The Killing Connection

by T F Muir

  ‘Well well well,’ Wilson said. ‘If it isn’t Mr Gilchrist.’

  ‘You’ve got to stop flashing your cock around town, Lex. You’re scaring the locals.’

  Wilson’s mouth opened to reveal teeth as yellow as a sewer rat’s. ‘What’s the harm in that? I’m only airing my privates, that’s all.’

  It annoyed Gilchrist that Wilson was taking pleasure from what he perceived as shock value, so he decided to keep it short. He nodded to Jessie, who clicked on the recorder.

  ‘We’re going to record this interview.’

  ‘Anything to save the trees, Mr Gilchrist.’

  As a matter of formality, Gilchrist gave his and Jessie’s name and rank, adding that Lex Wilson had, ‘Agreed to be interviewed of his own free will. And I am obliged to inform you, that you do not have to answer any questions and are free to leave any time you like. But it would be helpful if you could assist us.’

  ‘Always here to help my friends in Fife Constabulary.’

  ‘Kandy,’ Gilchrist said. ‘With a K.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Oh yes indeed.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I was hoping you could answer that.’

  ‘Answer what? Youse huvnae asked a question.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘Huvnae a clue.’

  Well, it was worth a shot. ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘A week ago. Why?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the Mayview Hotel.’ Wilson’s eyes sparkled. ‘Did somebody plug her?’

  ‘Plug her?’

  ‘Yeah, give her one against her wishes.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Gilchrist leaned closer. ‘You know something, do you?’

  Wilson backed off. ‘See? This is why I don’t trust youse lot. Youse’re always trying to fit me up.’

  Gilchrist raised his hands in surrender. ‘Nobody’s trying to fit anybody up, Lex. So why don’t you stop asking questions, and just answer mine? That way, nobody’ll get upset, and we’ll be out of here in a jiffy. OK?’ He waited for the hint of a nod then said, ‘When you saw Kandy with a K in the Mayview Hotel, was she with anyone?’

  ‘A boyfriend, like?’

  ‘Anyone.’

  ‘She had a mate with her. A right tidy bird. Slim. Nice shape.’ He ran his hands over an imaginary waist and hips. ‘Tits not too big, not too small.’

  Which could be the woman on the rocks, or a good percentage of women in Fife.

  ‘Stein fancied her rotten.’

  ‘Stein? Who’s Stein?’

  ‘My mate, Jock.’

  ‘Jock Stein?’

  ‘Jock Fletcher. Stein’s his nickname. After the Celtic manager, Jock Stein. Get it?’

  Jessie opened a file and slid the E-fit of the dead woman across the table. ‘Is this the right tidy bird Kandy with a K’s mate with the nice tits?’ she said.

  Wilson’s gaze slipped sideways as he took in the photo. ‘Could be,’ he said, ‘but I widnae be sure. I wisnae paying her much attention. No my type. I prefer my coffee with nae milk.’ He winked. ‘If youse get my drift.’

  Gilchrist caught the emphasis. ‘Are you saying Kandy’s of ethnic origin?’

  Wilson sniggered. ‘Of ethnic origin? I like that.’ He leered at Jessie’s chest. ‘Kandy has a right pair of tits on her, too, with nipples like plum saucers.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Jessie said, which brought Wilson back to earth.

  ‘She puts it about a bit.’

  ‘Certainly not your way, by the looks of things.’

  Wilson scowled and scrubbed his chin, as if stung.

  Gilchrist said, ‘So what ethnicity is Kandy?’

  ‘Indian.’

  ‘She here on a visa?’

  ‘Naw, she’s as Scottish as youse lot.’

  ‘And she lives in St Monans?’

  Wilson picked his nose, shook his head.

  ‘I take it that’s a Don’t know.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So, if we wanted to find this Kandy with a K,’ Gilchrist said, ‘where would be the best place to look?’

  Wilson shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know. Ask around. Somebody’ll be plugging her.’

  Despite Wilson giving them a basic description of Kandy – average height, neither fat nor thin, brown eyes, big tits – without a photograph or surname, they could be chasing shadows. The staff in the Mayview Hotel confirmed that several ethnic women drank there from time to time, but none of them knew a Kandy – with a K – or recognised the E-fit image.

  ‘I don’t think either of them are from here,’ Jessie said.

  Gilchrist nodded. Jessie was right. His murder investigation was going nowhere fast.

  Back in St Monans, they spent the next hour being debriefed by each of the door-to-door teams. A number of locals thought they recognised the dead woman, but when pressed, seemed to lose confidence in their recall. The team assigned to the caravan park – WPC Anne Bryson and PC Craig Morton – confirmed that about one in four caravans were occupied, with the others locked up, and that no one they spoke to recognised the E-fit.

  ‘Right,’ Gilchrist said to Jessie. ‘Get Jackie to make a list of the caravan owners – names, addresses, phone numbers, the works – and the names of recent and current tenants, short-term, long-term, holiday rentals, whatever. And get her to check the voting register.’

  Then he turned to Bryson and Morton. ‘Visit local property management companies, and see if they’ve got anyone from out of town on their books. Start with companies in St Monans, then move to Anstruther, and let me know how you get on by close of business.’ He glanced at his watch – after 4 p.m. – and said, ‘Make that midday tomorrow. So jump on it. We’re looking for this woman, Kandy with a K, which can’t be common.’

  Jessie ended her call to Jackie, and faced Gilchrist. ‘You know, I’m thinking that we’re putting a lot of trust into Lex Wilson’s statement.’

  That was always the problem, relying on the statement of a petty criminal like Wilson, known by the local police for being drunk and disorderly and flashing his cock in public, not to mention a prior conviction for underage prostitution. Bloody hell. He could be leading them up a blind alley just for the sake of having someone to talk to.

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,’ he said. ‘If Kandy with a K lives around here, we’ll find her. But if Lex is making her up, then he won’t have to worry about being charged with flashing his cock in public ever again, because I’ll have it and his balls deep fried.’

  ‘Ouch,’ Jessie said.

  Then a sudden thought hit him, the clarity of its logic so simple that he wondered if his brain was losing its ability to join two disparate but coherent thoughts together.

  He turned to Jessie. ‘Kandy with a K?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘And Jock Fletcher told you that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  She frowned at him. ‘Because I asked him?’

  ‘No. I mean, why – with a K? You meet a woman in a bar, you introduce yourself to her – and then what happens?’

  ‘Are we talking about Jock Fletcher meeting Kandy with a K for the first time?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Well, let’s see. If I was being chatted up by baby-face Fletcher, I’d say – piss off, and come back when you can grow a beard.’

  ‘But what if Kandy didn’t give him the cold shoulder. What would she have said?’

  ‘Hi. I’m Kandy with a K—’

  ‘That’s it. Right there. You wouldn’t say that. You’d say – I’m Kandy.’

  ‘So how would he know it began with a K?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  One beat, two beats, then, ‘Shit,’ Jessie said. ‘She gave Jock a business card.’

  ‘And if he got her name, he’s got her address and number, too.’

  �
��That wee bastard,’ she hissed. ‘He never mentioned that.’

  ‘Give me directions,’ he said, and slid in behind the steering wheel.

  CHAPTER 9

  But Jock Fletcher wasn’t at home.

  A young woman with jet-black hair and matching tights that covered anorexic legs answered the door – no wedding ring. Fletcher’s girlfriend? ‘He’s probably gone to the pub to get pished again,’ she said. Air as fetid as a blocked sewer pipe wafted down the hallway. A child wailed from the depths of the home. She turned and shouted over her shoulder, ‘Shut it, you. Or I’ll bloody well gae you something to cry about.’

  The child cried louder.

  ‘Which pub?’ Jessie asked her.

  ‘Do I look like I’m a fucking psychic?’

  ‘But if you were,’ Gilchrist intervened, ‘what pub would you put your money on?’

  ‘The Ship.’

  ‘In Anstruther?’

  ‘And when you find that good-for-nothing drunk, tell him his dinner’s getting served to the dug.’ The door closed with a hard clatter.

  But Jock Fletcher wasn’t in the Ship Tavern. Or Legends. Or the Old Bank House either. They struck lucky in the Dreel Tavern, or more correctly, as they were searching for a parking spot. Gilchrist had just pulled off the road on to a tiny parking area that fronted the pub, when Jessie said, ‘That’s him,’ and leaped from the car before it came to a stop.

  Gilchrist followed, catching up with her as she grabbed a slip of a lad by the shoulder and brandished her warrant card. ‘Hold it there, Jockie boy.’

  Panic flashed across Fletcher’s face. ‘What the fuck . . .?’

  Gilchrist said, ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘You’ve always got choices,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Just don’t make mistakes with them.’

  ‘I done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  Fletcher looked down, scuffed his shoes on the ground. When he next looked up at Gilchrist, his eyes had welled. ‘Is it Lex that done me in?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  But Fletcher only shrugged his puny shoulders.

  ‘We can talk here, or in the car,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Your choice.’

  Another shrug. ‘Here’s fine.’

  ‘Is the child yours?’

  ‘Whit child?’

  ‘The child crying its eyes out back home.’

  Fletcher gobbed off to the side. ‘Wee bitch trapped me.’

  Jessie said, ‘It takes two to tango, Jockie boy.’

  ‘Aye, well, fuck that.’

  ‘Lex said you chatted up Kandy with a K.’

  Fletcher frowned. ‘He would know, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He’d shag anything that moved, so he would.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t?’

  He sniffed, ran a hand under his nose.

  ‘Why Kandy with a K?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘How the fuck would I know?’

  ‘Did she spell it out to you?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Did she write it down for you?’

  ‘Naw.’

  Gilchrist waited for Fletcher to return his look. ‘Be very careful how you answer this, Jock.’ He held Fletcher’s gaze until he sensed his bravado waver, then said, ‘Did Kandy give you a business card?’

  Fletcher’s eyes flicked back to the ground. ‘She might’ve.’

  ‘No might have about it, Jock. She did, and I want to see it.’

  ‘It’s at home.’

  ‘Where your girlfriend can find it?’ Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I don’t think even you’re that stupid, Jock. We can take you to the station and book you for obstructing a police investigation, or you can hand over the business card, and we’ll leave you to continue searching for a pub.’

  Fletcher’s eyes widened at the sight of an escape route. ‘Might be in my pocket.’ He dug a hand into his jeans and removed a pile of loose change, crumpled banknotes and pieces of paper. He flicked through them, one piece of paper blowing off in the wind, then said, ‘Here it is.’

  Gilchrist took the dog-eared card from him and read the name.

  Manikandan ‘Kandy’ Lal

  Editorial and writing services

  Beneath the name, in bold print, a mobile number and website.

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘In a minute.’ Gilchrist held the card out to Jessie. ‘Pull up that website.’

  Jessie tapped her mobile, and within seconds made the connection. She enlarged the image using her thumb and forefinger, then turned the screen to Fletcher. ‘Is that her? Kandy with a K?’

  ‘Looks like her. Aye.’

  Gilchrist eyed the screen, saw the smiling headshot of an attractive Indian woman, eyes wide, teeth sparkling. He would put her somewhere in her late thirties, early forties, the same age bracket as the dead woman on the rocks.

  Jessie said, ‘Isn’t she a bit old for you, Jock?’

  Fletcher shrugged.

  ‘So why would she give her business card to a nice young lad like you?’

  ‘Told me what she did for a living and I pretended I was a writer.’ He chuckled.

  ‘Lex put you up to that, did he?’ Gilchrist again.

  Fletcher belched. ‘Can I go now?’

  Jessie said, ‘I wouldn’t go home. Your dinner’s being fed to the dog.’

  ‘Whit?’

  ‘Beat it, Jockie boy, before I find something to book you with.’

  Fletcher cantered off, shoulders hunched against an ice-cold wind, then vanished down a side street.

  Gilchrist said, ‘Is there a contact address on that website?’

  Jessie scrolled down the screen. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Call her number.’

  Jessie did, but it failed to connect. She tried again. Same result. ‘It’s switched off or needs charging.’

  ‘I’d bet the latter,’ he said. ‘Text Jackie. Give her Kandy’s full name. We need her home address.’

  As he opened the car door, his mobile rang – ID Mac. He answered it with, ‘Give me good news, Mac.’

  ‘Sorry, Andy. Can’t help you. We’re short of coverage in that area. And what we have is too distant. The recording’s out of focus and more or less useless.’

  Shit. Without photographic evidence of Blair Stevenson’s arrest, Jehane’s reversal of her account of events was as good as career-ending fodder for Smiler. He thanked Mac for his efforts, switched on the ignition and powered out of town.

  They were driving past the Inn at Lathones when Jackie came back with an email to Jessie. ‘Don’t you just love her?’ Jessie said. ‘Manikandan Lal is a freelance copy-editor who works with numerous mainstream publishers and has written a number of self-help booklets—’

  ‘Did she find an address?’

  ‘Hang on, Mr Grumpy.’

  Gilchrist eyed the road ahead. Locating Kandy Lal was key to his investigation. They needed to find her, talk to her, but her mobile number was unobtainable, which raised other, more troubling possibilities. Two friends – one dead, the other unreachable. You didn’t have to be a genius to work out the obvious.

  ‘Here it is,’ Jessie said. ‘Manderley Cottage,’ and rattled off the street address.

  Gilchrist tightened his grip on the wheel. ‘You need to give me directions again.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Manderley Cottage was not a cottage per se, but one of a row of terraced houses just south of St Monans Holiday Park. Curtains were drawn on the dormer window. Ground-floor windows were dulled with sheer blinds. Gilchrist cupped a hand against the lounge window and peered inside. But night was settling, and the interior was too dark to make out anything other than a sofa that backed against the window.

  ‘You see anything?’ he asked Jessie.

  She stepped back from the window on the other side of the front door. ‘No lights on anywhere. She’s not in.’

  Gilchrist had to agree, b
ut rang the doorbell anyway.

  He let a minute pass before trying again.

  ‘Maybe she’s not back from work yet,’ Jessie said.

  ‘She’s a freelancer. Wouldn’t she work from home?’ He stepped away, mobile in his hand. ‘Check with the neighbours. See if they know where she might be, or if they can ID our woman.’ He crossed the road, breath steaming in a frosted wind that felt as if it was chilling by the second. Night had not crept up on them, it had arrived with equatorial abruptness. Streetlights lined the road like ghostly sentinels, and a haar was moving in off the sea. It could be thick fog in a matter of minutes.

  Jackie answered with her customary grunt. A civilian who worked from the Office and sometimes from home, she provided research services to Fife Constabulary. Cerebral palsy inhibited her mobility, but she could throw herself around the Office with surprising agility – throw being the operative word. But what stumped her every time was her stutter, which was so bad that she’d almost given up speaking. Between them, she and Gilchrist had devised a system to relay instructions to her.

  She would recognise his number. ‘Do you have a pen handy?’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I want a copy of the title deeds for . . .’ he read out Kandy Lal’s address ‘. . . and I need you to give me the name and phone number of the owner.’ If it was a rental property the owner could grant them access if Kandy was out of the country – maybe in India, visiting relatives for all he knew. Once inside, he hoped to find a photograph or an address book, something that might help ID the dead woman. ‘Text me as soon as you find anything. OK?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Thanks, Jackie. You’re the greatest.’ He gave a loud Mwah down the line, and felt a smile tickle his lips at the sound of her laughter. ‘Catch you later,’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  He caught up with Jessie.

  ‘Kandy’s been living here for four years,’ she said, ‘but no one knows anything about her.’ She scowled at him. ‘I think it’s to do with the colour of her skin. I mean, which century are we living in?’

  ‘And the E-fit didn’t ring any bells?’

  ‘Nada.’

  On the walk back to his car, he mentally summarised what they’d accomplished that day. But despite the early promise, he had to confess that it was close to eff all. He had just driven through Kingsbarns when his mobile beeped – a text from Jackie.