Blood Torment

by T F Muir

  ‘Why ask me at all, then?’

  ‘To make sure you’re telling the truth.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, of course I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘You didn’t tell the truth this morning when we spoke,’ Jessie snapped at her.

  A couple of beats, then Novo said, ‘Tenth of March.’

  Gilchrist glanced at Jessie. ‘Why do you remember that date?’

  ‘It’s Katarina’s birthday.’

  He frowned at the phone, troubled by something that eluded him, like the remnants of a fading dream. Then he thought he had it. Why would Andrea phone to tell Novo that it was her daughter’s birthday? It would surely be the other way round. Or would Novo press on with a lie. ‘Did she phone you, or did you phone her?’

  A pause, then, ‘I phoned her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The same reason I phoned at Christmas, and New Year.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘If you can’t answer that for yourself, then I don’t hold any hope for you.’

  Jessie glared at the phone. ‘Are you for real?’

  ‘If you have no more questions,’ Novo said, ‘then I’ll—’

  ‘Just one.’ Gilchrist listened to silence stifle the line. ‘When did you last see Andrea in person?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘One month ago? Longer? A year? Two years? More?’

  ‘I really can’t remember.’

  ‘Roughly.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask Andrea? I’m sure she’ll have better recall.’

  ‘Why say that?’

  ‘I’m being sarcastic, for God’s sake. Don’t you people have any sense of humour?’

  ‘Only when it’s funny,’ Jessie said.

  ‘If you’ve no more questions, I really must get on.’

  ‘We may want to speak to you again,’ Jessie said.

  ‘Take a note of this number,’ Novo said, and rattled it off, too fast for either Gilchrist or Jessie to write it down. ‘That’s my solicitor, Ellie Stevenson. We won’t be talking again unless she’s present.’

  The connection died.

  Gilchrist turned to Jessie. ‘Can you remember your solicitor’s number?’

  ‘You’re joking. Can you?’

  ‘That’s my point. Who can?’

  He slowed down as he eased past the cathedral ruins into North Street, his mind stirring alive with possibilities. Katie Davis had been abducted, and his investigation was being carried out without a body, without which there was no point in taking samples for DNA, as they would prove nothing. Or would they?

  But Katarina. That’s what was troubling him.

  Why would Novo call her niece by her christened name?

  Why not Katie?

  It was after 9 p.m. when Gilchrist decided to call it a day.

  He and Jessie had completed their reports for McVicar, sent them off, but had heard nothing back. He had also heard nothing more on his son, Jack, which he supposed was about the only good news he’d had by close of play.

  Jessie had finally got hold of Danny, the barman in the Golf Hotel, but he was unable to ID the three youths who had assaulted Gilchrist the previous night. And DS Curry had also confirmed that the fields adjacent to Grange Mansion were rented out to the McDonalds, who owned a farm on the other side of Crail, all for less than two thousand pounds a year.

  ‘That’s not a lot of money,’ Jessie observed.

  ‘That’s because she’s a millionairess,’ Curry said, ‘who doesn’t need the dosh.’

  Colin called to confirm that they’d not recovered any diamond studs or earrings from Bell’s body, which had probably been stolen by the killer, or killers.

  The day’s debriefing uncovered nothing, either. Katie Davis was no closer to being found than on the morning she’d gone missing, a fact that Gilchrist had difficulty presenting with any kind of positive spin to the baying media circus. An imaginary shot of Dougal Davis with his hand to his head, talking to McVicar, burned itself into his memory banks with the indelibility of a white-hot branding iron.

  With Grange Mansion being on the outskirts of St Andrews, CCTV footage turned up nothing in close proximity around the time of Andrea’s 999 call. He was as unsuccessful with his request for footage in the backstreets of Crail around the time of Bell’s murder. They did catch a sighting of three youths scurrying down Tolbooth Wynd, and of Gilchrist following shortly thereafter, but the youths never reappeared on any other CCTV footage around town. They could have split up as a group, then made their way home in separate cars. They could have gone anywhere. By the end of the evening, Gilchrist felt as if they probably had.

  ‘I’m having a pint,’ he said to Jessie. ‘Thirsty?’

  ‘I’m going home before Robert forgets he’s got a mum.’

  ‘Call me if anything comes up,’ he said, then lifted a file of printouts from Jackie’s desk and slipped it under his arm.

  He entered The Central Bar from College Street. It seemed quiet for a Tuesday night. Not that he was in most Tuesday nights, just that there seemed to be more seats available than normal. At the bar, he asked for a Claverhouse and ordered a chicken burger with chips. Then he found a seat in a booth in the corner while he waited for his food.

  He opened the file and started to read. But his mobile beeped, and he dug it from his pocket, half hoping, half dreading it would be Jack. But it was a text from Dick, confirming he would drop off Tosh’s CD tomorrow morning.

  On impulse, he dialled Cooper’s number, and was about to hang up before being dumped into voicemail, when she answered the call.

  ‘Hello.’

  Not a question. But he sensed sadness in her voice. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘How do you define all right?’

  He pushed himself to his feet, now wishing he’d waited until he returned home before calling. He swerved her question with, ‘Can I help in any way?’

  ‘No.’

  He pushed through the swing doors into the evening din of Market Street, strode off the pavement on to the cobbled street. Overhead, night was trying to cover the sky with an indigo cloak. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Why?’

  With Cooper, it had never been straightforward. For one crazy moment he thought of wishing her the best and just hanging up. But doing so could hurt her, and hurting Cooper had never been on his agenda. Having decided to go through with her pregnancy, only to miscarry three months in, was pain enough for any woman.

  And she didn’t need him to add to her misery.

  So he said, ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m not up for this, Andy.’

  He could tell from her tone that she was about to hang up, when he caught the deep echo of a man’s voice in the background. His first thought was to ask who she was with, and his second that she could be in a public area, and not at home with a man-friend. As he forced these thoughts away, he said, ‘Would you like me to call back?’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  He had witnessed Cooper’s sub-zero coldness before, seen it directed at her yet-to-be-ex-husband, Max, but had never felt the full effect of its ice-like chill until that moment. ‘The point is that I care for you, Becky, and I don’t want to lose you.’ The words were out before he could stop them. The ensuing silence had him pressing his phone to his ear in an effort to catch her response.

  But he needn’t have bothered.

  The line died with the hard click of a lost connection.

  He faced The Central. Through the window he watched a tray of food being delivered to his table in the corner, and realised with a spurt of annoyance that he’d left an open police file on the table.

  Back inside, he returned to his seat, relieved to see his file lying untouched. A couple of students at the adjacent table were too wrapped up in their mobiles to notice each other, let alone someone else’s belongings. He stared at the file, tried to refocus his thoughts. He had a case to solve. A child had been abducted, and was out the
re in the open world. Was she alive or dead? But try as he might, he could not shift the feeling that they would never find Katie, that she was already dead.

  He had just taken a bite of his burger when his mobile rang. He checked the screen – ID Baxter – and felt something heavy slap over in his stomach. He took the call with a curt, ‘Gilchrist.’

  ‘I’m sorry to call at this hour, sir, but it’s about your son, Jack.’

  Gilchrist swallowed a lump that threatened to choke his throat. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you, sir, but I’ve had to arrest him on suspicion of possession and distribution of class A drugs.’

  ‘Suspicion?’ Gilchrist heard himself say.

  ‘Yes, sir. His name and number were found in Samuel Bell’s laptop, along with a number of other known drug dealers.’

  He couldn’t tell Baxter that he’d asked Jessie to talk to Jack earlier. Instead, he said, ‘Other known drug dealers would suggest that Jack is also a drug dealer.’

  ‘We have to treat him with suspicion, sir.’

  ‘What’s Jack saying?’

  ‘He denies it, of course.’

  He waited a couple of beats. But Baxter seemed unwilling to offer more, so he said, ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘On his way to Glenrothes, sir.’

  Which meant Jack was about to spend the night in jail. Gilchrist could do nothing about that. Nor did he feel inclined to. If Jack was innocent, which he now had doubts about, a night in custody might be the kick up the arse to get him off drugs once and for all. But if he were guilty, then jail was where he should be, and where he would likely spend the next ten years of his life.

  All of a sudden the bar felt stuffy, the air too humid.

  He tugged his tie, worked it loose, took a mouthful of Claverhouse. ‘What’s your gut feeling?’ he asked Baxter.

  ‘The truth, sir?’

  Christ in a basket. Baxter’s question gave him his answer. He pressed the flat of his hand against his forehead, felt the cold dampness of sweat. ‘The truth,’ he agreed.

  ‘I think he’s guilty.’

  ‘Why?’ It was all he had the strength to ask.

  ‘We could smell it, sir. In his flat.’

  Gilchrist felt a sliver of hope struggle to free itself and soar.

  Jack was not stupid enough to smoke dope in his flat. He knew his father dropped by from time to time. He would never risk being caught by the drug’s aroma, no matter how many windows he opened to create a draught, Gilchrist was sure of that.

  ‘What about his girlfriend?’ he asked. ‘Tess.’

  ‘Her name’s Theresa McKenzie,’ Baxter said. ‘She’s known to the Anstruther Office, and has a number of drug-related convictions. Been in and out of juvenile detention since the age of twelve.’

  Something faltered in Gilchrist’s chest. ‘How old is she now?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  Gilchrist groaned. ‘Don’t tell me . . . ’

  ‘He’s denied that, too, sir, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Gilchrist ended the call and hung his head in his hands. He’d suspected Jack was back on drugs, but he’d never known for sure. But if you threw in underage sex on top of it, Jack could be facing a lengthy custodial sentence.

  Which he knew his gentle son could not survive.

  He cursed under his breath. He would need to talk to Baxter again, persuade him to let him speak to Jack. It was against protocol, he knew.

  But what else could he do?

  CHAPTER 18

  Jack entered Interview Room 2 in handcuffs.

  Despite his paintings now selling for considerable sums, or so Gilchrist was led to believe, a threadbare sweater and jeans that had not seen the inside of a washing machine for weeks, maybe months, gave the impression of a struggling artist who’d never owned two coins to rub together.

  He sat opposite Gilchrist, unable, or more likely unwilling, to look him in the eye.

  ‘Take the cuffs off him,’ Gilchrist said, and waited while the officer obliged.

  When the door clicked to a close, he waited for Jack to lift his head.

  ‘I’m innocent,’ Jack said. His voice sounded strong, despite a defeated look.

  Gilchrist let a couple of beats pass. ‘Should I believe you?’

  Jack jerked a look at him. ‘I don’t do drugs any more. I told you that. I’ve been off them for years, man . . . What . . .? What is it . . .? Why’re you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Have you had sex with Tess?’

  ‘Well . . . yeah . . . I mean . . . ’ He shrugged. ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘She’s underage.’

  ‘No she’s not.’

  ‘She is, Jack.’

  ‘No she’s fucking not, man. She told me she’s twenty-two. I mean, you wouldn’t say you’re twenty-two if you were underage and in a bar. You’d say you’d just turned eighteen or something.’ His voice had risen, and he sat back, pushed his hands through his hair as if that would help him breathe. Then he stilled. ‘No way, man. No fucking way.’ Panic swept over his face in a wave of incredulity. ‘She’s never underage, man. No way. Have you seen her?’

  ‘I was told you denied having sex with her.’

  ‘Yeah, well—’

  ‘So you lied to a police officer—’

  ‘It’s none of their business, man. My sex life’s mine. It’s personal.’

  ‘Except when it isn’t.’

  Silent, Jack returned Gilchrist’s look with what he must have thought was a hardened look of his own. But it was more caught-in-the-headlights than assertive.

  ‘How long have you been going out with her?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Going out with her?’ Jack’s mouth twisted with disgust. ‘I’m not going out with her. I’d never even seen her before until last week.’

  ‘So what was she doing in your flat?’

  ‘I picked her up last night.’

  ‘Anyone with her?’

  ‘She was by herself, I think. No, maybe with a friend. I don’t know.’ Then he stared at Gilchrist, and said, ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  Gilchrist thought for one troubling moment that his 24-year-old son was about to cry. But the moment passed, and Gilchrist pressed closer to the table, placed his hands flat on the surface. ‘You’re in trouble, Jack. You know that, don’t you?’

  Jack flicked him an angry look, then lowered his head as if beaten.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ Gilchrist said.

  Jack shook his head at the floor. ‘I didn’t know she was underage. I didn’t know she was smoking. I’d seen her around a couple of times, chatted her up, bought her a drink.’ He looked up at Gilchrist, eyes wide with surprise. ‘I mean, you meet a bird in a bar, and she’s throwing back shooters like there’s no tomorrow, and what? You’re supposed to ask her how old she is? I mean . . . Jesus fuck.’

  Gilchrist’s heart could have burst for his son. How many children – because that’s all they were – had he sent home to their parents, screaming and scratching and swearing their hearts out, after having been extracted from a pub? Maybe he should have arrested more of them, rather than only giving them a verbal warning.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘She came on to me, man, last night. What am I supposed to do? I mean, she’s all over me, begging for it. So I took her to my flat, and once we’re inside, she lights up, and I’m like, put that out, I don’t do that any more. But she’s standing there in the scud, with a smile on her face, and I’m thinking like, well, what the hell.’ His eyes widen. ‘But I didn’t take anything. I swear. I just let her get on with it, and then . . . you know . . . next thing we’re in bed and . . . ’ He shook his head, and grumbled, ‘She was no virgin either, that’s for sure—’

  ‘And Sammie Bell?’ Gilchrist said.

  The snap in his voice startled Jack. He shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘The problem is, Jack, that he’s heard of you.’

>   ‘Who is he? What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a registered sex offender. And drug dealer.’

  ‘And he knows me?’ Jack gasped. ‘How?’

  ‘That’s the question.’

  ‘I don’t know how he would know me,’ Jack said, and his eyes went small as his mind focused on something in the past. Then they widened. ‘That wee bitch.’

  Gilchrist almost smiled. He thought he knew Jack well enough to know he was telling the truth. When pinned against a wall, he would always fight back. But never to the detriment of others. If he thought someone else was going to be blamed for something he’d done, he would take it on the chin, without blinking. But if he thought he was being set up, he would cough the lot. And in Jack, Gilchrist knew he had a perfect witness to a drug entrapment scam.

  He pushed his chair back, and panic fluttered over Jack’s face.

  ‘You’ll have to spend the night in custody,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I can’t do anything about that. But I’ll talk to DS Baxter, the person who interviewed you—’

  ‘Interrogated, more like.’

  ‘It’s what we’re good at.’ Gilchrist rose to his feet.

  Jack did likewise. ‘I’m sorry, Andy,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t do anything illegal.’

  ‘If you don’t count underage sex.’ Jack’s face slumped, and Gilchrist had to fight off the urge to walk around the table and give him a hug. But Jack had never been the touchy-feely type, more the drinking and back-slapping and general bonhomie kind of a guy.

  Gilchrist gave him a quick smile. ‘See you later?’

  Jack tried a tough-man grin, but failed. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Gilchrist walked to the door, conscious of Jack’s eyes on him all the way.

  In the hallway, he phoned DS Baxter and found him in his office.

  ‘How is he?’ Baxter said.

  Gilchrist had managed to persuade Baxter to let him talk to Jack – a violation of protocol, so it was better that they not discuss the meeting openly. But Tess was a different matter. He wobbled his head in a so-so gesture, then said, ‘You spoken to Tess?’