They met with local police at the rural satellite station in Braemar and were transported into the mountains in a four-wheel drive. Some off-roading was required to get near the crime scene and the weather was closing in. It took another hour to get there. The temperature had dropped dramatically by the time Callanach saw the lights and tents of the investigative team. The only blessing, courtesy of the location, was that there was no sign of the press.
‘Who found it?’ he asked the driver.
‘A couple of hikers saw the flames from a distant peak but had to walk fifteen minutes before they got mobile reception to phone it in. By the time the fire service had located the bothy it was nearly burned out. Not much left to see, I’m afraid.’ Callanach took out a camera. He always took his own photos at crime scenes. Later, the images would cover his office wall.
The bothy, more refuge than accommodation, was a stone hut left unlocked for hikers caught in storms or mid trek, consisting of a single room, its rear wall set into the rock face. Callanach guessed the original building dated back a couple of hundred years. Now the roof was completely gone, fallen in once the fire had taken hold, making the forensic investigation painstaking. Even the huge stones of the wall base had shifted in the intense heat. Callanach surveyed the horizon. This wasn’t a place you could stumble across. Whoever had brought the woman here had chosen carefully, made sure it was nowhere near regular trekking routes, and had been inside before.
‘Where is the body?’ he asked.
‘They’ve collected the bones already, but their positions are marked inside,’ the driver told him.
‘Just bones? That’s all that remains?’
‘Afraid so. The soft tissue was completely incinerated. We’ve no precise idea how long the fire was burning but it was a matter of hours, for sure.’
They walked to the doorway of the hut, now ablaze with portable floodlights, and watched as two forensics officers trod gingerly through the dusty debris. It was a grim place to die. A hand on Callanach’s shoulder stopped his imagination from filling in the details.
‘DI Callanach? I’m Jonty Spurr, one of Aberdeenshire’s pathologists. Not much left here for you, I’m afraid.’
Callanach shook his head. ‘I was told you had located an item of clothing. How did that survive when everything else is ashes?’
‘It’s not a complete item, just a scrap of a scarf, but the pattern was sufficiently remarkable that one of the constables recognised it as the same as your missing person’s. It got trapped under a rock and the lack of oxygen protected it. It’s already on its way to the lab for DNA testing. Looks as if there’s some blood on it.’
Callanach frowned. ‘That’s all you’ve got? Surely there must be something more.’
‘These are the cards we were dealt, Detective Inspector. Fire is a crime scene’s worst enemy. The accelerant can usually be identified fairly quickly. Unfortunately, it’s a peat floor in this part of the Cairngorms which quite literally added more fuel to the flames. Without it, I’m sure it wouldn’t have burned so long or so hot. The bones are badly damaged.’
‘What about tyre marks? There must have been tracks.’
‘You’d hope so, but the fire trucks were called in first and tore up the ground. They had no idea what was inside. We’ll get the dogs out tomorrow and do a fine-comb check of the area but it’ll do no good tonight, not enough light left.’
Callanach took out his camera again and began collecting images of the grey and black charcoal mess of floor.
‘Did she die here?’
‘I can’t say for sure, and with only bones left I may not be able to pinpoint a cause of death, unless the skull gives me something. Many of the bones are broken, the jaw is in pieces. It seems to me though that this was about disposing of the body. Your murderer didn’t want anything left, was probably hoping she’d be unidentifiable,’ the pathologist remarked, pulling off rubber gloves and stretching his neck.
‘You believe she was killed elsewhere and transported here?’
‘You’re the detective. That part’s up to you. If you’re staying overnight, you can come to the morgue in the morning, see what we’ve got.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Callanach replied, looking around for Tripp. He found him stealing a sip of coffee from Sergeant Lively’s flask. ‘Tripp, interview the hikers, mark their precise position on a map and the time they first saw the fire. I want to hear their call to the emergency services and you’ll need to go to the spot where they were standing to photograph the view they had across to here,’
Sergeant Lively interrupted. ‘Statements will have been taken already so I don’t see what good that’ll do.’
The man’s too-long-in-the-job attitude was tiresome to deal with, but far from unusual. Callanach fought the desire to reprimand him and concentrated instead on the matters at hand.
‘The number of hours this fire was burning will help us determine the time the murderer left the scene. The height, and perhaps even the colour of the flames when the hikers saw them, might help establish that, enabling us to question local people about unusual vehicles within a specific time frame.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Lively mumbled, not bothering to hide his lack of respect.
‘Where are we staying tonight, sir?’ Tripp asked, stamping his feet and shoving his hands ever deeper in his pockets. For all his usual enthusiasm, Tripp looked distinctly uncomfortable in the great outdoors and the freezing cold.
‘Ask the local officers what’s around. There must be accommodation reasonably nearby. Tell Salter she’s to attend the morgue with me in the morning and I want Barnes at the scene until it’s completely documented. Feedback from each one of you, every two hours.’
‘What if that’s not Elaine Buxton? It’ll have been a complete waste of our time.’
Callanach glared at Lively. ‘Whoever’s corpse that is, Sergeant, they were almost certainly murdered and if we can contribute to the investigation then only an idiot would regard it as a waste. So unless you have something professional to contribute, from now on you can keep your personal opinions to yourself.’