apply for a police position as a passport holder.
Tripp knocked on his door, a young woman behind him.
‘Ready for us, sir?’ Tripp asked.
Callanach beckoned them in. ‘And you are?’
‘Detective Constable Salter. Nice to meet you, sir,’ she said, looking down at her shoes part way through the introduction. Her awkwardness was irritating in its predictability. Callanach suffered from the least likely affliction of being good looking to the point of distraction, with a face that could – and had – stopped traffic. Few people understood that it was more burden than blessing these days.
‘Salter, take me through procedures from initial crime report, ordering forensics and into trial preparation. Tripp, I want comprehensive notes on forms, filing, the works. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir, not a problem.’ Tripp seemed delighted to be of use. All Salter managed was a downcast mumble which Callanach took as agreement.
‘Would you give us the room please, constables?’ a voice cut in behind them. Standing in the doorway was a female officer in dress uniform. Salter and Tripp scattered as she entered and kicked the door shut behind her.
‘I’m DI Turner, Ava as we’re the same rank.’ She gave a wide grin, suffering none of Salter’s inability to look him in the eyes. Callanach’s fellow detective inspector was around five foot five and slim. Her chestnut, shoulder-length hair was curly although an attempt had been made to restrain it in a ponytail. She wasn’t beautiful, not in modern advertising terms, but handsome would have been an insult. Her features were fine, grey eyes widely spaced.
‘Callanach,’ he responded. ‘By the look on your face, I’d say you’ve been party to something I haven’t. Did you want to share it or am I supposed to guess?’
Ava Turner ignored the dismissive tone and answered unabashed. ‘Well, I did hear one of the sergeants asking why they’d been sent an underwear model instead of a proper policeman.’
‘I get the picture,’ he said.
‘I’m guessing you’re used to it. If it helps, the fact that you’re French will be more acceptable to the majority of them than I am.’
‘English?’ he asked, as he shifted the position of a filing cabinet.
‘Pure Scottish, but my parents sent me to an English boarding school from the age of seven, hence the accent. That makes me about as welcome as the plague. Don’t worry about it. If they actually liked you at this stage, you’d be doomed to fail. Presumably you’ve arrived with a suitably thick skin. Give me a shout if you have any problems, you’ll find my numbers on the contact sheet in your desk. I’d better go and change. I’m just back from a community awards ceremony and I can’t stand being in uniform. Your team are a good bunch, just don’t take too much shit from them.’
‘I have no intention of taking any shit from anyone,’ he replied, picking up one of the phones and checking for a dial tone. When he looked up again, he was speaking to an empty space and an open doorway. Callanach dropped into the chair behind his desk. He took out his mobile, programmed in a few of the more important numbers from the contact sheet and was just considering emptying the first of his boxes when Tripp bundled in.
‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but we’ve just had a call from an officer at Braemar. They’ve found a body and are asking to speak with someone about it.’
‘And Braemar is in which area of the city?’
‘It’s not in the city, it’s in the Cairngorm Mountains, sir.’
‘For God’s sake, Tripp, stop saying sir at the end of every sentence and explain to me how that could possibly be an Edinburgh case.’
‘They suspect it’s the body of a woman reported missing from the city a couple of weeks ago, a lawyer called Elaine Buxton. They’ve found a scrap of clothing that matches a scarf she was wearing when last seen.’
‘That’s all? No other link?’
‘Everything else has been burned, sir, I mean, sorry. Braemar thought we might want to be involved early on.’
‘All right, Constable. Pull together everything there is on Elaine Buxton then get Braemar on the phone. I want detailed information on my desk in fifteen minutes. If that is Edinburgh’s missing person then we’re already running two weeks behind her killer.’
Callanach put down the phone feeling weary and decided it was down to the effort of decoding the Scottish accent. He barely remembered his father and, although his mother had insisted he learn to speak English as well as her mother-tongue French, he hadn’t been prepared for full immersion. The sergeant from Braemar managed to mix the singsong cadence with a regular dose of colloquialisms. Callanach suspected it might have been largely for his benefit and, a couple of sentences in, had stopped bothering to ask what any of it meant. He made an idle note of the word ‘haver’. Tripp would have to double as interpreter. In the meantime, Callanach had agreed to consult on a case that should technically speaking have been out of his jurisdiction. That wouldn’t endear him to anyone, additional money and manpower being expended where it could be avoided, but it certainly sounded as if the body in the mountains was Edinburgh’s missing woman.
He saw Salter going past his office and stuck his head out of the door.
‘Which of the current cases is nearest to resolution?’ he shouted after her.
‘Brownlow murder, sir. Culprit’s been apprehended, we’re just prepping the files for the Procurator Fiscal. Preliminary court hearing is next week.’
‘Right. I want you, Tripp and two others from the Brownlow team in the briefing room in ten minutes. Organise it. And how far away are the Cairngorms?’ The look Salter gave him was all the response he needed. An overnight bag was required.
The briefing was tense. The squad he’d shifted from the Brownlow case obviously wasn’t thrilled at the two-hour drive they had coming, nor starting a new batch of paperwork while they were still finishing another. Detective Constables Tripp, Barnes and Salter were led by Detective Sergeant Lively. The detective sergeant was studying him as if he’d just crawled out of a cesspit. Callanach ignored him and gave the fastest explanation he could for what they were doing, then handed over to the officer sent to update them on the missing person investigation.
‘Elaine Margaret Buxton, thirty-nine years of age, divorced, no children, worked as a commercial lawyer at one of the biggest law firms in the city. She went missing sixteen days ago. The last confirmed sighting was on a Friday night as she left the gym to return home. Her mother reported her missing the following evening after she’d failed to turn up for lunch and couldn’t be raised on either her home phone or mobile. Her car was in her garage, no clothes or cases gone, passport still there. It was out of character for her not to have checked her emails on the Saturday morning. Her keys were found in a communal hallway. She’s described as incredibly organised, borderline workaholic, hadn’t taken so much as a day sick in the previous two years.’
‘Any boyfriend or obvious suspects?’ DC Barnes asked.
‘The ex-husband Ryan Buxton is working abroad with a full alibi. There’s no known boyfriend. Everyone we’ve spoken to has confirmed that she was completely obsessed with the law. She was either at the office, at home or an exercise class. We had no leads, until this.’
‘Why are the Braemar police so convinced this is your missing person?’ asked Callanach.
‘The last person to see Miss Buxton had a photo of her on their mobile. She’d stopped by the gym bar to have a drink at a friend’s birthday celebration. We circulated the photo and listed the clothes in detail. That’s how they came up with the match.’
‘Has anyone contacted her family yet?’ Tripp asked.