Dead Catch

by T F Muir

  What the bloody hell was he missing?

  What was so important about that damned logbook?

  Frustration surged through him as he failed to pull up an answer.

  But he couldn’t just hand it over without knowing what Shepherd needed to keep secret, could he? No, came the answer. Well, if he was going to exchange it for criminal evidence in the murder of Tommy Janes, he would need to have a copy made.

  He phoned Mhairi, but the memory of Granger handling the damaged logbook as if the pages were as delicate as a butterfly’s wings made him realise that she might damage it beyond repair. So, when she answered, he said, ‘I need you to prepare a record of Christie’s logbook. Go through each and every page and write down what’s on them. Word for word. Exactly. And I want a separate sheet for every page.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘And I need that for Monday morning.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, sir.’

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ he said, and ended the call.

  He hadn’t known how long it would take Mhairi to hand-copy the logbook, so he’d settled for the following morning. That was as late as he dared leave it, because Johnny had told him as he was being escorted from the King’s Arms, ‘If Mr Shepherd doesn’t have the logbook in his hands by tomorrow afternoon, then all deals are off.’ Something in Johnny’s tone warned Gilchrist of the critical importance of that time frame. So if Mhairi had it copied for the morning, he could have it hand-delivered to Shepherd by 3 p.m. Monday afternoon.

  Next, he called Jessie. ‘Did you get hold of Harvey Kenn?’

  ‘I did, yeah. I ran past him what you’d said, but he ummhed and aahed until I told him you needed answers by close of business tomorrow.’

  ‘How did that go down?’

  ‘Surprisingly smoothly, although he did ask who he should send the bill to.’

  Gilchrist pinched the bridge of his nose. With police forces around the nation being more and more cash-strapped, every unit, it seemed, was becoming more fiscally aware. As long as they had someone to pass the cost of their resources on to, their conscience could be considered clear. Well, if he was going to foot the bill, he’d better receive some benefit. ‘Get back to Harvey,’ he said, ‘and tell him I want something by midday tomorrow. Any later, and he can shove his bill anywhere he likes.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ she said, and ended the call.

  He kept to the inside lane as he drove across the Tay Bridge. Beneath him, the river slid seawards like some grey leviathan. Overhead, clouds spread like a jailer’s blanket to a dull horizon. He glanced at his dashboard – outside temperature 5 °C. It seemed improbable that Midsummer’s Day was only three months away. Well, that was if summer surfaced at all this year. He felt as if there was not much more he could do until he got back to the Office, so he decided to phone Maureen again on the number Jack had given him.

  To his surprise, a man’s voice said, ‘Yeah?’

  Gilchrist didn’t care much for the man’s tone, and said, ‘Put Maureen on.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s—’

  ‘Put her on.’

  The line fell silent with a clatter.

  He accelerated from the Tay Bridge roundabout and booted it up to 80 mph in no time. Two miles farther, the line still hung in empty silence, and he was about to disconnect when the speakers clattered, and Maureen said, ‘What’s up, Dad?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m with Derek.’

  ‘What I asked was – where are you?’

  ‘Why?’

  Gilchrist clenched his jaw. He cleared another roundabout and found himself racing along the A92 to Edinburgh as if he were late for a departing flight. He lifted his foot from the accelerator, let the car slow down, and forced his voice to sound neutral.

  ‘Because I’d like to take you and Derek out for a coffee.’

  ‘I’m not up for going out, Dad. Honestly.’

  ‘I could stop off in Starbucks, and bring you a coffee.’

  But Maureen seemed not up for talking.

  ‘You still take a skinny latte?’ he said. ‘What does Derek take? And we could share a blueberry muffin? I know you like these. Or maybe cranberry?’

  ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

  No, he wanted to say. I need to know what the hell is going on. But instead, he said, ‘I’m concerned, Mo. That’s all.’ He thought he caught a sniffle, and wondered if she was crying. ‘Talk to me, Mo. Tell me what’s up. I’m here to help, if you’ll only let me.’

  ‘You can’t help,’ she said. ‘It’s too late.’

  A freezing chill swept through him as if he’d just been flushed from head to toe with iced water. It’s too late. Too late for what? Some decision had been taken, and he could not stop his heart sinking from the knowledge of what that decision had been.

  It could mean only one thing.

  It was too late to save her pregnancy.

  Because …? Because … she’d had a termination?

  He edged into it with, ‘We have an appointment tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ She sniffed, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.’

  The line seemed to scuffle for a moment, as if a hand was brushing the mouthpiece. Then a man’s voice said, ‘This is Derek again, Mr Gilchrist—’

  ‘What’s your address?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Gilchrist, but Maureen doesn’t—’

  ‘Your address,’ he said with more force than intended.

  But the call ended with a heavy click.

  He cursed under his breath, and realised with a nip of annoyance that Jackie Canning hadn’t replied to yesterday’s text asking for a name and address to match the number. Well, it was the weekend he supposed, and everyone was entitled to some time off. So he dialled another number, and got through on the second ring. ‘It’s Andy Gilchrist.’

  ‘Andy? Long time, long time.’

  ‘Are you still in business, Dick?’

  ‘Doing a bit of ducking and diving. But what do you need?’

  Gilchrist read out the number he’d just phoned, and said, ‘Derek’s his first name. But I’m looking for full name and address. Can you do that in fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Should expect so. And would you like a printout of the last six months’ calls?’

  Gilchrist wasn’t interested in that at this stage, and said, ‘Just the name and address, and maybe highlight any obvious criminal history, if he has one.’

  ‘Let me get back to you.’

  The line died.

  Gilchrist settled down for the drive to Cupar, which was where Maureen had told him she was staying. It had been some time since he’d last contacted Dick. A retired policeman, Dick had set up a small business building websites, but in reality did anything related to IT and computers. He’d once tried to sell his services to the Home Office as a cyber security advisor, but turned down the offer because of the way the government twats had talked down to him. The fact he could provide recorded phone conversations of more or less anyone in the UK or abroad – most definitely illegal – and had already done that for Gilchrist at his request, Gilchrist kept to himself. Finding a name and an address for a UK mobile number would be a doddle for someone with Dick’s expertise.

  Sure enough, five minutes later Dick called back with the surname – Scollan – and an address in Provost Wynd in Cupar. Scollan’s driving licence was clean – three points for a speeding ticket ten years earlier had been cleared up. And as far as Dick could find, Scollan had no criminal history.

  Gilchrist gritted his teeth, and tapped Scollan’s address into his car’s GPS system.

  CHAPTER 38

  Cupar is an old sheep and cattle market town, with some nine thousand plus residents, and a level of employment well above the national average. The town centre has avoided the curse of modern-day town planners with their irrational desire to flatten and rebuild anything that didn’t fit in with their vision of modern living. Thankfully, many bui
ldings still retained their historical charm and character, although most of the old stone facades could do with a good sandblasting.

  Provost Wynd is a narrow road that runs perpendicular to Bonnygate, and bordered on one side along most of its length by two-and one-storey-high stone buildings. Scollan’s address was a terraced cottage that looked more rundown than its neighbours.

  Gilchrist rang the doorbell, and waited.

  The door opened with a sticky slap.

  A young man with a full beard and shorn head eyed Gilchrist with a look of suspicion.

  Gilchrist failed to offer a smile. ‘Derek Scollan?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m Maureen’s father.’

  ‘And?’

  Not quite the welcome he’d hoped for, but he kept his tongue in check, and said, ‘And I’m here to see her.’

  ‘She’s not well.’

  ‘So where did you get your medical degree?’

  Something akin to a flash of anger shifted across the man’s face, and without warning he stepped back and closed the door; not slammed shut, but pushed hard enough for Gilchrist to blink with surprise. He slapped his hand against the doorbell, and held it down.

  It took two minutes of non-stop ringing before the door opened.

  Scollan said, ‘You’d better come in.’

  Gilchrist pushed past him and strode into a dark living room.

  Seated in a chair next to a window with the curtains drawn, and swallowed in shadow, sat the figure of a woman slim enough to be Maureen. But she didn’t stand as he entered, or say anything as he walked past and opened the curtains.

  Light flooded the room.

  Scollan scowled at him from the doorway.

  Tucked up on one end of a corduroy sofa, surrounded by cushions, Maureen looked frail, almost helpless. Her face was alabaster white, her eyes swollen and reddened from too many tears. She seemed unable to return his gaze. Without invitation, he sat beside her and placed an arm around her.

  She fell into him.

  Her body shivered as she sobbed, and he hugged her tighter, buried his lips in her hair and whispered, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’ They sat like that for a couple of minutes, then he let his hand slide free as he relaxed his grip.

  She sniffed, ran a hand under her nose.

  ‘Are you able to talk?’

  She sniffed again, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Dad, it’s … I couldn’t … I didn’t want …’

  ‘I know you didn’t want to,’ he said. ‘I know.’ He had a sense that with each passing second she was regaining self-control. He retrieved his arm and gave her some space. ‘Are you in any pain?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Discomfort?’

  ‘A bit.’ She untucked her legs with a frown, and said, ‘I’m OK.’

  He watched the glimmer of tears well once more in her eyes, and felt his heart go out to this woman, this child, this daughter of his whom he’d known her entire life. He would do anything in his power to help her. But at that moment he felt utterly helpless.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  He gave a smile of understanding, took hold of her hand, and just sat with her for several silent minutes until he sensed she was recovering. ‘Can I drive you home?’ he said.

  She glanced at Scollan still standing in the doorway, and he wondered how big a part the man had played in his daughter’s decision. He squeezed her hand, and said, ‘Only if you want me to.’

  She seemed to catch his emphasis, and nodded.

  He helped her to her feet, conscious of Scollan no longer in the doorway – where had he gone? – and said, ‘Where are your things?’

  ‘Derek’s gone to fetch them.’

  As if on cue, Scollan returned from the depths of the cottage carrying a large canvas holdall, which he held out for Gilchrist to take.

  Maureen shook free from his grip, and said, ‘Let me freshen up.’

  Alone with Scollan, Gilchrist said, ‘Did she see a doctor?’

  Scollan shook his head. ‘No. Pills.’

  ‘She took them herself?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How many?’

  Scollan shrugged as if he didn’t care, or perhaps more correctly, didn’t know.

  Gilchrist tightened his grip on the holdall. ‘She get them from you?’

  Scollan’s lips pressed into a white line, giving Gilchrist his answer. He made a silent promise to look into Scollan’s past, and was saved from doing something he might regret by Maureen returning from the bathroom. Without a word, he led her from the room. When they stepped outside, the door closed behind them with a dull thud.

  So much for farewell and good wishes.

  On the road back to St Andrews, Gilchrist said, ‘Derek said he gave you some pills.’

  She turned away, stared out the side window.

  ‘Where did he get them?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dad.’

  ‘Does he work in the NHS?’

  ‘Used to.’

  Used to. Which told him that Scollan had past colleagues who could provide abortion pills without scrutiny. But why Maureen would acquire them from someone as unfriendly as Scollan, rather than by prescription through the NHS, was another question altogether.

  ‘How many did you take?’

  ‘One on Friday, another on Saturday.’ She adjusted herself on the seat. ‘Can we talk about something else?’

  He waited until he had left the town limits and was accelerating on the A91 before he reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘You look exhausted,’ he said. ‘I think you should keep tomorrow’s appointment.’

  ‘What good would that do?’

  ‘You could be given an examination. Make sure everything’s all right.’

  ‘I’m fine, Dad. Really, I am.’

  ‘I thought you said you were three months’ pregnant.’

  ‘I thought I was.’

  Well, there he had it. What little he knew about the abortion pill was that it was not to be taken after the tenth week. And like fog clearing, the answer revealed itself to him. Maureen’s ex-fiancé, Tom, was not the father. Derek Scollan was. And because of that, he thought he now understood why she had elected to self-terminate.

  ‘Derek’s married, isn’t he?’

  The stiffening of Maureen’s body told him all. Scollan was married, could even have a family of his own. Maybe his infidelity would have come to light if Maureen had gone to an NHS doctor, something Scollan had not wanted to risk. So he’d acquired pills on the side, and taken care of his domestic problem on the QT.

  ‘How long have you known Derek?’ he asked.

  ‘Just leave it, Dad. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine. I’m moving forward. What’s done’s done. And I can’t undo it.’

  No, you can’t, he thought to himself. No one can undo the past.

  Which was a pity, because he still struggled to come to terms with not having been there for his children when they were growing up. He’d let work interfere with his family life and keep him away from home at a time when his children needed a father. And that absence from home had been the root cause of the demise of his marriage. But even now, when his children were adults and living close by, he still seemed unable to communicate with them.

  He bit his tongue and drove on, Maureen’s sullen silence suffocating the air.

  CHAPTER 39

  Monday, 10.33 a.m.

  North Street Office

  When the break in Gilchrist’s investigation came, it hit from out of the blue.

  He’d hoped – despite the ridiculous odds – that Harvey Kenn of the Constabulary’s Financial Investigation Unit might have been able to provide them with bank account details by backing them out of the numbers in Tommy’s notebook. But he hadn’t heard from Kenn that morning, and attempts by Jessie and others to contact him had all but fallen on deaf ears or been abandoned in voicemail dumps.

  And Mhairi’s handwritten copy of Joe Christie’s logbook hadn’t
solved the mystery. Yesterday’s meeting with Shepherd had ended with the understanding that Gilchrist would hand-deliver the logbook in exchange for evidence on Tommy’s killer, evidence that big Jock swore would be irrefutable. The first of several problems Gilchrist had with that arrangement was that only he and a select few knew of the logbook’s existence, and that by not entering it as a piece of evidence they had violated investigative protocol, punishable by suspension or, more likely, termination with immediate effect. The second problem was that handing over the logbook to a known criminal could be described as an indefensible action bereft of logic or reason. Another problem was that he could not for the life of him figure out what was so important about the logbook in the first place. Mhairi had copied its contents letter for letter, number for number, and he still found himself struggling with the concept of exchanging it in blind faith.

  And, of course, there was one more problem to overcome, one that might not raise its head until after he’d divested himself of the logbook, and that was the question Smiler would surely ask – how had he obtained such irrefutable evidence? But beneath it all lay the biggest problem, which was – could he really trust Jock Shepherd, knowing that he was a murderous psychopath who’d always managed to stay one step ahead of the law and never been brought to justice, whether or not he was terminally ill?

  Christ, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  These thoughts were pulsing through his mind as he read Mhairi’s notes once again, words and numbers blurring on the pages from boredom, when an entry tripped up his gaze. He skipped back a few lines and read that entry again. Set course for south-south-east. Wind NE09. Then the next line – Wind NE01 – and the line below that – Wind NE26. He frowned as he studied these wind speeds. Not that he knew much about the intricacies of a north-east wind at sea. Rather, he’d seen these entries before, the exact same wind speeds.

  He flipped through the pages, almost panting with excitement, and found the page he was looking for. He read the wind speeds – NE09; NE01; NE26 – then the entry immediately following – Depth 206 – followed by a series of numbers that he’d first read as the longitude and latitude at the time of entry. And at that moment, he came to understand what he’d been looking at, but not seeing. He flipped back through Mhairi’s notes, working from the earliest entries, jotted down other wind speeds. He was still not sure if his theory was just a stab in the dark, but if he could locate other groups of identical numbers he felt sure he’d found the answer to what they’d been looking for.