you, trying so hard to be quiet for me. I’ll put some painkillers into your next drink. They’ll help you sleep.’ He loosened the chains on her arms enough that she could relax.
‘There’s one more thing I want to show you. I think you’ll be pleased.’
Picking up his laptop, he pulled a chair next to her head and sat down so they could see the screen together. He opened a file and brought up a video clip. There was some crackle at the beginning, the picture dark and grainy, but soon the ambient hum died down to reveal a large video screen, a mass of heads marking the bottom of the view.
‘What?’ she whispered. King smiled. The pain in her feet was forgotten already. This would be priceless.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’
A church organ struck up the tune of ‘Abide With Me’ and the screen came to life. King watched Elaine’s face as her mother took a seat at the front, dark glasses shielding her, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. The camera panned slowly round, showing rows of people sombrely dressed, most with their heads bowed, no one talking. Elaine choked a sob back in her throat.
‘I don’t understand,’ she stuttered.
‘Let’s not play dumb,’ King replied, taking her left hand in his and rubbing its back with his thumb. ‘This is your memorial service. The police won’t release your body yet, of course. Who knows how long they’ll hang on to that bag of bones? But this is your grand exit. Your fifteen minutes of fame.’
‘I don’t want to watch any more,’ she said, looking away.
‘But I require you to. I really must insist.’
She didn’t look away again. Elaine Buxton was a fast learner. That was why he’d chosen her.
Her family sat in the front pews. King knew each by name and recited details about them so Elaine could appreciate the depth of his research into her life. It was a tremendous compliment that he’d dedicated so much of his precious time to her. Her cousin, Maureen, did a reading followed by another hymn. After that came a eulogy, delivered beautifully by a man King didn’t know. The man spoke about her when she was younger, a person King didn’t recognise from the description, a tale of a disastrous skiing trip, a girl who worked hard but played harder, private jokes that the world would otherwise never have been party to. Now, it seemed, her life was public property. It had irritated him as he’d filmed. Too many had gathered and the church was full, necessitating the outside screen. The police had been there in droves.
‘A bit flowery, I thought,’ King commented at the end.
‘Michael,’ Elaine said, as if calling from sleep. King pinched her hand roughly.
‘Who was he?’
‘My friend from law school,’ Elaine answered. ‘We lost touch. He moved to New York.’ He glared as tears filled her eyes. She really was insufferable.
‘You should be grateful. How many people get to see and hear the things I brought you? You were respected, loved, admired and you got to hear it all without dying. I liberated you!’
‘Let me go,’ Elaine begged in a hushed voice. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I’ll pretend I have concussion. I don’t think you’re a bad person, just, well, confused.’
King was breathing hard. He could feel hot colour rising in his cheeks. The sound of his own grinding teeth echoed within his skull, and then he could smell her. Unwashed, festering on that mattress. She’d been there twenty days already, and hadn’t even bothered requesting use of the bathing facilities. He’d provided a shower stall in the corner of the room for exactly that purpose, and would happily have supervised had she been suitably placid. All she had to do was ask. Putrid cunt. She’d tricked him, hadn’t learned a thing. He hated being duped. His judgment had been flawed. Badly flawed. Perhaps she wasn’t the right one, after all.
King brought a hand up from beneath the laptop brutal and fast, smashing plastic and metal into Elaine’s face as she reeled back in horror.
‘Confused, you dumb whore? I’m not the one who’s confused. You’re dead! Don’t you get it? Everyone thinks you’re gone. They have your blood, your clothes, a body and your teeth. They have consigned you to history. Do you know what that means, miss smarter-than-me fucking lawyer?’ He grabbed the neck of her t-shirt and pushed his face into hers. ‘It means you’re mine. You belong to me and that’s the way it’s going to be. So you’ll do what you’re told, when you’re told and learn to like it. No one’s coming to save you. Their grief will fade and they’ll forget. Nobody’s searching for you any more.’ He shoved her onto the pillow, straightening his own clothes, knowing he had to calm down.
‘You’re right,’ she hissed from the bed. ‘They’re not looking for me. But they are looking for you. You’ll never find a moment’s peace, never stop looking over your shoulder. One day they’ll be waiting at your door when you get home and that’ll be …’
He smashed his arm across her mouth, whipping her head round and sending blood flying from her mouth. He felt soothed immediately. It was what she’d wanted. Oblivion. But he wouldn’t be forced into killing her. He still had important plans. Only perhaps he’d have to improvise a little. King left her twisted body as it was and exited. She could wake up and consider her fate alone.
The lack of progress was driving Callanach crazy. He’d attended Elaine Buxton’s memorial service and watched the vast crowd outside weeping for a woman most of them didn’t know personally but who’d been stolen from their city. He knew what the collective was thinking. That it could have been them. That it could have been their wife, sister, daughter or mother. Such crimes left scars on the landscape of a community as vivid as the scorched earth that was once a mountain bothy. The crowd had come not only to mourn, but to jointly experience that unspoken truth. Thank God it was not me. And there was nothing wrong with that, Callanach thought, the clinging on to life. That was what policing was about, after all. Protecting, valuing, cushioning a too short, too fragile existence.
In the fortnight since then, the hours had started to drag. His phone rang less and less often. Public appeals for information had proved fruitless. The police had trawled Elaine’s computer files, diary, emails, current and past cases. Nothing had raised a red flag. She’d avoided social media, tended to call friends rather than texting, had never gone near an internet dating site. The usual lines of enquiry were dead-ending. Callanach had even found the time not only to tip the contents of his boxes into drawers, but to organise them into some semblance of order.
‘Is it a bad time?’ Ava Turner asked, putting her head round his office door.
‘I’m not exactly busy, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ he replied. He’d seen her a handful of times in the last couple of weeks, but never in circumstances when he could apologise for his behaviour. Now too much time had passed and he felt ridiculous