by T F Muir
‘Becky? Not Dr Cooper?’
‘Becky,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Unless you want to start addressing me as DCI Gilchrist.’
‘Got it,’ she said, but Gilchrist doubted it.
By the time Gilchrist finished his debriefing – a difficult meeting because of Bill and Eilidh’s murders – it was almost 8.00 p.m. He waited until the bulk of his team left the room then said to the remaining few – Jessie, Mhairi, Dan, Nance – ‘I’m done for the day. Anyone fancy a pint?’
They all declined, except for Nance who said, ‘I’ll stay for a quickie,’ which brought a snorted chuckle from Jessie.
Gilchrist chose the Dunvegan Hotel.
He had not been there for a couple of weeks, and when he pulled up a stool by the bar, Sheena caught his eye with that welcoming white smile of hers and said, ‘The usual, Andy?’
‘You talked me into it.’
Nance ordered a Corona, and poked the lime down the neck.
Gilchrist took a sip of his pint then said, ‘Give Jessie time. She’ll grow on you.’
‘Yeah, like fungus.’
‘She’s a good addition to the team. Brings a lot with her.’
‘Particularly where weight’s concerned.’
‘Ouch,’ Gilchrist said, and thought it best just to take a sip. He waited until Nance returned her Corona to the bartop. ‘Just tell me to shut up if I’m becoming too personal,’ he said, ‘but do you ever see John now?’
‘Trying not to.’
The last Gilchrist had heard of Nance’s fiancé was that he had transferred to Northern Constabulary, which policed the Highlands and Islands, only to be suspended within six months. Once an adulterer, always an adulterer, he supposed.
‘A bit acrimonious in the end, wasn’t it?’ he said.
‘The understatement of the decade.’ She tilted her bottle his way. ‘How about you? How’s your love life?’
Well, he supposed he never should have started asking personal questions. ‘Mostly non-existent,’ he said.
‘I shouldn’t think Jessie would be your type.’
‘Other than the fact that she’s also a member of my team?’
‘Didn’t stop you before.’ Nance took a long swig, then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Andy. That was out of order. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Forget it, Nance. No offence taken.’
She turned to face him then, and he found his face flushing under the directness of her stare. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said.
‘I said forget—’
‘No, Andy. I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I’ve never apologised to you before. For the way I treated you. The way I just . . . it was . . . unkind of me.’ She held his gaze. ‘I’m sorry for that. You didn’t deserve it. You were always a gentleman to me, not . . .’ She took another sip.
‘Not like John?’
‘Definitely not like John,’ she said, and finished her Corona.
‘Would you like another?’
‘Only if you’re having one.’
‘I think I can be persuaded.’ He nodded to Sheena, indicated another round, then back to Nance. ‘If it’s any consolation,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t offended in the least. I enjoyed our time together but I always knew it would be short-lived.’
‘Why?’
‘Age difference for one, I suppose.’
‘And for two?’
He sipped his beer, returned it to the bar, and shook his head. ‘When you put it like that, I suppose there really wasn’t a two.’
Nance smiled, a clean smile that sent a surge of radiance through her, making him realise he had not seen her happy for weeks, maybe even months.
‘You should smile more often,’ he said. ‘It suits you.’
That comment seemed to knock both of them into silence, until the second round was served, and Nance said, ‘Did you ever think of leaving the force?’
‘When?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s a hell of a job we do. It’s not for the fainthearted.’ She gripped her beer. ‘In any normal day at the office, we’re exposed to things no human being should ever be exposed to. Sometimes it all seems too much.’
He did not want to say, You get used to it, but to survive as a detective you had to view murder victims with a dispassion verging on the inhuman. He eyed Nance over the rim of his glass. ‘Is that how you feel?’ he asked her. ‘That it’s all too much?’
She stared at the gantry. ‘I can’t believe Bill’s dead. Eilidh, too. He was only twenty-three. We had a drink in Lafferty’s last weekend, and Eilidh came along too.’ She dabbed a hand to her eyes. ‘And to see the pair of them on the beach with their . . . like that . . . I don’t know. It just seems . . .’ She shook her head, then buried her thoughts in her Corona.
Gilchrist said nothing, just turned his attention to his own pint.
Nance had not been herself the last several months. He had put it down to the demise of her relationship with John. Secretly, he had been pleased to learn of their break up, not because John had been the reason Nance ended her affair with him – in a strange way, he had been happy that it had ended – but because he had always seen John as a user of women, someone who never put into a relationship what he got out of it. But now Gilchrist realised that Nance’s break up with John had been only a part of her problems, and he worried that the job, or rather the gruesome aspect of it, was becoming too much for her.
‘I don’t mean to sound so morbid,’ she said, and eased closer so that her thigh slid along his. Then she smiled. ‘Would you like to come back for a nightcap?’ But something in his look must have surprised her, for she added, ‘I don’t mean in any . . . I’m sorry . . . it’s . . . it’s not appropriate . . . I shouldn’t have—’
‘Nance,’ he said, and waited until she returned his gaze. ‘If any over-keen journalist just happened to snap a picture of the two of us going back to yours, particularly after the day we’ve just had, it wouldn’t look good, would it?’
She gave a tight smile, shook her head.
He had never been one for slamming his doors, preferring to close them quietly, even leave them ajar – just a touch. ‘How about sharing a sandwich,’ he said, ‘and we can take a rain check on that nightcap.’ He raised his pint.
She nodded, sipped her Corona.
But if the truth be told, he really thought he had put his foot, probably both of them, smack dab in the middle of it.
CHAPTER 41
On the A917 to Crail, Gilchrist pushed the Merc up to eighty.
Fields either side glinted white under a clear sky. The road ploughs and gritters had been out earlier, and the road ahead lay clear and black under his headlights. Kinkell Braes Caravan Park zipped past on his left, a bit too fast, he thought, and he eased his speed back to a sensible sixty. The clock on his dash told him it was 11.37.
He turned up the radio when he caught the guitar strains of a song he had not heard for the longest time. His taste in music tended to be eclectic, and he preferred the sixties and seventies eras – the Eagles, the Kinks, Sade, Cream – rather than the mindnumbing disco beat of modern day. He tried to refocus on the murders of Bill and Eilidh.
But try as he might, his thoughts kept tugging him back to Nance.
It turned out that Nance’s fiancé, John, had been calling and texting as often as twenty times a day. He had even turned up on her doorstep one Sunday morning, about three months ago, begging her to take him back. Nance told him in her own way – she was known for the occasional string of expletives that could redden the cheeks of even the most time-hardened policeman – and the next day she had the locks changed, her Santander bank accounts moved to RBS, and even inquired about having a panic alarm installed in her bedroom.
Not what Gilchrist wanted to hear. Not at all.
‘And has John stayed away?’ he had asked her.
‘He’s getting the message.’
Gilchrist had made a mental note to call an old friend of his, DCI Tommy Coulson of Northern Constabula
ry, and have loverboy John stuffed back into his box. Their evening had ended with Nance thanking him for listening to her tales of misery and woe, then leaning forward and giving him a surprise peck on the cheek.
‘Later,’ she had said.
Not quite the come-on ciao of Rebecca Cooper, although Gilchrist had not failed to catch the temptress gleam in her eye. But Nance was one of his team, a valuable member at that, and he did not want to take, or be seen to be taking, advantage of her. He saw, too, how she was not the Nance of old – the occasional nervous giggle, the way she picked at her nails – and he came to understand that her psyche was more fragile than he had ever—
His phone rang.
He felt his heart leap to his mouth when he recognised the number.
DC Bill McCauley’s.
He slammed on his brakes.
The car’s tyres crunched and slid on the frosted grit as he jerked to a stop next to a farm gateway that could have been waiting for him. A quagmire of thoughts pulsed through his mind as he made the connection, his most immediate being that he did not want to scare the caller off – Bill’s mobile could have been picked up by a civilian who was calling the last recorded number in an attempt to return it. They might be able to lift prints off it, if it had not been handled too much.
Well, he had to live in hope, he supposed.
‘Andy Gilchrist here,’ he said.
Silence filled the line long enough for Gilchrist to think he had been cut off. He was about to ask again, when a voice said, ‘Detective Chief Inspector Andrew James Gilchrist?’
Ice fingered Gilchrist’s neck. But as he tried to work out how the caller knew his full name and rank, his subconscious was telling him that Bill would have had his number and full name logged into his mobile – another one of Bill’s quirks – and that the caller was reading the ID from the screen.
‘Speaking,’ he said. ‘Who’s this?’
‘You already know my name.’ A man’s voice, deep and clear, the words pronounced with the deliberation of a foreigner trying not to be misunderstood. ‘You and I need to meet.’
‘Who’s speaking?’ Gilchrist repeated.
‘You will remember the house in Kingsbarns,’ the man said, then gave Gilchrist the correct street address in case he pretended to have forgotten it.
Gilchrist stared at the phone, now in no doubt who he was talking to – Kumar.
‘You will park your Mercedes at the corner of Back Stile and North Carr. And you will walk to—’
‘Why?’
‘We need to discuss how to minimise interference from Fife Constabulary, as well as . . . how do I say it . . . find some way to keep you sweet—’
‘I don’t do bribes,’ Gilchrist said.
Kumar chuckled. ‘Everyone has a price, Mr Gilchrist.’
The fact that Kumar knew he drove a Mercedes suggested he had been on Kumar’s radar for some time, probably since the discovery of the body on the Coastal Path. Knowing everything about your enemy was one way of staying ahead. And Kumar was a master – Bill and Eilidh’s bodies were evidence of that. Gilchrist was being toyed with, but he had to press, keep Kumar on the line, see if he could find something he could use to his advantage.
‘Why don’t I just hang up?’
‘That is your prerogative, of course. But it would be foolish to do so. You first need to hear what I can give you,’ Kumar said, with barely a change in tone. ‘But only you. No one else. Once you’ve parked your Mercedes, you will walk to the house. We will be watching you, and if I suspect that you have not come alone, or that you have told someone about this call, then you will lose out on a financial arrangement that—’
‘You’re not listening. I don’t do bribes.’
‘Everyone can be bought, Mr Gilchrist.’
Gilchrist’s mind was racing, trying to work out what to do once the call ended. Kumar was a killer, a hunter, someone who knew how wild animals selected their prey, by separating the weak from the pack. Kumar wanted to meet him, not to discuss some sweetheart deal that would have him turn a blind eye while Kumar continued to kidnap, rape, sell or murder young girls at whim. That was not going to happen. No, Kumar had a different plan: he wanted to kill him, plain and simple.
Lights in the rearview mirror brightened the cabin for a dazzling moment as a van approached from behind, then faded as it passed. Just that momentary burst of light seemed to clear Gilchrist’s thinking, and tell him that he needed to hear all Kumar had to say before he could work out a plan.
‘And what do you think my price will be?’ Gilchrist said.
‘That is why we need to meet.’
‘We can do this over the phone.’
‘Then it would not become, how do I say it . . . personal.’
Gilchrist waited several beats, then said, ‘Where do you want to meet?’
‘Not over the phone, Mr Gilchrist. This has to be between you and me.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘At the house in Kingsbarns, at the front door, you will find two flowerpots. Under the flowerpot on the left is an envelope. In the envelope is a note that will tell you where we shall meet.’
‘How can you trust me to come alone?’ Gilchrist said.
Another chuckle, long and deep, with no trace of concern or fear. ‘You are on your way to your home in Crail. I know where you have been this evening, and I know who you have been with. I know where your children live, too . . .’
A hoof thudded Gilchrist in the gut.
‘Jack and Maureen,’ Kumar added, as if Gilchrist needed another snippet of proof that the man had him where he wanted. ‘So I think you will find it in your interests to meet me alone. Don’t you agree?’
Gilchrist tried to work spittle into his mouth but his tongue was as dry as cardboard. He dabbed sweat from his brow. He tried to think of some smart riposte but his mind could have belonged to someone else. ‘When?’ was all he could say.
‘You are no more than five minutes from Kingsbarns,’ Kumar said, which had Gilchrist glaring into the rearview mirror. The road behind lay clear, then his mind kicked alive and told him the van that had just passed must have been one of Kumar’s men.
Gilchrist pushed into gear, pressed the accelerator.
‘Once you find the note,’ Kumar continued, ‘it will take you only ten minutes or so to reach me.’
‘I’m on my way,’ Gilchrist said, and killed the call.
Gilchrist suspected he had likely been shadowed for most of the day. They had seen him tackle the media in Tayport, seen him with Nance in the Dunvegan, seen him drop her off at her flat, and followed him on his return home.
He gripped the steering wheel and pressed into the night. He tried to still an awful pounding in his chest which thumped its way to a pain behind his eyes. He jerked the neck of his shirt, tugged it open, took a deep breath. Christ, he had suffered less physical discomfort from running five kilometres.
What was happening?
But he knew what was happening. He was scared. The monotony of Kumar’s voice, and the unerring certainty with which he gave instructions, frightened him to his core. He was dealing with a man who knew no fear, who had killed before and would kill again, a man who could murder someone just to test the blade of a knife or to satisfy an itch, who took pleasure from watching the life fade from a victim’s eyes.
Gilchrist thought of calling for backup but feared that Kumar would keep to his word and seek revenge on his children. He could have his team try to locate where Kumar called from, but he had used Bill’s mobile just to let Gilchrist know who was calling. Bill’s SIM card would have been removed once again.
The mention of his children had been the final nail, the one piece of information that Kumar knew would have him following any instruction to the ends of the earth. Gilchrist eyed the dark tunnel of the road ahead, pushed his speed up to seventy, then eighty, and caught the glimmer of tail lights of the truck ahead.
He felt his grimace turn into a tight smile.
CHAPTER 42
But Gilchrist was unarmed, and once he caught up with the van, his fleeting sense of invincibility passed. He slowed down, sat well back, at least a dozen car lengths, and worked through his thoughts.
He now felt certain that Kumar was not working alone – we will be watching you. He suspected the van would be driven by the person who had fed information to Kumar on where he was – in your Mercedes . . . on your way to your home in Crail . . . no more than five minutes from Kingsbarns – all drip-fed to Gilchrist to instil fear. Well, Mr Kumar, if it’s fear you’re trying to instil, it’s working. You’ve got me scared, all right. But you’ve slipped up, and I’m just about to nail you.
Gilchrist devised a plan, which was simple. And clear.
He would drive to the cottage in Kingsbarns, collect the note that told him where to meet. But instead of driving to his rendezvous with Kumar, he would send in a team. In the meantime, if he did as Kumar suggested – park his car at the corner of North Carr View, then walk to the cottage alone – Kumar would think his plan was working.
But did Kumar really believe he was that stupid?
The cottage could be a trap, the note under the flowerpot the bait.
Kumar could have no intention of striking any deal. Perhaps he had someone hiding at the cottage, someone who would shoot him the moment he turned up on the doorstep. But as that scenario wormed through his brain, Gilchrist came to understand that shooting policemen was not Kumar’s style, beheading them was – witness Gordie, Bill and Eilidh.
That thought made up his mind for him.
He dialled the office and spoke to the duty officer.
‘Check the PNC for a white Transit van,’ he instructed, then read off the registration number of the van ahead. ‘And have someone from the Anstruther office pull it over, with extreme caution. The occupants are likely armed and dangerous.’
Having taken care of the van, he then called HQ Glenrothes and spoke to the SPOC – the single point of contact, the person in charge of the Control Room – and instructed him to have an ARV – armed response vehicle – maybe two, ready for quick deployment.