by T F Muir
As they walked along the upper hallway, she said, ‘So I’ll call the Chief back and tell him what? That we’re not stealing resources from Strathclyde, but instead are providing them with information which could …?’
It took Gilchrist three steps before he realised he was expected to answer. ‘Which could assist them in their own ongoing murder investigations.’
A pause, then, ‘Investigations? Plural?’
‘Yes.’
Smiler stopped, as did Gilchrist. ‘For God’s sake, Andy, will you stop drip-feeding me. What bloody investigations plural are you talking about?’
‘Stooky Dee is one of three people on Jock Shepherd’s payroll – allegedly – to turn up dead in the past two weeks.’ He nodded to the staircase, and said, ‘I’ll bring this up at the debriefing, ma’am,’ escorting her by the arm as they headed downstairs. ‘But what puzzles me is why the Chief would be so unhappy with my investigation thus far. In my experience,’ he continued, ‘when someone complains upstairs about misuse of resources, or interference in this, that or the other, it usually means that they’re trying to point the finger of blame to someone else.’
‘Or divert attention from somewhere else,’ she said.
Smiler’s comment took Gilchrist by surprise, a level of mental acuity that told him she was more than capable of running the St Andrews Office. ‘Or something else?’ he tried.
‘Like a murder investigation they don’t want us to be involved in?’
‘Could be,’ he said, and held the door to the briefing room open. ‘I’d be interested in finding out who phoned the Chief in the first instance.’
Rather than enter the room, Smiler stood back. ‘Carry on with your debriefing, Andy. And let me get back to you.’
As she walked away from him, black shoes clicking the tiled flooring, navy-blue uniform pressed as crisp as new, he puzzled as to how their thought processes seemed to work in parallel, how their sense of logic ran the same path with barely a word of conflict, and wondered if they would ultimately reach the same conclusion.
Whoever had tried to stir up big Archie would have made sure to distance themselves from all evidence. If Gilchrist wanted to find out whatever was going on – the something big – he knew it was not about who killed Stooky Dee or Cutter Boyd or Hatchet McBirn. No, he thought, it was about finding out why they had been murdered in the first place.
CHAPTER 14
Jessie pulled her Fiat 500 off the road and parked half-on half-off the pavement. She switched off the engine and lights, and spent a couple of minutes taking a careful look around her to make sure that brother of hers was nowhere in sight. The likelihood of Tommy having been to Izzy’s home was slim to zero. But where her brother was concerned, Jessie knew to leave nothing to chance. She eyed the houses along the street, not sure what she was looking for, but just trying to convince herself that Tommy wasn’t here.
Eventually, she opened the door and stepped into the damp night chill.
From where she stood, she counted the house numbers all the way to Izzy’s address, a mid-terrace house on the opposite side of the street. A light was on in her front room and spilled onto a dark footpath to the front door. The upstairs windows lay in darkness, whereas all the homes either side, and the adjacent home at the end of the terrace of four, glowed with warmth from within.
Jessie tightened her scarf around her neck, and crossed the road.
Where most residents had replaced their front lawns with paving to provide off-road parking, Izzy’s was the only house that sported a hedge and a lawn – if it could be called that. A bulging privet hedge in need of a right good pruning came chest-high, and fronted an area of overgrown grass, flattened from the wind and the weight of the rain.
She walked to the front door and, using the light from her mobile, checked the house number. No mistake. This was Izzy’s. She turned around and scanned the street one last time. It lay quiet and empty, as if everyone had fled the town, or were indoors watching Coronation Street or Emmerdale.
She took a deep breath, faced the door, and pressed the doorbell.
She heard a toneless buzzing from deep within. A flicker of light from the window to her right revealed a face for an instant before the curtain settled into darkness again. Moments later, locks clicked and scraped as keys were turned. Then the door eased open with a sticky slap, to be stopped by a chain that snapped tight at a four-inch gap through which Jessie saw only darkness.
‘Yeah?’ a woman’s voice said.
‘Izzy McLure?’
The gap narrowed as the door almost closed. ‘Who is it?’
‘I’m looking for Izzy McLure.’
‘She’s no here.’
‘This is her address,’ Jessie said. ‘So she should be here.’
Silence. But at least the door stayed open.
‘I’m with Fife Constabulary,’ Jessie said, not wanting to mention her surname in case Izzy – if it was indeed Izzy behind the door – made the connection and slammed the door in her face. ‘I can show you my warrant card if you open the door. Or I can push it through the letterbox if you’d prefer. But I’d need to get it back, which would mean opening the door anyway. So I might as well show it to you.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘A cup of tea if you’ve got the kettle on.’ Jessie pushed her warrant card into the gap at the edge of the door, and shone her mobile phone onto it. ‘It’d be easier to see if you put the hall light on.’
Again, silence.
Jessie retrieved her warrant card and phone, then said, ‘I’d just like to have a wee chat with you. That’s all.’
‘I’m getting ready for bed.’
Well, she thought, nothing for it but to come clean. ‘You probably don’t remember me, Izzy. But I’m Tommy’s wee sister.’
The door closed, and Jessie whispered a silent curse.
Then, to her surprise, it eased open again, this time chain-free.
In the hallway darkness, Jessie could make out the waif-like figure of a woman in denim jeans tight enough to be the second skin of anorexic-thin legs. A man-sized cardigan hid her upper body. Long sleeves covered her hands.
‘Jessie?’ she said.
Jessie nodded. ‘Detective Sergeant Jessica Janes, to be exact.’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I’d heard.’
A surge of excitement flashed through Jessie. The only way Izzy could know she’d joined the police was from Tommy himself. But just to be sure, she said, ‘Who’d you hear that from?’
Izzy realised her slip-up, and pushed at the door.
Jessie stamped her foot on the threshold. ‘I’m here to help, Izzy.’ She felt the pressure slacken off her foot as Izzy relaxed her grip. ‘I’ve come alone. I only want to talk. Tommy’s got himself in a lot of trouble. And we believe his life is in danger.’ It took a few seconds for her to realise that Izzy was crying. She removed her foot from the threshold, and said, ‘Why don’t I come in and make us both a cuppa?’
Izzy sniffed, nodded her head, and pulled back.
Jessie stepped inside and, as she closed the door, cast her gaze along the street, unable to shift the strangest feeling of being watched. She followed Izzy along a narrow hallway into a tiny kitchen redolent of cooking fat and chips, and overly bright from a cluster of spotlights on the ceiling. A single dinner plate stood alone on a dripping tray. Venetian blinds blanked out a small window by the sink. A glance around the work surfaces, shelves, small kitchen table, confirmed that Izzy lived and ate alone.
She turned to find Izzy staring at her.
‘You look different,’ Izzy said.
‘It’s been years.’
Izzy squeezed her hands together and pressed them to her mouth, as if to prevent her saying something she might regret. Brown eyes that seemed darker than Jessie remembered studied her with an alertness that could be mistaken for animal cunning. ‘You’ve Tommy’s eyes,’ she said.
At the mention of Tommy, Jessie struggled to keep her excit
ement hidden. She’d been right. Tommy had been in contact with Izzy. Rather than press her, Jessie offered a smile of friendship. ‘There’s just the two of us now. Me and Tommy.’
Something shifted across Izzy’s face like a shadow. A frown ruptured her forehead. ‘He didnae do it,’ she said. ‘He’s innocent.’
Jessie nodded, certain now that Tommy had been in recent contact. He didnae do it. He’s innocent. How did Izzy even know what the it was? Who would have told her, if not Tommy? She waited for Izzy to offer up more, but it seemed she’d said all she was going to say about Tommy’s guilt or innocence.
Jessie looked around the kitchen. ‘Do you have a kettle?’
Izzy shook her head. ‘Plug needs a fuse. Been microwaving everything.’ She reached up and removed two mugs from a cupboard, which she filled with tap water then placed in the microwave.
When she pressed the timer, Jessie said, ‘Even the chips?’
‘Leftover from the chippie.’
Just the action of moving around the kitchen revealed to Jessie how skinny Izzy was. Pipe-cleaner jeans flattened a shapeless backside, and when she reached up for the teabags, her cardigan slipped loose to give Jessie a fleeting glimpse of porcelain skin and a waist that could be the envy of any teenager.
‘You live alone?’ Jessie said.
Izzy’s eyes widened at the question, as if afraid of the answer. ‘The kids’ve went with their father. Lazy conniving bastard. That way he says he disnae have to pay me a thing. Nae maintenance. Nothing. It’s no right, so it’s no. They’re my kids, too.’ The microwave beeped and Izzy jerked an angry look at it.
‘Let me.’ Jessie opened the microwave, and removed both mugs.
Izzy took a seat at the table. ‘Milk’s off,’ she said, dabbing a teabag into one of the mugs. ‘So it’s gonnae have to be black.’
‘Just the way I like my men,’ Jessie said.
Izzy’s gaze darted to Jessie, and her lips parted in a white smile of perfect teeth – a real surprise. ‘You never, did you?’
Jessie smiled. ‘It’s been that long I can hardly remember.’ Izzy grinned as she dunked the teabag from one mug to the other, leaving Jessie with the impression that it hadn’t been that long ago for Izzy. She waited until Izzy shoved a mug her way, teabag included, before saying, ‘Tell me about Tommy.’
‘Whit about him?’
Jessie took a sip of tea, and eyed Izzy over the rim. ‘I know you’re seeing him, Izzy,’ she lied. ‘And I know you and Tommy go back years. So I’m happy for you.’ She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Now that lazy conniving bastard of a husband of yours is out the way.’
Izzy stared at her mug of tea so long that Jessie thought she had clammed up for good. Then she turned her gaze full bore at Jessie, and said, ‘You’re polis—’
‘And I’m also Tommy’s sister.’ Jessie put some force into her voice. ‘I’m not here to arrest him, Izzy. You got that? I said I’m here to help.’
Izzy’s lips tightened. ‘Here to help? How can you help? Tommy’s in too deep—’
‘Tommy’s innocent. I know he is.’ She let out a sigh that sounded harsh even to her own ears, then she focused on keeping her tone level, her voice more gentle. ‘Tommy might be a right nutter, but he was nothing like Terry. There was always a soft side to Tommy that he showed to only a few.’
Izzy’s lips wavered. Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes, and Jessie reached over and took hold of her hands.
‘I can’t help Tommy if you won’t help me, Izzy.’
She shook her head. ‘The polis’ll no help him.’
‘We will.’
‘You cannae. It disnae matter if he’s no guilty,’ she said. ‘It’s the polis that’re after him. And they’ll no let up until they get him.’
Jessie massaged Izzy’s hand. ‘Look at me, Izzy.’ She waited until Izzy’s tearful gaze lifted. ‘I know you and Tommy go back years. And I know Tommy’s not the man they say he is. So there’s a life for Tommy. A life for you and Tommy. Together. If you want it.’
Izzy’s gaze flickered with uncertainty. She sniffed, shook her head. ‘But how …?’
‘Witness protection.’
The words hit Izzy like a slap to the face. She stared at Jessie, then her gaze danced left and right, as if her mind were trying to solve some incalculable equation.
Jessie sensed her chance. And took it. ‘For the two of you,’ she said. ‘New identities. New place to live. Overseas if you’d like. Spain seems to be in fashion at the moment.’ Christ, she’d really done it now.
But Izzy’s whole being seemed to soar with the promise of a way out. Her eyes sparkled at the chance to make a fresh start, a new life in a new country, away from the depressing gloom of the Scottish weather. It seemed as if she was already there, sipping champagne cocktails on some Costa del-wherever beach, skin glowing from a Spanish sun, purse lightened by recent purchases – jewellery, shoes, handbags, colourful kaftans.
Then, as reality settled in, her spirits thumped back to earth.
‘What’s the catch?’ she said.
‘No catch, Izzy. Tommy helps us, and we help Tommy.’
Izzy turned her head to the window by the sink, eyes focusing on the far distance, as if searching for the Spanish sun beyond the venetian blinds.
Jessie knew she had no authority to make any such deal, and she made a silent prayer, hoping to God that she hadn’t oversold it. ‘But first,’ she said, ‘you need to get Tommy to contact me.’
Izzy returned her gaze. She could have aged ten years in as many seconds. ‘I cannae guarantee that.’
‘I know you can’t.’
Izzy nodded. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Thanks, Izzy.’ It was all she could say.
CHAPTER 15
With the day’s debriefing behind him, Gilchrist pushed through the door to the car park at the rear of the North Street Office. He’d not heard back from CS Smiley about Chief Constable McVicar, so he assumed she would catch up with him in the morning. In the bitter March chill, he checked his mobile for texts, to find one from DS Fox – Staying at west port. Can I buy you a pint?– at least he now had Fox’s mobile number; and another from his daughter, Maureen – R u coming tonite?
Disappointment flushed through him, not because he didn’t want to speak to either, but because he wanted to spend more time with each. But he couldn’t let Maureen down, so he sent a text – Will be there by 8 – then fired up the ignition, and drove off to meet Fox in the West Port Bar and Kitchen.
In South Street he found a parking spot outside Drouthy Neebors, across the road from the West Port. A light drizzle as fine as smirr misted the air as he pulled up his jacket collar and crossed the street.
Only one person was seated at the bar on the left as he entered – a local by the look of him; blue-striped Fair Isle sweater over a denim shirt; Angus leather jacket hanging over the back of the chair. He seemed more interested in his mobile than his Amstel beer. Gilchrist ignored him and veered right, stepping into a lower lounge that seemed quiet for that time of night. A young couple in the corner glanced his way then returned to their mobile phones. An elderly couple in deep conversation paid him no attention.
Back upstairs, he was about to walk to the bar through the back when a man’s voice called out, ‘Gilchrist?’
He turned, surprised to find the local walking towards him, hand outstretched.
The grip was dry and firm, almost too firm. ‘DS Fox,’ the local said, then raised a hand to the bartender. ‘Miss? Whatever this guy’s having. My tab.’
Gilchrist said, ‘Pint of 80 Shilling would do the trick, thank you.’
‘You got it.’ Fox returned to his chair, pushed one Gilchrist’s way.
Gilchrist took some time removing his jacket, slipping it over the back of his seat, then lifted his pint as it arrived. ‘Can’t stay long. Promised I’d visit my daughter.’
Fox nodded, and held his bottle out. ‘To daughters.’
Gilchrist
chinked his pint to the bottle. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He took a sip. ‘So tell me, do I detect a slight American accent?’
‘Spent seven years in Winston Salem, North Carolina. Worked with the County Fire Department. Loved it. Great weather, plenty of money and good-looking women. Just throwing themselves at you. I tell you, the good old US of A knows what it’s about.’
‘Why return to Scotland?’ It seemed the sensible thing to ask.
‘Health. Ticker’s not what it used to be.’
What Gilchrist had first taken as a ruddy flush of wellbeing on Fox’s face, he came to realise was the rubicund evidence of blood pressure the high side of healthy. Tiredness below the eyes, and a general uneven pallor, hinted of too much alcohol and just as many cigarettes.
Fox finished his Amstel, nodded to the bartender. ‘I’ll have a Glenlivet. On the rocks. More Glenlivet than rocks, if you get my meaning.’ Then he turned to Gilchrist. ‘Don’t know what it is about Scotland. You make the stuff, but it gets dished out like you don’t wanna share it.’
When Fox’s Glenlivet came up, he scowled at it and pushed it back. ‘Put some more in it, will you?’
The bartender, who looked as young as a student, said, ‘Another double, sir?’
‘You got it, miss.’
Gilchrist waited while Fox’s quadruple was served. ‘For a moment there, I thought you were going to need a pint tumbler.’
Fox chuckled. ‘Up yours,’ he said, and took a quaff that drained it halfway. He ran his tongue over his lips, then looked at Gilchrist as if stunned to see he still had company.
Gilchrist was aware of time passing. Despite the attraction of an evening at the bar, he needed to focus while Fox was still on the right side of sober. ‘You visited the Bell Street mortuary,’ he said.
‘That Dr Cooper’s something else, isn’t she?’
‘She knows her stuff. I’ll give her that.’
‘And her ass. Man oh man, you’d need both hands just to hold on.’
‘You ID-ed the victim?’ Gilchrist said. ‘How did you know Stooky?’
‘Used to be one of my snitches,’ he said.