by T F Muir
He handed Jessie his mobile. ‘Can you read it out?’
‘Title deeds are in the name of Manikandan Lal,’ she said. ‘Ten-year mortgage with RBS at four hundred and sixty-five pounds a month.’ She read out the mobile number they already had from her business card and said, ‘Doesn’t really help us, does it?’
No, it didn’t, but he kept his thoughts to himself, and drove on.
Back at the North Street Office in time for his debriefing, he wrote Lal’s full Indian name on the whiteboard with her shortened name beneath it, adding with a K. He tacked her business card to the corkboard, next to a quality headshot, which Jessie had downloaded from her website. A smiling Kandy gleamed fresh-faced at him, and he prayed he was wrong.
He eyed his team. Despite the door-to-doors, no one had anything positive to report. It seemed that Lex Wilson and Jock Fletcher were not just their best bet, but their only one. He tapped the photograph. ‘Kandy Lal. With a K,’ he said. ‘We need to locate her as a matter of urgency. She could be the last person to have seen our victim alive. We know where she lives, but her neighbours haven’t seen her for several days.’
‘About the same length of time as our victim’s been dead, sir?’ Mhairi asked.
Gilchrist had already thought of that. But it was too early to share fearful assumptions.
‘Could be,’ he said. ‘But we don’t know. So let’s find her and ask her.’ He scanned the faces before him, making sure he had their full attention before continuing.
‘Kandy’s a freelance editor and writer, so get on to all the publishing companies and magazines she’s written articles for. Find out if she has a current deadline for any, and if so, what that article is. We might track her down if she’s writing an article on pubs in Kirkcaldy, for example. You get the gist, I’m sure.’
The next hour was spent reading reports, looking for anything that might have been overlooked. But nothing jumped out at him. He’d tasked PC Morton with visiting Lal’s home on the hour, but the latest report confirmed that her house was still unoccupied. This was leading nowhere with a happy ending. Why else would Kandy not answer her phone, return their texts, or respond to the string of emails they’d sent through her website? His dark thoughts were interrupted as Mhairi approached him.
‘I’ve managed to track down the victim’s sweater, sir. It was purchased in Frasers in Glasgow about three weeks ago.’
‘Well done, Mhairi.’
‘But it’s not going to get us anywhere, sir. Looks like it was a cash sale.’
‘Nobody uses cash nowadays, do they?’
Mhairi grimaced.
‘How much did she pay for it?’
‘Eighty-nine ninety-nine, sir.’
Bloody hell. The most he’d ever spent on clothing was his leather jacket, which had set him back just over three hundred quid. But that was aided by a rare win at the bookies – not that he gambled a lot – when a caddie in the Central convinced him to place money on Tiger Woods to win the Open at St Andrews.
So, who would spend that amount on a sweater? A high earner? Or a visitor from a foreign country where Scottish sweaters were valued, or where salaries were comparatively greater? And if she’d paid cash for her sweater, she’d probably paid cash for her jeans, too. So any leads he’d hoped to find from her clothing were dead in the water – so to speak. But the phrase foreign country somehow had him thinking of another possibility that seemed so basic, he wondered why they hadn’t thought of it sooner.
‘Follow me,’ he said to Mhairi.
He was surprised to find Jackie still at her desk, so focused on her monitor that she jerked when she noticed him. ‘I want you and Mhairi to work together,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, make a list of travel agents and find any flight bookings in the name Manikandan Lal.’
‘She might have arranged her flights online by herself, sir.’
‘She could have, but let’s tick the boxes. Travel agents first, then airlines.’
‘Got it, sir.’
‘OK, Jackie?’
Jackie nodded, her bob of rust-coloured hair bouncing as if on springs, her freckled face creased with pleasure. He’d seen less enthusiasm announcing a piss-up for the team in town. By contrast, he sensed stillness in Mhairi’s posture, and he turned to catch Smiler standing in the doorway.
‘You got a minute, DCI Gilchrist.’
‘I do, ma’am, yes.’
She walked off without another word.
‘Call or text me if you find anything,’ he said, then followed Smiler’s trail of perfume along the corridor and into her office.
Once inside, he was again struck by how little had changed, although he did notice the corner of a cardboard box on the floor at the side of her desk. She took her seat and motioned with her hand for him to sit opposite.
‘I’ll stand,’ he said.
‘Suit yourself.’
No love lost there. Which could work both ways. He tried to reinvigorate his emotions with some of the anger he’d felt earlier, but he’d been so caught up in his investigation and the possibility of Kandy Lal leading them to the identity of the victim, that all sense of earlier grievance had evaporated.
‘What’s the status of your investigation?’ she said.
He spent fifteen minutes bringing her up to date, but chose not to mention that he’d met Professor Harris-call-me-Ray. Smiler had made no mention of any bite-marks last night, so he was interested to see how that would come to light, if at all.
When he ended his debriefing, she seemed pleased, offering a show of teeth for a split second. ‘We shouldn’t mention Ms Lal’s name to the media, in case she turns out to have no knowledge of the victim. After all, you could be putting far too much faith in the word of a convicted porn dealer.’
He could not disagree, and gave a nod. ‘Ma’am.’
She adjusted her writing pad, as if trying to align it with the edge of her desk, then looked up at him. ‘You met my partner, Ray, I believe.’
‘This morning, yes. Bit of a surprise,’ he added.
‘In what way?’
‘That he’d already been asked to examine the bite-marks.’ Gilchrist glared at her. ‘I didn’t particularly care for that, ma’am.’
She pushed her chair back as if to stand. ‘When we met yesterday, DCI Gilchrist, you should know that I was undecided whether to let you continue as SIO or pull you off the case. Until I made my decision, I decided to take care of some matters myself, one being the bite-marks, bearing in mind that Ray is an expert. And another being your replacement.’
Well, there he had it. About to be kicked off to a flying start – emphasis on the kicked off. ‘Anyone I know?’ he asked.
‘I had a meeting with the Chief Constable yesterday.’ She smiled, a quick parting of her lips. But he saw no pleasure there. ‘Like me, he had difficulty believing Blair Stevenson’s complaint, that someone with your years of experience would resort to unnecessary violence while making an arrest. But we failed to agree on what course of action to take.’
Gilchrist almost held his breath. Was he being suspended, or not?
‘The Chief Constable can be stubborn once his mind is made up, and not one to back down in the face of confrontation.’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘He’s of the opinion that replacing you as SIO of such a high-profile investigation at this point of time would only be seen as a sign of weakness, an admission of guilt, as it were, and not something he would be willing to countenance. We’ve already received Stevenson’s formal complaint, some legal firm in Cupar, can’t remember the name. Not that it matters.’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘It’s making its way through the system, so no doubt you’ll hear from the Complaints and Discipline Department in due course. In the meantime, DCI Gilchrist, it looks as if you’re still on the case.’
Well, well, well. Friends in high places, right enough. Smiler had wanted to replace him, but being new to the job had first sought approval, then been overrul
ed. Greaves might have had his failings, but at least he’d been open and honest.
Gilchrist said, ‘Will that be all, ma’am?’
‘For the time being, DCI Gilchrist.’
He was about to leave her office when she said, ‘For all our sakes, DCI Gilchrist, I hope Stevenson’s formal complaint turns out to be unfounded.’
He nodded, and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 11
Rather than drive straight home, Gilchrist decided to have a pint in the Central Bar. A short walk along College Street, and he had a pint of Deuchars settling within fifteen minutes of leaving Smiler’s office.
Halfway through his pint, he rang Maureen.
She answered on the second ring. ‘Busy day?’ she said, without introduction.
‘And then some.’
‘Tom and I had lunch in the Criterion.’
Bugger it. He’d completely forgotten. ‘Sorry, Mo. I’m at the start of an—’
‘You do have to eat, right?’
‘Yes. But I skipped lunch.’
‘How about tea?’
‘That, too.’
‘So you’ve had nothing to eat all day, is what you’re saying?’
Not strictly correct. He’d had a slice of DS Baxter’s leftover pizza. So, rather than wade deeper into the swamp, he said, ‘How about tomorrow?’ But Saturday could be a busy day at the Office. ‘Or definitely Sunday?’ he said. ‘The Criterion – one o’clock?’
‘That’s what you said today.’
‘Sunday’s quieter.’
She said nothing for the longest moment, as if giving his words some thought, which helped him see how much she didn’t trust him. If he was half the father he told himself he was, he would offer to take her and Tom out for a nightcap. But he’d had a difficult day, a long one at that, and all he wanted was to drive home and crawl into bed.
‘OK, Dad. You promise?’
‘I do.’
‘I’ll see you then.’
‘Goodnight, princess.’ But the line was already dead.
He whispered a curse. Of his two children, Maureen was the one who’d always been able to wriggle her way around him, make him do what she wanted, with a tongue that could cut steel, just like her late mother – cold and heartless when it suited her. Jack, on the other hand, seemed to have grown up all of a sudden, and was actually earning a living from his paintings now. More importantly, he was off drugs for good – if you believed him, that is.
Gilchrist pushed his half-finished pint away, and headed to the Office car park.
He was still a couple of miles from Crail when his mobile rang – ID Mhairi. He made the connection through his car’s speaker system. ‘You’re not still at the Office, are you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s late.’
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I thought you should know that we . . . well, actually, Jackie did . . . she found a Ryanair booking to Tenerife in the name of Manikandan Lal.’
Gilchrist flexed his grip on the steering wheel. ‘I’m listening.’
‘But it was subsequently cancelled.’
‘She never took the flight?’
‘No, sir. She cancelled it. She didn’t pay for the ticket.’ A pause, then, ‘Two tickets, actually, sir.’
Electricity zapped his spine. ‘I’m listening.’
‘One seat in the name of Manikandan Lal, and the other in the name of Alice Hickson. We’ve already run the name through the PNC, sir, and come up with a blank.’ A pause, then, ‘But we thought we should bring that to your attention, sir.’
Gilchrist lifted his foot from the accelerator, let his speed drop. The rain had stayed off and the road surface was dry, but his headlights barely pierced a thickening sea haar.
His thoughts could be as fogged as the road ahead.
If Alice Hickson was their victim on the rocks, and Kandy Lal was not returning their messages, did that mean both women were dead? But why book flights, then cancel them? Too many questions, not enough answers. So what next? Carry out a search of the Electoral Roll for Alice Hickson, DVLA records, too? But without a birthdate or home address, they could be searching for the proverbial needle.
‘The booking,’ he said. ‘Any passport information on it?’
‘No, sir, they just used Kandy Lal’s address.’
‘For both of them?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ah, shit. Something sank deep into his gut. If Alice was the woman on the rocks, and she lived at the same address as Kandy Lal, then it did not bode well for finding Kandy alive. Were they now looking at a double murder? But he needed more.
‘They were planning to fly to Tenerife,’ he said. ‘So why would they cancel?’
‘Change of heart, sir?’
He couldn’t shift the thought that they couldn’t take the flight because they were both dead. But he forced himself to think positively. Mhairi used the word cancelled. You didn’t cancel your flight for the convenience of being murdered.
‘Maybe they found a cheaper deal to some other destination,’ he tried.
‘That’s a possibility, sir.’
‘We could search the manifests for other flights to Tenerife.’
‘If they went to Tenerife, sir.’
A big if at that, he realised. ‘That could be our starting point,’ he said. ‘If nothing turns up, we could then search other Ryanair flights.’ But even as he was speaking, the size of the task he could be setting his team ballooned in his mind’s eye. How many daily flights to how many different holiday destinations? And why would he expect Kandy Lal to cancel a flight one day, then select another flight to somewhere else on the same day?
All of a sudden, the task seemed ridiculously man-hour intense.
He glanced at the clock on the dash – almost 11.30 p.m. ‘It’s getting late, Mhairi. You and Jackie head off home, and we can discuss this tomorrow.’
‘I’m quite happy to make a start on it tonight, sir.’
‘It’s often better to sleep on some things. Tomorrow morning we can tackle the problem with a fresh mind.’
‘Very well, sir. Thank you, sir.’
When the line died, he drove on, deep in the misery of his thoughts. Was Kandy Lal dead? Would searching flight manifests be an impossible task for a team of his size? Would doing that blow his budget in a matter of days, maybe even hours?
By the time he parked in Castle Street, and stepped into the bitter November chill, he was none the wiser. Off in the distance, the heavy rumble of surf broke the fogbound silence. Rose Wynd lay before him, curtained lights spilling into the night haar like warm mist. The grumbling of the surf and the stillness of the street seemed incongruous somehow, as if you could have only one, and not the other.
He slipped his key into the lock and shivered off a chill as he stepped inside.
After turning up the heat, he walked into his kitchen, removed a packet of dried cat food from the cupboard and opened the back door. In the far corner by his garden shed – even in the dimness of the night haar – twin pinpricks stared back at him. He strode down the path, shaking the carton, whispering, ‘Here, puss puss.’
He owned a cat – if he could call it that – a long-haired moggy that he named Blackie after she’d turned up in his back garden six months ago, tail broken, black fur clotted, chunks of skin missing from her left side and front right leg. She’d been mauled by a dog, maybe a fox, and managed to escape – at least that was his theory – but despite his best efforts to befriend her, Blackie refused to let him any closer than six feet.
Unable to pick her up, and worried over her physical condition, he had called the vet to his cottage. But Blackie vanished before the vet arrived, as if she, too, had a sixth sense, and she didn’t return that night, or the next. Not sure if she had gone for good, he continued to leave fresh food and water by his garden hut, and five days later he was relieved to find some food nibbled, and a wide-eyed Blackie peering out from the safety of the back of his
shed. From that point on, he resigned himself to the fact that he had effectively adopted a wild animal as a pet.
He washed out both bowls using the garden hose as usual, then filled one with water, and the other from the carton. He eyed his shed and whispered, ‘Here, puss puss.’ But Blackie had either fled, or was watching him from some other safe and hidden spot.
Back indoors, he locked the door then went through to his lounge. He eyed what he jokingly called his cocktail cabinet – nothing more than a silver tray, left by mistake when his wife stomped from the marital home with both his children all those years ago – on which stood an assortment of bottles of Scotch. He was not a great whisky drinker, but enjoyed the occasional nightcap, or a cheer-me-up, particularly when the nights were long and cold. He glanced at the window, felt an involuntary shiver course through him. November nights were long and cold, so why not?
He switched the TV on to the BBC News channel, opened a bottle of The Aberlour, a Speyside whisky he’d first tasted at a gallery event last year – some of Jack’s sculptures had been on display – and poured himself a measure.
He settled into his chair and took that first delicious sip, relishing the fiery bite as the whisky worked its way down his throat.
His mobile rang – ID Jessie.
He switched the TV to mute. ‘Missing me already?’
‘I wish,’ Jessie said. ‘Just found out through the Glasgow grapevine that my mother died earlier tonight.’
This was a first – Jessie mentioning her mother, even if it was to announce her death. Rather than pry, he said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Jessie.’
‘Aye, well, the bitch had it coming, I can tell you.’
‘Do you know what happened?’
‘No one knows for sure yet, but it’s looking like murder.’
‘What?’ He pushed to his feet, placed the tumbler on top of the TV.
‘Her body was found in Anchor Lane. Skirt up. Knickers to her ankles. A fucking whore to her dying day.’
‘Jessie, I’m sorry—’
‘Christ, you’ve no idea how fucked up our family was when I was growing up. And that bitch would hit us across the face with a leather belt. We were bloody kids. I mean, a leather belt?’