Dead Catch

by T F Muir

Mhairi smiled, and said, ‘We’d like a few minutes of your time.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To talk to you about your late husband, Joe.’

  ‘Have you found the old bugger?’

  Mhairi grimaced. ‘I’m afraid not, ma’am.’

  She tutted. ‘Well, how d’you know he’s deid, then?’

  Gilchrist said, ‘It might be best if we talked inside?’ For an awkward moment, he thought she might slam the door in his face, but then she stepped back, and he held out his hand for Mhairi to enter first.

  ‘Straight through to the kitchen,’ Mrs Christie said. ‘I’ve just finished hoovering.’

  Gilchrist thanked her as he eased past her and followed Mhairi along a short hallway into a small kitchen. They both stood and waited for Mrs Christie to join them.

  She shuffled into the kitchen and ignored them as she walked to the back door and pulled it open. Four cats spilled in, tails high, bodies curling around the old woman’s legs. Only then did Gilchrist notice food trays on the floor in the corner. Two of the cats were already nuzzling the bowls, as if expecting to find them filled with morsels.

  He leaned down and clawed his fingers into the fur of what looked like the oldest of the four, and the only tomcat from the look of things. The tom arched its back against the rub of his hand, throat purring like an engine. ‘Does he have a name?’ he asked her.

  ‘What for? They cannae speak.’

  Well, now it had been pointed out to him, he supposed it had been a silly question. He stood upright, while the tom continued to brush against his legs. ‘I’ve only got one cat,’ he said. ‘Blackie, she’s called.’

  The old woman topped her cup from the teapot, and poured in a good helping of milk.

  Gilchrist noticed the cats now sat on their haunches next to their food bowls. ‘We can wait until you feed them,’ he suggested.

  ‘Hunger’s good kitchen,’ she said, and took a sip of her tea.

  Mhairi had her notebook open, pen poised, and gave him a look that said she didn’t want to spend more time in the cattery than was necessary. Well, if the cats weren’t going to be fed until after they left, it seemed only fair that they got on with it.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The last you saw of your husband, Joe, was that morning he sailed from Crail three years ago. And you haven’t heard from him since.’

  She stared at him as she took another sip of tea.

  ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Aye. Not one word.’

  He let several seconds pass before saying, ‘A fishing boat was washed ashore during last night’s storm. Over on Tentsmuir Beach. It’s had a change of name, but isn’t registered with the Coastguard.’ One of the cats meowed, a feline reminder for him to hurry up, we’re hungry. ‘The boat’s original name was Brenda Girl,’ he said, and watched recognition shift across her face to end in a scowl that curled her lips.

  ‘The old bugger sold it, so he did.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He said he would do that. Sell it. Fish prices had gone to cock. Working his arse off to pay the taxman. Nae money in it any more.’ She shook her head. ‘I always knew he’d do a runner on me someday.’

  Mhairi said, ‘Why do you say that, Mrs Christie?’

  ‘Because he’s a man.’

  ‘A man who earned a dangerous living by fishing,’ Mhairi tried.

  ‘And a man who would get into bed with anything that moved, given half a chance.’ She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table, and slumped herself onto it.

  Gilchrist felt his eyebrows rise. The words until death do you part drifted through his mind in a wave that pulled up memories of his own failed marriage. Men the world over were mostly driven by their desire for sex. Or maybe it was their desire of the chase, the thought of some different body to explore. Look how Harry had beguiled Gilchrist’s own wife, Gail. But Mhairi’s voice reading Ivan’s statement echoed, too – a loner who just got on with the day job of setting out to sea and laying his creels. That didn’t sound to Gilchrist like a man who would get into bed with anything that moved.

  He walked towards the kitchen table, taking care not to tread on any cats’ paws – the pack shifting about their bowls with renewed energy, it seemed. ‘Who do you think Joe sold the boat to?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘The first person stupit enough to buy it.’

  He thought for a moment, then said, ‘When Joe went out that day, Ivan McIver said he last saw him heading east. Out into deeper waters.’

  ‘To Holland,’ she said. ‘That’s where he wanted to end up.’

  Gilchrist glanced at Mhairi, but her eyes told him this was news to her, too. ‘Did you tell Detective Sergeant May Pearson that?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Senior Investigating Officer.’

  ‘Don’t know about that, but whoever I spoke to, they weren’t bothered.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t know. They never asked. If they were bothered, they would’ve.’

  ‘And you never offered?’

  ‘Why would I? Joe’s head was full of big plans for this, and big plans for that. But the stupit old bugger done nothing except go out on that bloody boat of his and spend any money he had left over from that day’s catch in the bookies.’

  With a married woman disinterested in finding her husband’s whereabouts, or even if he was alive or not, Gilchrist couldn’t help feeling that DS May Pearson had not delved into Christie’s disappearance as deeply as she might have. Probably a matter of going through the investigative process, dotting an ‘i’ here, crossing a ‘t’ there, until all the boxes were ticked, more or less.

  ‘Where do you think Joe would have gone to if he sailed to Holland?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Amsterdam.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘He’d been there as a wee boy, and loved it.’

  Gilchrist nodded. He was about to wade his way through the cats again, when he noticed a carton of cat food on a shelf by the side of the fridge. He reached for it. ‘Do you mind?’

  She slurped a mouthful of tea.

  The cats seemed to sense what was about to happen. They burst into activity, brushing themselves around his legs, tails high, one on its hind legs almost clawing its way up his new chinos. He had difficulty pouring the dried food into the bowls without spilling any, his hand being nudged this way and that as he topped the bowls. Satisfied that he’d taken care of all of them, he returned the carton to the shelf. With the cats busy feeding, he felt as if he could get back to the interview without further distraction.

  ‘Do you know Ivan McIver?’ he asked.

  ‘No really.’

  ‘Do you know anybody who might throw some light on Joe’s disappearance?’

  ‘Cannae think of anyone.’

  Gilchrist nodded to Mhairi, who shook her head. He hadn’t expected to learn anything new from talking to Joe’s widow, but sometimes you just have to go through the motions. He leaned down and chucked the big tom’s neck, but he was too busy eating to show any feline interest in being petted.

  ‘I would call this one Tom,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, I’m sure that’ll help him find his way home,’ she said.

  He smiled and pushed to his feet. ‘We’ll see ourselves out, Mrs Christie. Thanks for your help, and we’re sorry we couldn’t bring you better news on Joe.’

  She grimaced, and gave a silent nod.

  He led the way down the hallway, and had his hand on the front door handle, when Mrs Christie called out, ‘Now you’ve found his boat, did you manage to find his logbook?’

  Gilchrist and Mhairi turned to face her.

  ‘If there was one good thing I could say about that old bugger,’ she said, ‘it would be that he kept his logbook up to date. At the end of every trip he would fill it out. Come hail or shine. Never missed a day. Said it was his insurance.’

  ‘Insurance?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Insurance against what?’

  ‘How wo
uld I know? But that’s what he told me after the break-in. And a few days later he went missing.’

  Gilchrist walked back towards Mrs Christie, Mhairi behind him. ‘The reports never mentioned anything about a break-in,’ he said.

  ‘No, they wouldn’t, would they? Yon lot down the police station couldn’t close the book fast enough.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ It seemed the sensible thing to ask.

  ‘They just came in with their big boots and stood in the hall. They barely took a look around. Every drawer in the place had been pulled out. But after five minutes, they just took a note of my name and said they’d get back to me.’

  ‘Where was Joe when the police came?’

  ‘Out in his boat. Where else?’

  The bookies, Gilchrist thought. But he kept his tongue in check. ‘Was there anything stolen or missing?’ he asked.

  ‘No that I could tell. When Joe came home that night, he’d had a few. He cursed and punched a hole in the wall, he was that mad. But that’s when he told me about the logbook being his insurance. Said he’d sort it out.’

  ‘Sort what out?’

  ‘How would I know? That’s all he would say. Nothing more.’

  Gilchrist said, ‘We found the boat, but not the logbook.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I thought. You’d need to know where to look, wouldn’t you?’

  CHAPTER 13

  Jessie stared at Jackie’s computer screen. ‘This is it?’ she asked.

  Jackie nodded, her unruly bob of rust-coloured hair bouncing like a loose-curled Afro. She worked the mouse, placed the cursor at the start of the address, and ran it through all the letters. Her stammer was now so bad she had given up trying to speak. Besides, cursors for pointers were as effective as any tongue. A click of the mouse, and the printer whirred alive, printing out the address and contact information, as well as Google Maps directions.

  Jessie removed the page from the printer tray. It had taken Jackie only fifty minutes to locate Izzy Sinclair – now Izzy McLure with two teenaged children, divorced for four years, living in a council house in Inchkeith Drive, Dunfermline, on the dole for three years, her last period of employment lasting only six months in the local Tesco.

  Jessie thought of phoning Izzy, but if Tommy had indeed been in contact with her, it would be better to talk to her face to face – more difficult for her to get away with telling lies that way. According to Google Maps, it would take her about an hour to drive there. If she set off now, she could be back before 7 p.m. – if she didn’t hit traffic.

  Mind made up, she headed for the door.

  Gilchrist parked in Tentsmuir Forest.

  The skies had cleared, the wind had died, and although the temperature was in single figures, the sun close to setting, the walk across the sand dunes offered the promise of longer days and lighter nights. He was now finding that the older he became, the more he longed for those wonderful late summer sunsets, when darkness didn’t settle on the Fife coast until after 11 p.m. Years ago, in the Shetland Islands farther north, during a midsummer’s week he’d experienced the simmer dim as a teenager, where the sun never set and twilight ran through the midnight hours. He’d promised himself that he would return one day, but life has a habit of taking over, and he never had.

  He and Mhairi cleared the dunes, and the winds picked up as if from nowhere. Ahead, the sea seemed alive with rows of white horses. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘What is it about Scotland? It could be snowing by the time we get home.’

  Mhairi said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and kept her hands stuffed deep into her pockets.

  Joe’s boat was still high and dry, having been driven beyond the high tide mark by the previous night’s storm. And being a crime scene, it had attracted a crowd of spectators, some interested in seeing a beached boat close up, others more intrigued by the workings of the SOCOs still going about their business.

  The crime-scene tape had been moved, too, to take in a wider area and keep the nosy spectators at a more respectful distance. He and Mhairi signed in again, and he held the tape high for her to slip under. The climb up the rope ladder was still as tricky, but he took his time, then helped Mhairi on board.

  The cloying stench of decaying meat and rotting fish, which had pervaded every pore of his being earlier, had lessened, and was now the occasional putrid whiff that seemed to lift off the decking at the random stirring of a sea breeze. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but it seemed to him that the boat now lay at a sharper angle, as if the hull had found some comfortable spot on the beach and settled deeper. He gripped the corner of the cabin, pulled himself up the deck, and swung inside. Mhairi was more limber than he, and seemed more at home on canted decking than he could ever be.

  ‘It should be over there,’ she said, nodding to the starboard corner of the cabin.

  Gilchrist worked his way over, using his hands against the window frame to steady himself. When he reached the corner, he leaned down, one foot on the deck, the other on the inside of the hull. It took him several minutes of tapping and pressing the cabin panels before he found the removable panel Mrs Christie had told them about, a ten-inch length of tongue-and-groove that he pried out to reveal a slotted opening from which he pulled a tired-looking logbook, its hardback cover pliable from dampness and stained with mildew.

  It felt soggy, and when he tried to open it, the pages stuck together. Further attempts to peel them wider only threatened to tear the paper. He tried to separate several pages with a fingernail, but it was like opening damp puff pastry layer by flaking layer.

  ‘We’ll have to let someone look at this,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve a friend who works in the library,’ Mhairi said. ‘And I know she’s been involved in recovering damaged books. I could ask her.’

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Get her to jump on it.’

  Back in his car, Gilchrist had to shiver off the cold. The sun had already set and night had arrived with a dark winter chill. He started the engine, and worked his way back out of the forest. By the time he cleared the exit, the cabin had warmed, heat once again circulating through his system.

  Back in the North Street Office, he found a message from Dainty confirming that DS Nathanial Fox had ID-ed the body in the Bell Street mortuary as Stooky Dee. Gilchrist was surprised to find out that Fox had visited Bell Street without forewarning, and annoyed that Dainty had not left a phone number for Gilchrist to contact Fox. He was about to call Dainty when a hard rap on his office door had him replacing the handset in its cradle.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

  Chief Superintendent Diane Smiley entered his office with a tight grimace. Her hair seemed blonder, the roots less dark, and shorter, too. ‘Just had a call from the Chief,’ she said. ‘And he’s not happy.’

  Gilchrist tried to show his best poker face, but the inference that the Chief Constable had issues with his ongoing investigation – and at such an early stage – had him frowning and cocking his head. ‘About?’ he said.

  ‘About why Strathclyde are providing resources to a Fife Constabulary investigation.’

  ‘I wouldn’t use the term providing resources, ma’am. I contacted Strathclyde to assist in ID-ing the murder victim. So, sharing information would be a more appropriate term. In my opinion. ma’am.’

  ‘And have they?’ she said. ‘ID-ed the victim?’

  ‘I’ve only just had it confirmed that the victim’s name is Stooky Dee, a small-time crook allegedly on the payroll of Jock Shepherd. Glasgow’s crime patriarch,’ he added, ‘if you’re unfamiliar with the name.’ Not that he thought she would be, as Shepherd’s criminal enterprises were sufficiently widespread for some to consider him Scotland’s crime patriarch, let alone Glasgow’s.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Now I see.’

  But something in the narrowing of her eyes warned Gilchrist that whatever Smiler thought she could see, she wasn’t about to share it. ‘Did you contact Lothian and Borders?’ she asked.

  His frown
deepened. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Northern? Or Tayside?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any other forces?’

  ‘No.’

  Her scowl shifted to curiosity. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I have to ask why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why contact Strathclyde Police at all?’

  Gilchrist held her hard gaze, his mind crackling like wildfire, warning him that for Fife Constabulary’s Chief Constable Archie McVicar to have become involved, someone in Strathclyde must have had their feathers ruffled. Or perhaps more correctly, Gilchrist had turned over some stone that no one in Strathclyde wanted turned over. But how could he have done that? He’d spoken to Dainty only that afternoon, which was when he realised that it was all to do with Tommy Janes being on the run, and the man determined to bring him in at all costs – Chief Superintendent Victor Maxwell of Strathclyde’s BAD Squad.

  What had Dainty once told Gilchrist about Maxwell?

  Maxwell’s not normal, Andy. He’s got fucking eyes everywhere. So watch your back. And tell Jessie to do the same. Until that nutcase of a brother of hers turns up more likely dead than alive, then we all need to steer clear of Maxwell and the rest of his fucking team.

  Maxwell was someone you wouldn’t want to fall out with. But even if his rationale was wrong, Gilchrist didn’t think it wise to offer up any personal link to Tommy Janes and his list of names. At least not yet. Well, in for a penny, so they say …

  ‘Stooky Dee’s name popped up on the PNC,’ he lied, ‘as recently reported missing. His home address was Glasgow, so Strathclyde seemed the obvious choice.’ He gave her a quick smile. ‘They’ve since sent up one of their own to ID the body – a Detective Sergeant Nathanial Fox.’

  Smiler nodded, as if giving his comment some thought.

  Gilchrist snatched the opportunity to move on. He glanced at his watch. ‘As it turns out, I’m expecting DS Fox here any time now. I’ve no way of contacting him directly, so we’ll just have to press on with today’s debriefing without him.’ He held his arm out, an invitation for Smiler to precede him. ‘Shall we?’

  He almost breathed a sigh of relief when she turned to the door.