Perfect Death. Helen Fields
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pointless as he exerted himself, but the idea of merely walking towards the dead woman smacked of disrespect. He took the ridge on his hands and knees, the longer, gentler pathway around the edge of the hilltop out of the question. He was bleeding by the time he could see her directly, a tableau on the ground, the good people of Edinburgh waking unaware in the distance, Arthur’s Seat above them. Ignoring his skinned knees and cut hands, Mark flew down the scree slope, calling out to her as he went.
His drone was a grounded, whirring mess of plastic and metal a few metres away. He hadn’t even realised he’d thrown down the remote. The mobile in his pocket was playing a game of cat and mouse with his fingers. Then he was at her side, kneeling on the frozen ground, pressing his fingers against her neck, aware that it wasn’t possible for a body that colour to have a pulse. He ripped off his winter coat in spite of his certain knowledge that life had fled her flesh, in order to cover her nakedness. After that he called the police, giving the best description he could of their location within the mountainous landscape that stood regal over Scotland’s capital.
Close-up, Mark could see she was younger than he’d thought, the freezing night having robbed her of the blush denoting her youth. Like him, he thought, she was in that teetering abyss between teenage and adulthood. A tiny diamond in the side of her nose sparkled with the first rays of morning winter sun, off-setting the blonde highlights artfully added to her copper hair. It was all he could do to stop himself brushing the hair from her face, but then he would see her eyes more clearly and he didn’t want that. Mark stood up, peering over the ridge of the hill to check for approaching vehicles, but there was no clear view of any roads. In summer, free of corpses, it would have been a private and sheltered idyll. A waving patch of red in the scrub grass some twenty metres away caught his eye.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said. It had seemed rude not to say anything, even to a dead body. Without his coat, the cold was already setting in. He forced himself into a jog to keep warm, wondering how long the police would take to arrive, given how hard the spot was to access. His own car was a mile away at the foot of the hills, the steep slopes and rocky tracks inhospitable to anything other than four-wheel drives.
The red object turned out to be a shirt, a warm one made from heavy cotton, perfect for nights by the fire and drinking in pubs. He picked it up, looking back at the girl, assessing the rough size as a match for her, coming up positive. A couple of minutes’ walk further down the hillside he found a bra hanging off the edge of a rock, stark white, the metal fastener icy on his fingers.
Mark heard the helicopter before he saw it, the whap-whap of the rotors scaring wildlife and echoing off the rocks. The police circled, getting a location on the body and communicating the scene to the units whose blue lights became visible for the first time below. Mark carried the clothing he’d found back up the steep bank towards the girl.
A face appeared over the ridge, followed by two more. The one in the lead walked directly to Mark, holding out his hand.
‘Good morning,’ he said, his French accent clipped but still obvious. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Luc Callanach. I’m assuming it was you who called this in?’ Mark nodded. ‘Let’s get clear of the scene. How are you doing?’
‘Don’t really know,’ Mark said. ‘Better than that girl, I guess.’
Better than the girl, indeed, Callanach thought, hoping death had found her accidentally, wondering how much time he would spend staring at her face in photos on the incident room board. Did anyone ever sense it, he wondered, when they awoke on the morning they were destined to die? Did they take one extra glance in the mirror before they dashed from their homes to their jobs or studies, feeling that something in the universe had shifted? In a momentary burst of anger, he hated Scotland’s chill air, its damp and greyness. The girl had perished in the freezing cold, watching her last breaths wisp into the air. It was no way to go. A bitter, stark and lonely passing. He could only hope she had been unaware that it was coming.
Five months into her promotion, Detective Chief Inspector Ava Turner was still suffering from chronic impostor syndrome. It wasn’t having so many people under her command, or the meetings she was expected to attend, nor the new office. It was simply that she no longer felt able to hang around in the incident room, drinking coffee and dissecting the day’s events, having a bit of a laugh when circumstances allowed it. What she liked even less was the pressure of balancing the public well-being with Police Scotland’s magically shrinking budgets. It felt as if the word ‘no’ had become her go-to response recently. Could they afford another expert for a certain case? No. Could the Major Investigation Team have a few more uniformed officers to help with enquiries? No. Could they trial some new software technology to filter CCTV footage? What the hell do you think the answer to that is? It wasn’t that Ava regretted taking the promotion. It was more that every step up the ladder turned her dreams of doing good and solving crimes into something that felt more like a dripping tap of disappointment.
Whilst her professional life was being lived in an increasingly public space, her private life had taken on a positively desolate quality. The women and men from MIT felt the distance between themselves and their Detective Chief Inspector was too great to invite her for their occasional trips to the pub, and Ava would have felt obliged to make an excuse even if an invitation had been extended. Her peers were too busy with children or spouses to want to socialise after work. The youngest of her rank in her mid-thirties and as yet unmarried, Ava had no such distractions. Her best friend was in the throes of a new relationship hotter than a Carolina Reaper chilli pepper and would be unavailable until either she or her latest girlfriend remembered that the rest of the world was still functioning beyond their bedroom door. The price of success, apparently, was endlessly long evenings. Ava stared at her office phone, knowing better than to want it to ring, understanding that her need to be occupied could only come at someone else’s cost.
Detective Sergeant Lively, in his late fifties and unaware of the concept of political correctness, appeared without knocking. Ava considered reminding him that announcing his intention to enter was commonly considered good manners, but was too pleased to have company to issue any sort of reprimand.
‘Did you find DI Callanach?’ Ava asked.
‘I did. We checked the men’s toilets first. He’s usually to be found not far from a mirror. Surprisingly though in this instance he was out doing some actual detective work, ma’am.’
‘Thanks for that, DS Lively. If you’ve finished your jibes you might like to tell me what case your commanding officer is attending,’ Ava said.
Lively grinned. He and Callanach didn’t have the best of relationships to begin with although more recently they’d settled for casual avoidance and occasional insults. ‘A body’s been found in the hills up at Arthur’s Seat. There’ll have to be an investigation but initial reports are that no foul play was involved. The pathologist has been to the scene. There are no obvious injuries or signs of violence. The body’s been taken for autopsy. Only outstanding matter is identification. Once the victim’s name is ascertained and the family has been informed, looks like it’ll be a straight forward case. Nothing to bother you with, I’m sure.’
‘Even so, would you ask DI Callanach to brief me once he gets back? I’d like to keep up to date with it,’ Ava said. She looked at the mug in DS Lively’s hand. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance that’s for me?’ She smiled.
Lively took a long sip. ‘Sorry ma’am, I’d have made you one, only I know that’s frowned upon these days. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you expected the rank and file to make you coffee. Flies in the face of modern policing, that does.’ He left.
Ava leaned back in her chair, cursing the adrenalin her body had generated at the mention of a new investigation. It was a sick and sad indictment on policing that they should become bored rather than delighted when they had nothing to do, but there it was. It was tragic that a soul had perished up on Arthur’s Seat, and Ava was grateful there was no suggestion of criminal