Dead Catch

by T F Muir

  Back below deck, the stench seemed much worse. He almost gagged as he turned and looked at the body. Cooper was on her knees, trying to pry the man’s mouth wide. But with a rictus smile in a swollen face, Gilchrist doubted there was much to be gained. Rain thudded the decking overhead, a constant drumming magnified by the echo-chamber effects of the confined space. He pressed a hand for support against the roof as he kneeled beside Cooper.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  She glanced at him. ‘Other than a dead body?’

  He ignored her quip. ‘How about cause of death?’

  ‘Too early to say, but I’m inclined to agree with Sheena, that he choked himself to death on these wires here.’ She tapped the wire, gave it a firm shake, and the body moved as if in annoyance.

  ‘He choked himself?’ he said. ‘As opposed to someone choking him?’

  ‘Why do you always look for the dramatic in the obvious?’

  ‘I would’ve thought being wired to nails in the hull was dramatic enough, and that there’s nothing obvious about what’s happened here.’

  The SOCO by Cooper’s side – Sheena, if he had to take a guess – seemed to catch the nip in Gilchrist’s tone, and looked off to the side, as if she’d found something of interest in her notes. Cooper, on the other hand, was going about her task as if he hadn’t spoken.

  His annoyance faded when Cooper said, ‘This is interesting,’ and he leaned in beside her, intrigued as she worked a pair of tweezers into the body’s mouth, then eased what looked like a clump of cardboard from the purged fluid.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said.

  ‘Patience, for God’s sake.’ The tweezers slipped free. She tutted and reinserted them, frowning as she concentrated on snagging the slime-covered item. That time, she managed to clasp it, and pulled it free, then placed it in the flat of her hand. When she held it between her thumb and forefinger, she said, ‘Looks like it’s a folded piece of paper.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a note,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a note, all right. But not the type you’re looking for.’ She unfolded it, once, twice, then again, until she held it out to him.

  He took it from her. ‘What the …? It’s a fiver?’ He stretched it tight, turned it over, then back again, puzzling as to why anyone would stuff a five-pound note into the mouth of a man they were about to kill, or had already killed. He stared at it like a simpleton confounded by a magician’s trick, knowing what he was seeing, but unable to work out how it had been done. What was the significance of a five-pound note? He held it up to the light, turned it one way, then the next. But as far as he could see, there was nothing unusual about it. Just a typical Clydesdale Bank fiver.

  He handed it back to Cooper, and said, ‘Bag it.’ Then a thought struck him. ‘Is there anything else in his mouth?’

  ‘Not that I can see,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe in his stomach?’

  ‘Unlikely. I’d say the fiver was inserted into his mouth post-mortem.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  She shrugged. ‘To leave some kind of message? A calling card, perhaps?’

  Gilchrist stared at the dead man by their side, a silent witness to their conversation and all that had gone on before in this hold. What could he tell them if he were still alive? He looked hard at the swollen eyes, almost willing the man to explain what it all meant. His gaze drifted over the bloodied face, down across his bruised shoulder, onto the row of chevron slashes, several deep enough to see the white of the bone.

  ‘Dear God,’ he whispered. ‘What utter hell you must have gone through.’

  And with these words, he pushed himself off his knees. He had a job to do, a murder investigation to lead. He needed to ID the body, find out who killed the man, and bring him or her to justice. He pressed his hand against the hull to steady himself. Cooper was still on her knees, shining a light into the man’s ears. She’d suggested the fiver was stuffed into the man’s mouth as some kind of message – a calling card?

  But if so, who was the message intended for?

  The police force in general? Fife Constabulary? Himself specifically?

  He thought not, for as he worked through the rationale and nibbled away at the logic, he came to see what the fiver was intended to be.

  Not a calling card. And not any old message.

  But a warning.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jessie parked her Fiat 500 next to Gilchrist’s BMW, relieved to see that he was still at the crime scene. She hadn’t wanted to speak to him over the phone, instead wanted to talk to him face to face, seek his advice on what to do with Tommy’s diary, and the names within.

  But before she got out of her car, she tried Tommy’s mobile again.

  To her surprise, her call was answered on the first ring.

  ‘What the fuck kept you?’

  ‘Jesus, Tommy, your phone’s been down.’

  ‘Aye, well, there’s a reason for that.’

  ‘You’re bloody right there is.’

  ‘So what d’you think?’

  ‘I think I’m a detective sergeant talking to a suspect in a double murder investigation is what I think. And I think I can get myself in a whole lot of bother over this.’

  ‘Naw, what d’you think about the names?’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about the names, Tommy. The names mean nothing to me. Jesus, Tommy, just talking to you could get me fired and probably charged as an accomplice.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Jessie. That diary’s gold dust, is what it is. It’ll no get you fucking fired. It’ll get you promoted. Jesus Christ, you’re some thick-as-shite bitch, so you are.’

  ‘If you want me to hang up on you, Tommy, you’re going about it the right way.’

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ he shouted. ‘You done nothing with the other stuff I gave you.’

  ‘Wrong, Tommy. I passed it on to those who could do something about it.’

  ‘Aye, and they done fuck all about it, is what they done.’ He grunted then, a throaty growl, followed by a hard spit. A bit closer, and she could have heard the ricochet. Then the voice was back. ‘I knew youse lot would shite yoursels. Youse don’t have the fuckin’ balls to take on that bastard Maxwell.’

  ‘So that’s what this is about, is it?’

  ‘For fuck sake, do I have to fuckin’ spell it out for you?’

  ‘Listen, Tommy, and you listen to me well.’ Jessie struggled to calm the anger that fired through her. ‘If anyone’s being thick-asshite here, it’s you. You seem to forget that I work for Fife Constabulary. In other words, I’m the polis, Tommy. Don’t you get it? You and me shouldn’t be talking to each other unless there’s metal bars between us.’

  Silence.

  ‘Jesus, Tommy, what the hell are you playing at? Why’d you contact me anyway? Why not just mail the bloody diary to me? Why all the subterfuge and cryptic messages and pick it up in the back seat of some stupid car as if you’re James-fucking-Bond?’

  Silence.

  She held the mobile to her ear for a long moment, waiting for Tommy to respond. But it took her a few more seconds to catch the faintest scratching, leaving her with the strangest feeling that her brother was crying. Dear God, that would be a first.

  ‘You still there, Tommy?’

  A sniff, then, ‘Listen to me, Jessie. You’re all I’ve got. I’ve no one else. You’re the only one who’ll listen to me.’ Another sniff. ‘I’m shit scared, so I am. I’ve never been so fucking scared in all my life. I cannae keep going like this. They’re after me, and they’re no gonnie stop until I’m deid.’

  ‘Who’s after you?’

  ‘Maxwell and his mob. All of them. I’m fucked, Jessie. Truly fucked. They done Terry and Maw. It wisnae me. They done them. Then they set me up for it.’ Another sniff. ‘You’re my last hope, Jessie. Help me. Please, dear God, Jessie. Help me.’

  The line faded to silence again.

  Jessie let out her breath, long and hard, knowing some difficult decision had alrea
dy been made in her subconscious. No matter how distant she and Tommy had been, no matter how different the paths of their lives, or how much they had argued in the past, how little they saw eye to eye, of all her family, Tommy had been the least cruel to her. And whether she liked it or not, he was still her brother.

  On the spur of the moment, and against her better judgement, she said, ‘OK, Tommy, I hear you. But give me a clue. I don’t know any of these names. What do they matter?’

  ‘Pass them up the line to someone you trust, Jessie. They’ll know.’

  ‘Listen, Tommy, I can help you. But you need to turn yourself in.’

  ‘Aw, for fuck sake,’ he snapped. ‘Have you no listened to a fuckin’ word I said?’

  That’s better. Now they were back on track. ‘Every single one of them,’ she said. ‘But I’m still the polis, and you’re still on the run, and there’s only—’

  ‘I heard you ID’d them,’ Tommy interrupted. ‘Terry and Maw.’

  Jessie blinked once, twice, struggling to keep out the memory of her mother’s body in the mortuary – skin on bones, face and body emaciated and scarred from a life of prostitution, alcohol and hard drugs—

  ‘I’m telling you, Jessie, if you don’t jump on this, I’ll be the next one you’re gonnie have to ID.’

  The line died.

  Jessie closed her eyes and cursed under her breath. What had she done to deserve this, born into a dysfunctional family of social misfits and criminals? Now only Tommy was left. But even so, he could still be the death of her. She had moved from Glasgow to the east coast to get away from it all, get away from her criminal family and their criminal connections. But one year later, here she was, still being hounded—

  She jolted at the rap on the window.

  DC Mhairi McBride gave her a concerned smile.

  Jessie opened the door. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘The boss is looking for you.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ She stepped from her car. Shielded by the forest canopy, raindrops splashed around them in soft spatters. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘On the beach.’ Mhairi held her gaze for a moment, then said, ‘You all right?’

  ‘Sure. I’m fine.’ She tried a smile, but it could have been a grimace. ‘On the beach, you said.’ She closed her car door, locked it with her key fob, and strode off towards the sand dunes. Small as Tommy’s diary was, in her pocket it felt as large and as heavy as a brick. She called Tommy’s mobile again, but got through to a message telling her the number did not exist. She cleared the dunes and the North Sea spread before her, waves chopping and wild despite the fall in the wind. The rain, too, had softened, and white clouds were peeling back a blue sky in the east. For all anyone knew in Scotland, it could be barbecue weather by teatime. She tugged her anorak hood tighter, and strode along the beach.

  She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d been told that a fishing boat had been swept ashore – flotsam scattered around the beach, perhaps, a body lying face down in the sand – but the vessel appeared to be intact, although stranded high and dry and tilted on its side. Blue crime-scene tape stretched around the hull like a fence, flapping in the wind. The receding sea swept ashore, some twenty yards distant.

  The SOCOs were already there, manhandling a body bag from the decking, the angle of the hull making a relatively simple task all the more difficult. She noticed Gilchrist at the boat’s stern, his attention focused on something on the hull. He looked up as she approached, then turned back to whatever he was looking at.

  She walked up beside him. ‘Didn’t bring you any coffee,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Forgot.’

  ‘Had more important things on your mind, no doubt.’

  She said nothing as he ran the tips of his fingers over the name painted on the stern, his touch gentle, searching, almost inquisitive, like a blind man struggling to read Braille.

  ‘Did you meet Tommy?’ he asked, closing his eyes, continuing to play with the wood, as if trying to find some flaw in the finish. But with all that flaking paint, it seemed to Jessie that all he had to do was open his eyes.

  ‘No. Just spoke to him.’

  ‘By phone?’

  ‘Well, yeah. How else? Morse code?’

  ‘Do you have his number?’

  ‘He’s removed the SIM card by now.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘Jesus, Andy. What the hell are you doing? You look as if you’re getting off on the wood. It’s creeping me out.’

  He lowered his hands to his sides, then turned to face her. ‘Do you have his number?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’ll be a waste of time.’

  ‘Let’s have it.’ He removed his mobile from his pocket, and tapped in the number as Jessie read it out to him. A few seconds later, he ended the call. ‘Where were you when you didn’t meet him?’ he said.

  ‘In some housing estate at the back of ALDI on Largo Road.’

  He tapped another number, got through right away. ‘Find out which masts pinged this number earlier today.’ He read it out. ‘And get back to me soonest.’ He stuffed his mobile into his pocket, and said, ‘Want to tell me what the hell you were playing at?’

  She couldn’t fail to catch the change in his manner, the biting nip in his voice. But she retrieved Tommy’s diary from her inside pocket, and held it out to him.

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Gilchrist took the diary from Jessie, and flipped through it.

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘Try the nineteenth of March,’ she said.

  ‘What’s significant about that date?’

  ‘Nothing, I guess. Other than that’s where the names are.’

  He opened the diary to the date and, sure enough, there they were, six names printed in a child-like hand, parallel to and set deep into the page near the spine. He mouthed each one as he read them off, but none triggered any memories. Then he looked at Jessie. ‘Chippie Smith? Who’s he? A joiner? Or someone who likes fish suppers?’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ Jessie said. ‘I don’t know any of them either. But Tommy told me to pass these names to someone I trusted. Which I’ve now done. By passing them to you.’

  Jessie was one of the brightest detectives he’d ever worked with, but here she was, wading deeper into the swamp at the beck and call of her lunatic brother. ‘Tommy gave us more names last year before Christmas, if you remember,’ he said.

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘And as far as I know nothing came of it.’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes seemed to die for a moment, before reigniting. ‘But these were names of officers in Strathclyde Police. No one would dare go after them without irrefutable proof of something criminal,’ she said.

  Gilchrist weighed up her words before holding up the diary. ‘You do realise that this isn’t worth a toss now,’ he said. ‘Any lawyer in the land would deem it inadmissible, if it ever got to court, even if we were ever able to work out what the it is.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’

  ‘So why the hell are you fooling around with a half-brained lunatic who’s wanted by every police force in the country for God’s sake when all he can give you is a diary worth next to eff all that we can’t even use in court?’ He took a quick breath. ‘Jesus Christ, Jessie, you traipsed off this morning without your phone or your car. What if anyone had to contact you in an emergency? How would we have done that? Not to mention putting your life at risk at the hands of a known violent criminal.’ He slapped a hand against the stern. ‘I’ve told you before, and I’m telling you this for the last time. I need to be able to contact you 24/7. Which means that you don’t just go walkies for a morning and turn up waving a few names in my face as if nothing’s happened. And if you can’t or won’t or are unwilling to agree to that, then that’s fine. You can move on.’ He glared at her. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Having a tiff, are we?’

  Gilchrist jerked his head to the side, and caug
ht Cooper at the corner of the stern, eyes gleaming, lips struggling to contain a smile.

  ‘Ah, fuck,’ Jessie said, and turned on her heels and strode off.

  ‘Jessie,’ he said, then shouted, ‘DS Janes.’

  But she kept her head down as if she hadn’t heard, and strode along the beach, away from the crime scene, away from the beached boat with all its blood-covered secrets yet to be discovered, and away from the embarrassment of being dressed down in front of none other than Dr Rebecca Cooper, or Her Majesty, as Jessie preferred to call her.

  Gilchrist felt his heart go out to Jessie, and regretted having spoken to her so sternly. Truth be told, he was angry with himself for having raised his voice, and annoyed for ladling into Jessie within earshot of Cooper. He watched her parting figure from the corner of his eye as he faced Cooper.

  ‘Yes, Becky. You got anything for me?’

  ‘Other than take a couple of Panadol and call me in the morning?’ She smirked for a moment, before her face deadpanned as if only then realising he was not amused. ‘I’ll be better able to advise you after I’ve performed the post mortem.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘You must learn to curb that impatience of yours, Andy.’

  ‘How soon, Becky? For God’s sake, it’s not rocket science.’

  ‘No, it’s more difficult than that.’ She levelled her gaze at him, and he found himself struggling not to look away. ‘But I’ve come across something interesting,’ she said, ‘which might help you ID the body.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A scar on the left thigh, relatively new I’d say. To me it looks consistent with that of an operation.’

  ‘What kind of operation?’

  ‘There you go again, demanding answers. I can’t say for sure, but from the length and direction of the wound, I’d say he’s had a broken femur.’

  ‘Why operate on a broken leg?’

  ‘The femur’s the strongest bone in the body, and it might have been shattered.’ She smiled at him. ‘It takes a lot to do that to a femur. A car crash might do it. Or a bullet.’