by T F Muir
‘But what about his writing? I thought he wanted be an author.’
‘He’s still going to do that. Which is why he’s working on his one-liners.’
Gilchrist pulled into a parking space opposite Starbucks.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Let me get these.’ She handed him a tenner.
‘Thought you were going to get them.’
‘It’s blowing a gale. I’ve washed my hair. I’ll pay. You know? I’ll get them. You go pick them up. And I’ll share a muffin. Blueberry. And don’t forget the paper towels. Oh, and make mine a skinny.’
‘And I’ll have a fatty?’
She giggled at that. ‘I wish I had your metabolism. You never put on weight.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Keep the engine running and the fan on. I’m still shivering.’
‘Right.’ He stepped into a stiff breeze, thankful that Starbucks had been opening earlier than normal – 5.45 – ever since a new manager had taken over. Where would they be if they couldn’t get their daily caffeine injection? He ordered two tall lattes – one skinny, one fatty – which failed to extract a smile from the young barista. Maybe the new manager liked to start early, but it seemed that some of his employees didn’t. He chose a cranberry muffin – no blueberries – paid at the till, and dropped a pound coin into the tips mug – not so much as a thank you. Oh, well.
Coffees, muffin and napkins in hand, he managed to open the shop door with his foot and make his way back to his car without spilling a drop. Jessie was deep in conversation on her mobile, and he had to elbow the side window to get her attention.
She started with surprise, then pushed the door open, stepped out, and brushed past him on her way across the cobbled street, mobile hard to her ear. Gilchrist set the coffees in the cup holders in the centre console, balanced the muffin and napkins beside them, then took his seat behind the wheel.
He turned the fan to low, adjusted the heat from high to medium, then picked up his latte. He’d taken only a few sips when Jessie opened the car door and slid in with a rush of cold air.
‘Problems?’ he said.
‘That was Izzy. She managed to talk to Tommy last night, and tried to convince him that Spain was a safe bet.’ She shook her head. ‘Long story short. Tommy’s not up for it. He’s done another runner.’
‘He didn’t like the idea of witness protection?’ he asked.
‘Says it won’t work. Not for him, anyway. There’s too many cops in the know who want his skin. Izzy’s words.’
‘Does she know where Tommy’s gone?’
‘No chance.’
‘She must have some idea, surely.’
‘This is Tommy Janes we’re talking about. He’s rubbed shoulders with some of the toughest criminals in Glasgow, maybe even Scotland, for all I know. If Tommy’s shitting himself, then he’s got good reason to.’
Gilchrist gave Jessie’s words some thoughts. Nothing seemed to fit. The names on the list, small-time criminals being killed off one by one – three down, three to go. He struggled to recall the remaining names: Bruiser Mann, Chippie Smith, Angel Thomson.
Who was behind the killings? And why? What did it mean?
And it irked that Archie McVicar had instructed Smiler to take Gilchrist and his team off the Stooky Dee investigation. Once he’d handed over all the files to DS Fox that morning, witnessed by Smiler, then that really was it – a Fife murder being investigated by Strathclyde Police—
‘You know what?’ Jessie said. ‘I’m thinking that Izzy knows how to contact Tommy.’
‘I thought you said she didn’t know.’
‘I said she doesn’t know where he’s gone.’
‘She’s got a mobile number for him?’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘There was something she said that made me think she hadn’t met Tommy last night, but had only spoken to him on the phone.’ She pulled out her mobile. ‘It’s time to have another chat with that dozy besom, this time an honest one.’
‘Don’t bother, Jessie. Forget it. We’re off the case. Remember?’
‘What’s finding my brother got to do with Stooky Dee’s murder?’
‘Tommy gave us the list of names, Stooky’s being one of them. And in case you’ve forgotten, Tommy’s still wanted for questioning in a murder investigation being handled by Strathclyde Police. It’s too close to home, and puts you in direct conflict with the powers that be in Strathclyde. Not a good position to be in.’
Jessie stared at him, finger poised over the screen.
‘Hang up,’ he said, ‘and drink your coffee before it gets cold.’
Without a word, Jessie slid her mobile into her pocket, then removed her coffee from the cup holder. She took a couple of sips before breaking off a piece of muffin, and grumbled, ‘What is it about blueberry that you don’t understand?’
‘They were out of them.’ He eased along Market Street, and had to stop at the Whyte-Melville Memorial Fountain to let a woman with three handicapped adults cross the street. And all the while he was conscious of Jessie’s silence. ‘Something tells me you’re upset,’ he tried. ‘And it’s bugger all to do with the muffin not being blueberry.’
Jessie didn’t answer until he turned into Union Street. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘When are you meeting Smiler?’
‘About eight.’
‘Which is why we’re heading to the Office for the back of six?’
He offered a quick smile. ‘You think I’m up to something?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I know you’re up to something.’
‘You’re just going to have to join in then, won’t you?’
CHAPTER 20
The call came at 7.45.
Gilchrist answered it with, ‘Good morning, ma’am.’
‘I’ll see you now,’ Smiler said. ‘Bring all your files.’
‘Will do, ma’am.’ But she had already hung up.
Gilchrist picked up the pile of files that he and Jessie had agreed were relevant only to the Stooky Dee murder investigation. ‘Check up on Mhairi,’ he said. ‘And wish me luck.’
Upstairs, he knocked on Smiler’s door and pushed it open. His heart stuttered at the sight of Chief Constable Archie McVicar standing at the end of Smiler’s desk, regal and stiff-backed, uniform immaculate, as if he’d just collected it from the cleaners. Gilchrist strode into the room, and laid the files on Smiler’s desk.
He nodded to McVicar. ‘Good morning, sir.’ Then Smiler. ‘Ma’am.’
Smiler frowned. ‘Is this all there is?’
McVicar harrumphed. ‘Looks rather thin, Andy, I have to say.’
‘Me or the files, sir.’ But that failed to elicit a smile. He opened the top folder, and removed the flashdrive that Jackie had created. ‘The case was only opened yesterday,’ he said. ‘But everything should be on there, sir.’
Smiler said, ‘Should be, or is?’
‘Is.’
‘Give me.’
Gilchrist handed her the flashdrive.
She inserted it into her computer. ‘Password?’
‘Didn’t create one.’
She grunted, and took less than five seconds to access it and pull up a folder, which she opened. Standing at the opposite side of her desk, he watched her scan the screen, fingers clicking the mouse, opening files at random it seemed. When she appeared satisfied, she said, ‘Is that everything, DCI Gilchrist?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You’re holding nothing back?’
‘These are all the files pertaining to Stooky Dee’s murder investigation.’
‘Good.’
‘But to avoid any misunderstanding, you should know that I’ve made copies of—’
‘I thought I made it perfectly clear that this Office was to retain nothing associated with that murder investigation, meaning that no files were to be copied, and that the matter in its entirety was to be handed over to Strathclyde Police in full; emphasis on entirety and in full, DCI Gilchrist
. You did understand that?’
‘I did, ma’am, yes.’
‘So why did you not do as I instructed?’ She sat back and stared at him, as if stunned by the absurdity of it all, cheeks colouring from the effort, or at being embarrassed in front of the Chief Constable.
‘But I did, ma’am.’
Her gaze darted to McVicar, then back to Gilchrist. ‘Do enlighten me.’
He turned to McVicar. ‘I understand, sir, that your instruction was to hand deliver to Strathclyde Police all files relevant to the Stooky Dee murder investigation.’ He waited for McVicar to grunt agreement, before nodding to the folders on Smiler’s desk. ‘These folders and that flashdrive accomplish that. Other files and reports have been entered directly into the PNC, and are accessible by any force. So, everything has been done in accordance with your directive, sir.’
McVicar tilted his head back a touch, as if to study Gilchrist down the length of his nose. With some men that might be seen as condescension. With McVicar, it was the calm before the storm. ‘You haven’t answered Chief Superintendent Smiley’s question, Andy, as to why you copied files against her categorical instruction.’
‘With due respect, sir.’ He nodded to Smiler. ‘Ma’am. I made copies of only those files that relate to another case—’
‘What other case?’ Smiler snapped.
‘Joe Christie’s disappearance, ma’am.’
McVicar said, ‘Who’s Joe Christie?’
‘The owner of Brenda Girl.’
‘Did you say Brenda Girl?’
‘I did, sir, yes.’
‘What in the name of God is Brenda Girl?’
The irritation in McVicar’s tone warned him that he was pushing the man’s patience to the limit, maybe even beyond. But he did not take kindly to being ordered about so readily, and even less kindly to having jurisdictional precedence overruled. ‘It’s the fishing boat that washed up on Tentsmuir Beach with Stooky Dee’s body on board, sir. The boat’s name had been changed from Brenda Girl to Golden Plover.’
‘Well, in that case, it’s relevant to the ongoing murder investigation, is it not?’
‘It is, sir, yes.’
Smiler sighed. ‘What am I missing, DCI Gilchrist?’
‘I don’t think you’re missing anything, ma’am. The files I’ve copied are relevant to a missing person’s enquiry. Joe Christie’s not been seen for three years. His boat’s now turned up with its name changed, and no sign of Christie.’ He faced McVicar. ‘We believe Christie is dead, or more likely has been murdered for his boat, sir.’
‘And no one initiated an investigation at the time?’
‘The Anstruther Office did, sir, but got nowhere. I’ve already spoken to Christie’s widow who confirmed he was last seen heading east, and that was that. The fact that his boat ran aground on Tentsmuir Beach puts his disappearance into our jurisdiction, and nothing to do with the current murder investigation, sir. But if you want me to hand that case over to Strathclyde Police as well, then I would of course do so, although I would have to question the rationale for doing that. Sir.’
Well, there he’d said it. Laid the ball at their feet. McVicar’s gaze slid to Smiler, the files on the table, then back to Smiler, who sat stone-faced and silent. Gilchrist had never seen the Chief Constable so … how would you say it … undecided?
Smiler saved McVicar. ‘So, DCI Gilchrist, are you saying you’re going to look into this Joe Christie’s disappearance?’
‘His disappearance has never been solved, ma’am. So, with his boat turning up, albeit under a different name, I believe we now have a duty to reopen the case.’
She eyed him with suspicion, but McVicar beat her to it. ‘Tell me, Andy. What do you have that the Anstruther Office didn’t have years ago?’
‘Other than his boat, sir?’
McVicar grunted in annoyance, and said, ‘Obviously.’
Gilchrist didn’t want to mention the logbook. After all, it could turn up nothing. So he said, ‘A fresh pair of eyes, sir.’
‘Bit of a longshot, I’d say.’
‘Most cold cases tend to be, sir. But it would be worthwhile revisiting Anstruther’s files. And if we happen to come across anything remotely relevant to Strathclyde’s ongoing investigation, you would of course be the first to know, sir.’
McVicar narrowed his eyes, as if knowing he was being tricked, but couldn’t figure it out. ‘Very well, Andy.’ He turned to Smiler. ‘Diane?’
She looked lost for a moment, then said, ‘That’ll be all, DCI Gilchrist.’
‘One question before I go, ma’am.’
She frowned. ‘Yes?’
He faced McVicar. ‘I know that the murder victim lived in Glasgow, sir. Even so, the intervention of Strathclyde Police into a Fife Constabulary investigation is unusual, to say the least. My guess would be that it’s part of a larger investigation.’ He paused for feedback, but you didn’t become Chief Constable by being gullible. So he continued. ‘If I could hazard a guess, sir, it would be that Strathclyde’s investigation involves a major drug shipment.’
McVicar displayed his best poker face. ‘And your question is, Andy?’
‘Why not let Fife Constabulary assist, sir?’
It seemed a simple enough question, but the answer appeared to elude McVicar. ‘Keep me updated on the Joe Christie cold case,’ he said. ‘That’ll be all. Thank you.’
‘Very well, sir. Ma’am.’
Gilchrist turned and strode from the office, his mind burning with the need to push for more. But he and McVicar went back many years, and over time he had come to understand the subtleties of the Chief Constable’s psyche. The fact that McVicar had failed to deny or acknowledge Gilchrist’s comments told him that he was close to hitting the nail on the head, if he hadn’t already hammered it home. He opened the door, and closed it behind him, more certain than ever of his next step.
CHAPTER 21
Back downstairs, he caught Jessie’s eye and signalled for her to follow him outside.
In the car park, he walked straight to his BMW, had the engine running and the fan on high by the time Jessie slipped into the passenger seat. He slid into gear and eased through the pend into North Street. ‘Any luck with Mhairi?’ he asked.
‘They’ve been able to dry the logbook, but some entries have bled into others. So it’s all still a bit of a mess.’
Gilchrist cursed under his breath. What had he been expecting? A typed report with names, dates and signatures? ‘Find out where Mhairi is, and let’s check it out for ourselves.’
Mhairi’s friend lived in a modern split-level house on Balnacarron Avenue. One half of the double garage had been converted into a workshop of sorts, and he parked his BMW on a steep, bricked driveway.
He found Mhairi seated at a wooden workbench, jotting down notes. She stood when she saw him, and shouted, ‘Carol?’
A slender woman dressed in denim jeans and a white T-shirt, despite a cold draught funnelling into the workshop from an easterly wind, entered through a door that led to the other half of the garage.
Mhairi introduced the woman as Carol Granger, who gave him a firm handshake and a gap-toothed smile. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she said, then walked to the workbench, and took hold of a metal wheel that operated what looked like a pressing machine. ‘Managed to dry most of it out last night,’ she said, and turned the metal wheel.
The pressing machine clicked, and the top plate raised a tad from the floor.
At first Gilchrist didn’t understand what was happening. Not until Granger turned the wheel some more then leaned down to slide a solid piece of wood from under the top plate, did he notice the logbook. As if answering his unspoken question, Granger said, ‘If you don’t press it when you’ve first dried the pages, they can become distorted and illegible as they dry out completely. The press avoids that.’
She slipped on a pair of blue latex gloves, then removed the logbook from the press with care. Then she carried the logbook to a cleared
corner of the workbench covered with white butcher paper and overlain with paper towels. She placed the logbook onto the paper towels, and prised the hardcover open with such deliberate care that Gilchrist thought she was afraid the whole thing might evaporate into book dust.
She held the cover at right angles, as if not to break the spine, then eased it wider until the pages lay spread before them. At first glance, he thought it all looked legible, but a closer examination confirmed that ink on one page had bled into the opposite page, creating blurred hieroglyphics ringed with watermarks. It might all be legible, but it would clearly take time and effort to decipher.
‘Are the pages like that the whole way through?’ he asked.
‘Mostly.’ As if to prove her point, Granger peeled a clump of pages back to reveal similar inked hieroglyphics. ‘When you dry a book by interleafing, you don’t interleaf every page to begin with, just every dozen or so, or else you could distort the book, even split the spine. Once you’ve had a first go at it, you can then stand it upright in front of an oscillating fan. It’s good to use the press now and again, to restore the book’s shape.’
‘Have you been through every page now?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. It was pretty damp throughout. It takes time to dry out completely.’
‘How much time?’
‘Impossible to say. Every book is different.’
He struggled to cover his frustration. They were getting nowhere fast. ‘Can you show me the last entry?’ he said.
‘Here it is.’ She eased back the pages. ‘Twenty-fifth of October.’
Gilchrist slipped on a pair of latex gloves, then fingered the logbook, taking care as he turned over the pages, working his way back through time, examining them one by one. Each page was a printed form, identical in every way, with headed columns for Hours, Knots and Tenths – whatever they were. Another column with the heading Wind was subdivided into two thinner columns – Direction and Speed. Another for Barometric Pressure in Bars, and one for Temperature. But other than the date and time of entry, the only information noted in any of these columns was the wind direction and speed – NE 12; NNE 14; NNE 18. So much for keeping his logbook up to date, come hail or shine. Here was evidence to the contrary that not much maritime information had been logged at all.