by T F Muir
‘A concession for birthdays.’
‘Just yours? Or everyone’s?’
Jack gave Gilchrist’s arm a playful slap, then his gaze brightened as a shooter was pushed across the bar. He picked it up and passed it under his nose like a wine connoisseur sampling the bouquet of some vintage batch. ‘Oh man, it’s been a while.’
Gilchrist smiled. ‘A month, you said.’
‘A month too long.’
Give Jack his due. He didn’t throw it back in a oner like days of old, but held onto it until the Deuchars arrived along with another glass of blackcurrant-something that rattled with ice.
Kris lifted her glass, chinked it against Jack’s. ‘Happy birthday, min kärlek. Skål.’
Jack tapped his shooter to the others, said, ‘Skål,’ then downed it.
In an odd sort of way, Gilchrist was relieved to see that things hadn’t changed too much for Jack. He took a sip of his pint, and smiled at Kris. ‘Was that Swedish?’
‘You speak Swedish?’
He shook his head. ‘Just recognised skol. From the beer. But you lost me with the min korlik.’
She chinked her glass to his. ‘Min kärlek. It means – my love.’
‘Ah,’ he said. Well, there it was. Hooks already into his son, and no doubt telling him she loved him. Meanwhile, Jack had attracted the bartender’s attention, and with pint in hand was ordering another shooter. Gilchrist tapped Jack’s pint glass. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Hey, Andy,’ he said, and pulled in a mouthful that took the pint to halfway. Then he rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. ‘Have I missed that, or what?’
‘It’s good to cut back every now and again.’
Jack laughed, then said, ‘You’re never going to change, are you? You went on at me for years about drugs. And now it’s alcohol.’ He faced Gilchrist, as if squaring up to him. ‘I don’t take drugs any more. I’ve told you that. But I drink alcohol, and I’ll continue to drink alcohol—’
‘Except when you don’t.’ He flickered his eyes at Kris.
Jack gave a sad smile, and nodded. ‘Except when I don’t.’ He took another mouthful, turned to the bar, and picked up his second shooter. He tapped Gilchrist’s pint. ‘Sláinte,’ and threw it back as if to prove his point.
Kris caught Gilchrist’s eye, and held up her purple glass. ‘Blackcurrant juice,’ she said. ‘I’m driving.’
‘If you can’t stay for a bite to eat,’ Jack said, ‘we’ll just head off to Dundee.’
The change in tack surprised Gilchrist, but he said, ‘What’s on in Dundee?’
‘Some of my stuff’s being shown there. And Kris has set up a meeting with an agent up from London.’
Gilchrist felt as if he’d just been blind-sided, that he’d stuck his foot in it with Jack once again, and failed to live up to whatever image his son had of him – fatherly figure, sage older man, guiding light or just plain old drinking companion. He chinked his glass against Jack’s in an attempt to bring him back onside. ‘Well, that’s good news, right? Great, even. The chance to sell your stuff in London. After London, then what? New York?’
Despite Gilchrist’s forced bonhomie, Jack seemed disinterested, patting his jacket with both hands. A flush of disappointment swept through Gilchrist at the thought of Jack having started smoking again – worst thing you can do for your health, he’d told him.
Then Kris held up a set of car keys, and shook them. ‘You already gave them to me.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Thought you didn’t drive,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Kris’s giving me lessons.’ Jack slipped his hand into his inside pocket, and removed a piece of paper. ‘Here,’ he said, and handed it to Gilchrist. ‘Mo wants you to call her.’
Gilchrist took it, nothing more than a run of numbers scribbled onto what looked like a torn-off envelope flap. ‘What’s this?’
‘Mo’s number.’
He had a great memory for numbers, but this one meant nothing to him. ‘Does she have a new mobile?’
Jack shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say. She just phoned and asked me to give you this number and tell you to call her on it.’
Gilchrist frowned in response.
‘There’s no criminal subterfuge going on here,’ Jack said. He gave a short guffaw, and lifted his pint and finished it with a flourish. Then he pushed the empty glass across the bar, and turned to Kris. ‘Right, min kärlek. Is that us?’
Kris placed her half-finished drink on the bar, then hooked an arm through Jack’s.
Jack gave Gilchrist one of his high-fives, albeit shoulder-high, and a half-hearted hug that turned into little more than a weak shoulder-bump. ‘Catch you.’
‘Yes, stay in contact.’
But Jack and Kris were already pushing through the Saturday afternoon crowd.
Gilchrist said nothing, just watched his son walk away from him without a backward glance, and thump through the swing doors into Market Street. He turned to the bar, rested an elbow on it, tried to take in some football match being played in silence on one of the corner TVs high on the wall. He sipped his beer, but it was as tasteless as dishwater, and on impulse he placed his pint on the bar and left the pub.
A cold wind rushed along College Street, forcing him to put his hands into his pockets and keep his head down. In North Street, instead of turning towards the Office, he crossed the road and walked towards the Cathedral ruins. Something about the manner in which Jack left the pub troubled him. The suddenness with which he seemed to turn against him, as if he’d had enough of being told what to do, and was a man who now stood no nonsense. Of course, if he thought back to their childhood, and how seldom he’d been there for Jack or Maureen – some days not seeing them at all, only as sleeping children in bed in the morning, and sleeping children to be kissed goodnight on his return – it should be no surprise that Jack could live without a father in his life.
He kept walking, fighting off a cold shiver that threatened to have his teeth chattering like a clockwork toy. Spring in Scotland. It could be winter anywhere else on the planet. Why didn’t he just hand in his notice, pack a suitcase and head off to warmer climes? He was past trying to climb up the professional ladder. Earlier fuck-ups in his career had put paid to that. But here he was again, working his arse off, pleading with the boss to give him a few extra days so he could move his investigation forward. And all for what? So Smiler could hand the whole thing over to Strathclyde Police at McVicar’s pleasure, with some more hard-earned investigative summarising?
Talk about a thankless profession.
He found himself standing at the metal fence on East Scores, which overlooked the black rocks at the foot of the castle ruins. The tide was out, the sea dark, waves pummelling the shore in their endless cycle, just as they would continue to do until eternity. He gripped the fence, loving the feel of cold steel against the hot flush of his body.
Was he coming down with something? Or just tired from working too many long hours? Maybe Jack was right. Maybe it really was time to call it a day. He closed his eyes, breathed in the cold air, the salty smell of kelp. Still he could not shift that ominous feeling that he’d somehow upset Jack. He’d forgotten it was his birthday – how had he managed to let that happen? – and had to take a moment to work out how old his son was. Twenty-five today? He hissed out a curse. How could that be? Where had the years gone? It seemed that Jack and Maureen had been children one week, then adults the next, and all the while he’d been working in Fife Constabulary, the proverbial hamster on the wheel, running faster and faster, and getting nowhere.
Well, not exactly nowhere. It always amazed him how the subconscious worked, how the thought of one thing led to the thought of another, working away deep in the back of his brain somewhere, until it popped out as an answer to some unasked question.
He removed his mobile from his pocket, and phoned Jessie.
‘How did you get on with Smiler?’ she asked him.
Gilchrist hid his surprise, and said, ‘You m
ust have eyes in the Office.’
‘Not really. Just logic. Smiler’s proving herself to be difficult to slip anything by.’
Well, he couldn’t argue against that. ‘I told her I’ve taken you off the case,’ he said. ‘It being too personal and all that.’ Jessie exhaled, a sigh or a curse he couldn’t say. ‘She said she’s under pressure from McVicar to have Strathclyde take this case over, too.’
‘Ah, for crying out loud, why’s she letting them run all over her?’
‘Maybe she’s trying to get in with those at the top.’
‘And when she does, she’ll find out they pull on their knickers and pants one leg at a time, just the same as we do.’
‘Joking aside,’ Gilchrist said. ‘How are you keeping?’
‘You mean about Tommy?’
He nodded to himself. ‘I know you didn’t get on, but he was still your brother.’
The line remained silent for several seconds, then she said, ‘D’you know, Andy, if it wasn’t for that wasted piece of pisshead shit we had for a mother, Tommy might’ve turned out all right, maybe even made something of himself.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t know if this is true or not, but the old dear used to go on about how she was Peter Manuel’s illegitimate child, the baby girl he never knew he had. But d’you know what I think? I think she was full of shit. I think she just said that to try to be someone bigger than she really was, the drunken trollop.’
Dainty had mentioned this rumour to Gilchrist, too, before Jessie moved to Fife from Strathclyde. Peter Manuel was the last man to be hanged in Barlinnie Prison back in the 1950s for a series of murders. As the alleged grandsons of an infamous serial killer, both Terry and Tommy Janes would have earned kudos in the backstreets of Glasgow’s dark ganglands.
‘But she was your mother, too,’ he said. ‘And look how you turned out.’
‘It was different for boys,’ she said. ‘You should’ve seen the beatings Tommy used to get as a boy. And all because of that bitch for a mother.’
The line fell silent again, which gave him the chance to move on to the purpose of his call. ‘But Tommy was getting out,’ he said. ‘He’d found a woman, and wanted to make a new life for him and her.’ He let a couple of beats pass, then said, ‘Does Izzy know about Tommy?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘as you’re officially not involved in his murder investigation, it might be the decent thing for you to offer Izzy your heartfelt condolences.’
A couple of beats, then Jessie said, ‘You know, Andy, you’re a sneaky bastard at times. But I like you.’
Gilchrist felt a smile tug his lips. ‘So you’ll do it?’
‘Already got my car keys in hand.’
‘Get back to me if you come up with anything new.’
‘You bet I will.’
The line died.
Gilchrist shoved his free hand into his pocket, his fingers brushing Jack’s scrap of paper. He removed it, read the number, then phoned Maureen.
CHAPTER 31
Something in the way Maureen answered his call, a hint of tension in her tone, told Gilchrist she was not alone. ‘I met Jack today,’ he said. ‘He gave me this number. Did you buy a new mobile?’
‘It’s someone else’s.’
He held on, waiting for her to offer more. But it seemed as if she wasn’t for letting him in on her secret. ‘Anyone I know?’ he tried.
‘I shouldn’t think so, Dad.’
Well, what had he expected? ‘You wanted me to call?’ He stared off into the distance, waiting for her to respond. Gulls swept by on stiff cliff breezes, floating at a standstill in one direction, wheeling at reckless speed in the other. A silhouette for a ship dotted the horizon.
‘Charlie’s dead.’
For a moment, the name confounded him. Then he had it. ‘What happened, Mo? He wasn’t that old, was he?’
‘He got run over yesterday.’
How had Charlie made it to the street? he wanted to ask. Maureen lived in a top-floor flat, and never let her cat outside, other than on the open kitchen windowsill, from where he would leap onto the roof of the adjacent extension. But this was a cat they were talking about. Of course Charlie would find his way to the ground, and eventually to the street.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ What else could he say?
She sniffed, and said, ‘So I’m staying at a friend’s for a few days.’
At the age of six, Maureen lost her first pet, Scruffy, a white Highland terrier and a nippy-tempered wee rascal who’d been attacked and killed by a pair of Dobermann pinschers. At the time, Gilchrist thought Scruffy with his snappy manner must have worked the larger dogs into a fury. But when he found Scruffy’s bloodied carcass lying soaked and broken in his front garden, he realised that no amount of canine nipping could justify being savaged to death like that. He’d hidden Scruffy’s body from Maureen, wrapped it in an old towel and carried it to the boot of his car, to be buried in farmland on the outskirts of St Andrews. To this day, he’d never told Maureen the truth, only telling her that wee Scruffy must have run away from home.
Even at such a young age, Maureen never believed him. It was as if she could see through him, even then, and for the following month she refused to enter the kitchen where Scruffy’s basket had been. With Charlie now having been run over, he could understand why Maureen didn’t want to stay at home.
But it didn’t explain why he was calling her on someone else’s number.
‘What happened to your own mobile?’ he asked.
‘I left it in my flat.’
‘Want me to pick it up and bring it to you?’
‘It’s OK, Dad. I just wanted to tell you that my hospital appointment’s been pulled forward to first thing Monday. I know you’re busy, but you said you would come with me.’
He could almost hear her holding her breath, waiting for him to confirm if he could take her or not. He was up against it if he wanted to keep Strathclyde away from Tommy Janes’s murder investigation, and Smiler’s voice was echoing in his mind – Don’t let me down. First thing Monday was not a good time, and hospital appointments were renowned for overrunning their allotted time. But was there ever a good time during working hours to take care of personal business?
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘When would you like me to pick you up?’
A hand brushed over the mouthpiece, then she came back with, ‘Can you pick me up in Cupar?’
He struggled to hide his surprise. ‘Not a problem. When and where?’
‘I’ll get back to you tomorrow. Thanks, Dad. You’re a sweetheart. Love you.’
‘Love you, too, princess. See you Monday.’
When the call ended, he accessed Jackie Canning’s mobile number from his phone’s memory. He tapped in Maureen’s latest number, the one he’d just called, and added – Name and address? He sent the text, then stuffed his mobile into his pocket and headed back to the Office.
Inchkeith Drive, Dunfermline
2.14 p.m.
Jessie parked half-on half-off the pavement, almost on the same spot she’d parked a couple of nights ago. The rain-soaked street looked even more desolate in daylight hours, the homes more rundown. Izzy’s house was four doors along on the opposite side, and seemed in a better state of repair than Jessie had first thought. At least the hedge looked trimmed.
She switched off the engine, was about to step outside, when Izzy’s door opened and a man in denim jeans and heavy winter jacket strode down the slabbed path. The door closed behind him, and without so much as a backward glance he slid behind the wheel of an Audi. Seconds later, the car drove off, laying down a contrail of white exhaust in the cold afternoon air. Jessie noted the number plate before it rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Then she sat tight, wondering if Izzy was at home by herself.
But after ten minutes, no one else appeared.
At Izzy’s front door, she stood on the step, her
heart heavy with what she was about to do. On the drive from St Andrews she’d tried to work out how best to break the news, if she should just blurt it out or play it gently. In the end, she realised that she didn’t really know Izzy, or how she felt about Tommy, and decided it would be best if she showed her a certain level of sympathy.
She rang the doorbell.
A few seconds later, the locks clicked, and the door cracked open.
Izzy stood before her, wearing the same oversized cardigan as she had the other night. Light-grey sweatpants made her look slim, rather than anorexic skeletal. A pair of new-white trainers clashed with the dilapidated look. But dark shadows under eyes that stared back at her, wet and raw, warned Jessie that Izzy had been crying.
‘What d’you want?’ she said.
‘Can I come in?’
‘What for?’
Jessie had no way of knowing if Izzy already knew about Tommy’s murder, but the pained look in her eyes made her mind up for her. ‘Tommy was my brother,’ she said. ‘He was family.’
Izzy’s eyes welled, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
Jessie ventured one foot over the threshold, and breathed a sigh of relief as Izzy took a step back to let her in.
The hallway was dark, the walls a woodchip cream devoid of pictures or photographs, as if Izzy had no interest in family history, or the outside world. Without invitation, Jessie walked along the hallway and into a kitchen redolent of burnt toast. She made her way to a spot in the corner, where she stood with her back to a small radio from which the tinny tones of some DJ she didn’t recognise announced the next song. A couple of empty mugs stood on the draining board by the sink, along with two side plates. Whoever the man had been, he’d at least been invited to have tea and a slice of toast.
Izzy headed straight for the kettle – maybe the man who’d left had put in a new fuse. Drumming water drowned out the music, and Jessie said nothing as Izzy dropped two teabags into a ceramic teapot blackened with crazed cracks. Then she pottered about the sink, lifted a plate, put it back down, wiped her hands on a filthy dish towel, and hung it back over the oven door.
Finally, she looked at Jessie. ‘They said he’d been tricked.’