by T F Muir
Jackie obliged, and the presenter’s voice cut in.
‘ . . . over to Edinburgh, where ex-MSP Dougal Davis is set to make an announcement to the press.’
Gilchrist leaned closer as the scene shifted, and the camera zoomed in on two men standing on the steps to some office. He recognised Davis from when he’d been a regular on the news, spouting off political wisdom on matters from the need to remove Trident from the Clyde, to the state of Scotland’s prison service. He thought Davis had aged. A florid face with jowls that seemed to sag over his shirt collar suggested too many business lunches. The man at his side, a manicured solicitor somewhere in his early forties, was speaking into the mic.
After thirty seconds of legalese, Gilchrist said, ‘Fast-forward to Davis talking.’
Jackie obliged, overshot it, and backed up to Davis pressing closer to the mic.
‘I will say this once, and once only.’ His voice boomed. His eyes livened. ‘Whoever you are and wherever you may be, if any harm befalls my granddaughter, Katie . . . ’ He paused for effect, his wild gaze boiling the air, TV camera zooming in until his face filled the screen. ‘ . . . the world will not be big enough for you to hide in. I say to you, return my granddaughter unharmed today, and you will not be prosecuted. You have my word on that.’
The camera zoomed in until only Davis’s eyes and the bridge of his nose filled the screen. He held his hard-as-steel stare at the camera, eyes displaying a mix of defiance and patriarchal outrage. Here was a man who would hound you to the far corners of the earth if you crossed him, and God help you if he ever found you.
Gilchrist pushed himself upright, stunned by what he had just heard. ‘The man’s a lunatic,’ he said. ‘And he’s interfering with my investigation.’
‘Don’t you think it’s interesting that he said return Katie to me?’
‘The mighty Dougal Davis? Bugger that. Get on to the Beeb, instruct them to pull that recording. No ifs, ands or buts. Get it pulled. Then find out if he’s been talking to anyone from the Office. And get me a number for that solicitor of his.’
With Jessie gone, Gilchrist instructed Jackie to find out Davis’s personal and business worth, and likewise with Andrea Davis’s mother. He’d received no ransom demand, but that might yet come. You could never be sure. A call from Chief Superintendent Greaves, with a demand to come to his office, cut his tasks short.
‘Just email me what you find,’ Gilchrist said to Jackie; by the time he left her office, her fingers were back to tapping the keyboard as fast as a woodpecker.
Gilchrist knuckled Greaves’s door, and entered on command.
It never failed to amaze him how free of clutter Greaves’s office appeared. Three grey filing cabinets stood against the back wall. Two chairs faced a wooden desk on which sat a phone and a three-high filing tray, stuffed with papers. A laptop and printer stood on a table to the side, as if never used. It seemed as if all Greaves had to do was walk from the office one day and not return, and no one would know he’d ever existed.
‘Just got a call from the Chief,’ Greaves said. ‘He’s spoken with the elder Mrs Davis and given his personal assurance that we would find her granddaughter for her—’
‘Chief Constable McVicar knows the missing child’s grandmother?’
‘They went to school together.’
‘So he must know Dougal Davis, too, sir.’
Greaves face darkened. ‘I believe they’re no longer on speaking terms.’
Gilchrist almost nodded. The recently promoted Archie McVicar was too long in the tooth to be associated with someone as despised as Dougal Davis. The very instant then-MSP Davis’s abusive history came to light, big Archie would have distanced himself from the man with the expertise of a disappearing illusionist. But it made you wonder how much he knew about Davis’s marital abuse.
‘Anything else I need to know?’ Gilchrist asked.
Greaves gave a tight grin. ‘How do I say this?’ he said, and searched the ceiling for a long moment before levelling his gaze at Gilchrist. ‘The Chief Constable’s made it clear that in the event of even the slightest fuck-up, pardon my French, heads will roll.’
Silent, Gilchrist returned a hard stare of his own.
‘If I were you, I would tread with extreme caution. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You do indeed, sir.’
Greaves gave a dead smile. ‘That’ll be all.’
Gilchrist turned and walked to the door, expecting to hear some parting comment. But the silence that trailed him warned him that the disappearance of Katie Davis might be more than personal to Chief Constable McVicar.
Back in his office, he found a Post-it stuck to his computer monitor with the details of Dougal Davis’s solicitor printed on it. One minute later, he had the connection.
‘Hughes Copestake Solicitors,’ the receptionist said.
Gilchrist gave his name and title, and asked for Simon Copestake.
‘One moment, please.’
Andrea Bocelli’s ‘Canto Della Terra’ was coming to an end for the second time in its perpetual loop when the receptionist came back with, ‘I’ll put you through now.’
The line clicked, followed by a sharp, ‘Simon Copestake.’
Gilchrist went straight in with, ‘You represent the Davis family—’
‘Before I can disclose any details of my firm’s representation, for security reasons you need to give me a number I can call you back on, or else we can meet in person.’
Gilchrist rattled off the phone number of the North Street Office, and said, ‘Get your secretary to check it out and call me back straight away.’
The connection died.
Gilchrist replaced the handset, and noted the time on his computer monitor. It took a further eleven minutes before Copestake called.
‘You must be a busy man,’ Gilchrist said to him.
‘How can I help you, DCI Gilchrist?’
‘Firstly, by not wasting any more of my time. Secondly, by advising your client, Mr Dougal Davis, that his personal appeal on BBC Scotland this morning was unauthorised and contravened the 2005 Scottish Crime Recording Standard—’
‘As Mr Davis’s solicitor—’
‘ . . . and that a police spokesman will be following up later today with a statement to the media confirming that any and all offences in the matter of the missing child, Katarina Davis, will indeed be reported to the Procurator Fiscal, contrary to your client’s misguided statement, and that charges will follow as appropriate—’
‘I have to assure you that—’
‘Thirdly, that if your client’s statement turns out to be detrimental in any way to my investigation, he may find himself charged with obstructing the course of justice—’
‘I really don’t think that—’
‘And fourthly, that I am the Senior Investigating Officer on this case, and any and all contact with the media with respect to this case must and will go through this Office, to be approved and vetted by members of my team, or by me personally, before being released to the media. Do you understand?’
Silence.
‘Mr Copestake, do you understand?’
The line died.
Gilchrist replaced the handset, then logged on to his computer. He noted the postal address for Hughes Copestake Solicitors, then accessed the firm’s contact email, drafted an email for the attention of Mr Simon P. Copestake LLB, confirming the content of their phone conversation, and advising that a formal letter on Fife Constabulary letterhead would follow.
He then printed out a copy and marked up the sections he wanted to include in a formal letter, and walked back to Jackie’s room.
She was concentrating so hard on her monitor that she almost jumped when he handed it to her. ‘Put this into a letter for my signature,’ he said. ‘And have you anything on Andrea Davis’s mother yet?’
She removed a batch of papers from her print-tray, riffled through them, then handed him several sheets. He noted the current address in Perth, inc
luding a Google Maps printout, then went looking for Jessie.
CHAPTER 6
He found her in Interview Room 1, along with DS Ted Baxter.
Bell sat opposite, thumbing the cuticles on his nails, as if trying to work out whether or not to cut them, and by how much. Baxter had never been a smiler – thinning red hair and a high forehead over eyes too close together would put anyone’s optimism to the test – but one look told Gilchrist that the interview was going nowhere.
Gilchrist called Jessie out of the room. ‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘Other than what we saw on his laptop, we’ve nothing. He walked to the Golf Hotel last night, had three pints by himself, then went home alone. He’s signed on the dole, but says he doesn’t need the work or the money. We’re checking it out, and I’ve arranged for door-to-doors. But nothing back from the Computer Crime Unit yet. Unless they can identify that wee girl being . . . the child on his laptop as Katie, then we’ve got sweet eff-all to link him to her disappearance.’
Gilchrist grimaced. The only reason they’d tackled Bell was because he’d moved into the area. Not exactly compelling proof. ‘Charge him with possession of indecent images of children under Section 52(a),’ he said. ‘Then release him on the undertaking to attend court at a date to be later advised. Anything we find in the intervening period, we can add to his charges. I’ll meet you outside.’
‘You sound in a hurry.’
‘We’re driving to Perth.’
In the car park at the back of the Office, he phoned his son, Jack.
After ten rings, Jack answered with a groggy, ‘Yeah?’
Well, it was still this side of midday, which could be considered an early rise for his boy – boy being the operative word. Although twenty-four, Jack coursed through life like a perpetual student. Responsibility could be an alien concept. But the past few months had seen his artist son’s impecunious lifestyle evaporate due to the sale of some of his paintings, with several having sold for five figures – although Jack had failed to say which end of the five-figure table they had gone for.
‘You free during the week?’ Gilchrist asked him.
‘Free?’
‘As in, you don’t have any appointments or meetings?’
Jack coughed a chuckle, and Gilchrist knew – he just knew, from the phlegmy hack that barked down the line – that his son was back on drugs. ‘When was the last time I had a meeting, Andy? I mean . . . ’ Another cough, less raspy, but the seed was planted. ‘Meetings are for people who try to justify their own sense of importance by organising others to come and listen to what they have to say, when all they’re—’
‘So I take it that’s a No.’
‘Capital N, capital O, double underlined. No meetings.’
‘So you’ll be free to have dinner with me this week. How does Friday sound? I’ll book a table for three at the Doll’s House for six o’clock, so we can get the early evening menu. But unless something breaks on this latest case, I can’t stay long—’
‘Table for three? Who’s coming?’
‘You and Maureen.’
A pause, then, ‘So what’s the occasion?’
‘Why does there have to be an occasion? Can’t I take my children out for a meal once in a while? And it’s on me. My treat.’
‘You’re not getting married, are you?’
Gilchrist laughed, although the idea had crossed his mind. Even though Becky was going through with the birth, every molecule of his being warned him that she intended to raise her child on her own. ‘No, I’m not getting married,’ he said. But he was going to be a father, which was why he wanted to meet Jack and Maureen, and tell them face to face. ‘And why does everything with you have to have a reason?’
‘Because it’s been years since we’ve all been out together.’
Gilchrist caught his breath. Hadn’t they had drinks together last month, well . . . two months ago, maybe three? And what about New Year? Or Christmas? As his memory came up blank, he realised Jack was right, that despite repeated promises to spend more time with his children now they were back in St Andrews, he had failed to keep them.
‘Well, isn’t that good enough reason for us to get together?’ he said, but his words sounded false, as if any attempt at being a fatherly figure was doomed from the outset.
‘Just Maureen and me?’
He thought Jack could be hinting at bringing along one of his girlfriends, so he said, ‘Preferably,’ and was saved by Jessie crossing the car park, gathering her scarf to ward off an icy wind that gusted through the pend. ‘Listen, Jack. Got to go. Catch you Friday.’ He killed the call before Jack could object.
The door burst open to, ‘Bloody hell. Where’s spring when you need it?’
He waited until Jessie clicked on her seat belt, then slid into gear and eased away.
‘I tell you, the weather in Scotland would drive you to drink,’ Jessie said. ‘As if we need an excuse. So what’s on in Perth?’
‘Vera Davis. Andrea’s mother.’
‘So she’s still Mrs Davis? Not remarried?’
‘Unless she has, but chosen to keep the name.’
‘After being married to that plonker?’ She shook her head. ‘Some women, I tell you.’
Gilchrist turned left on to North Street, and depressed the accelerator.
‘Here’s what I’ve got,’ Jessie said, opening a folder on her knee, and reading from a printout. ‘No calls were made or received by Andrea Davis’s landline or mobile phone this morning, until her 999 call to FCC at 07.07. So, if she wasn’t getting a good-morning shag, what was she doing for these twenty minutes?’
A fresh thought struck Gilchrist, and he groaned, ‘If her bedside clock was slow by twenty minutes, that would explain it.’
‘Already checked it. It’s bang on.’
‘Not just a pretty face.’ He accelerated past the Old Course Hotel, and left the town limits hitting seventy.
When they neared Perth, Gilchrist tapped the centre console. ‘Directions are in there.’
Jessie unfolded Jackie’s printed map, taking a few minutes to work out where they were. Then she said, ‘Take the next left on to South Street and cross the Tay,’ and called out further directions in good time, guiding him without flaw to a detached stone house off Glasgow Road, large enough to convert to four flats.
A Bentley Convertible with a private registration of two letters and one number told Gilchrist that Mrs Vera Davis had more money than she knew how to spend – one more reason for a kidnapping ransom?
He pulled on to the paved driveway, and parked behind the Bentley. A white-painted garage, which looked as if it had been built on the property as an afterthought, sat off to the side, separate from the house, its door open wide enough to show the polished paintwork of a Range Rover, the image of concours d’élégance spoiled by mud-splattered wheel-flaps.
‘Looks like they’re in,’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist strode to the front door, its porch shining with wood that could have been treated with marine varnish. A lawn with stripes you could set a straightedge against spilled down a shallow incline to a stone wall on which sat a hedge trimmed to perfection.
At the side of a pair of outer doors, a brass doorbell looked polished smooth.
Gilchrist pressed it, and a melodic chime echoed from within.
‘Should we take our shoes off?’ Jessie said to him.
‘Why are you whispering?’
Jessie cleared her throat and nodded to the garden. ‘That looks like a weed.’
‘Thank God for small mercies.’
Beyond the glass-panelled inner door, a silver-haired man approached. He clicked the handle and opened the door.
Both Gilchrist and Jessie held up their warrant cards. ‘We’re looking for Mrs Vera Davis,’ Gilchrist said.
The man nodded, held out his hand to Gilchrist. ‘Sandy Rutherford. How do you do?’ The grip was dry and firm. ‘Is this about Katie?’ he asked.
‘Can we come in
?’
‘Of course, yes, sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. Such a dreadful state of affairs. Don’t know which side is up or down. Been in a fuddle all morning. Vera’s devastated, poor girl. Follow me.’ And with that he turned and strode along the hallway, leaving Jessie and Gilchrist to close the door and follow.
The house smelled of polish and flowers. Vases sparkled. Woodwork glistened. The carpet felt as thick and soft as Egyptian bath towels. They passed a staircase with brass rods that shone like gold. A wooden banister gleamed all the way to the upper level. Through a lounge with furniture that looked as if it had never been sat upon, and into a conservatory at the rear of the structure.
A blonde-haired woman looked up at them as they entered.
At first glance Gilchrist put her in her forties, an older version of Andrea Davis, with sharp but handsome features softened by a lilac cashmere twin-set. Black silk trousers hid long legs tipped with faux leopard-skin slippers. The middle-aged image was spoiled by a creased neck that verged on chicken wattle. Plastic surgery could do only so much.
She did not stand when they entered the conservatory, instead stared at them with a frown, as if irritated by the violation of her private space. So much for grandmaternal grief.
‘Have a seat,’ Rutherford offered.
‘I’m sure they’d rather stand,’ Mrs Davis cut in. ‘They won’t be staying long.’
‘We can arrange for you to attend our North Street Office in St Andrews later today, if that’s what you’d prefer,’ Gilchrist said to her.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ she replied.
‘I hope not,’ Jessie added.
‘And what do you mean by that, young lady?’
‘Detective Sergeant Janes,’ Jessie advised her.
Gilchrist could swear that the air around the two women just bristled with electricity looking for a place to short. But the harsh echo of CS Greaves’s voice reminded him that Chief Constable McVicar and Mrs Davis went back a long way.