The Killing Connection

by T F Muir

  ‘But she’s gone now,’ Gilchrist offered.

  ‘But Tommy and Terry are still around.’

  Gilchrist eyed the road ahead.

  She blew her nose, then said, ‘I’d always thought that if that bitch would just pop her clogs, then I wouldn’t have to worry about Robert if anything happened to me, because my family would be out of his reach, and the world would be bright and rosy.’ She coughed, and said, ‘How wrong can a woman be?’

  Silent, Gilchrist drove on.

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like not being able to hear your own voice, or any music, or a crowd roar when a goal’s scored.’ She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘Or hear your wee mum tell you – I love you.’ Her voice broke at that, and Gilchrist eased his foot off the pedal, and let his speed drop to the forties.

  About a mile farther on, he glanced across at her, saw cheeks damp with tears. He’d known Jessie for about a year now, but she’d never allowed him into her private life, only letting the odd snippet slip here and there. But something seemed to be troubling her, nothing to do with her mother’s death, he thought.

  ‘Is Robert OK?’ he tried.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What’s happened, Jessie?’

  ‘No, no, nothing’s happened. It’s just that nothing’s ever going to happen.’

  He thought he could guess the problem, but approached with care, just in case. ‘His operation’s still on, isn’t it?’

  ‘Therein lies the problem.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jessie. Don’t tell me it’s off.’

  ‘Got it in one. That plonker of an ENT consultant that Robert and me met last year? Turns out he knows the square root of eff all. The useless wanker.’

  ‘I thought you’d gone through all the tests—’

  ‘I thought so, too. But Robert had a pre-op assessment last week which confirmed that his hearing nerves are dead.’ She pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘They’re now saying they never developed from birth, the ones that connect the cochlea to the brain. Without them, it’s like trying to make a phone call without a connection.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jessie.’ It was all he could think to say.

  ‘They’ve cancelled his operation,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing they can do. My wee boy’s going to be stone deaf until the day he dies.’

  He negotiated a couple of bends, then said, ‘How’s Robert taking it?’

  ‘I haven’t told him yet.’ Tears spilled from her eyes. ‘And I don’t know how I can.’

  Gilchrist looked over, wanted to say something, but found himself lost for words.

  Jessie turned away, back to staring out the window.

  Silent, he drove on.

  St Monans is about thirteen miles due south of St Andrews, situated on the Fife coast overlooking what is effectively the Firth of Forth – almost ten miles wide at that point. It was a few years since he’d last visited the small fishing village, which on a clear day offered views across the dark waters to North Berwick, on the coast east of Edinburgh.

  That day, grey skies hung low, hugging a weather-beaten horizon that might not have seen the sun in weeks. Gilchrist listened to his Satnav as he navigated the narrow streets of the old Scottish village.

  As it turned out, the offices of SB Contracting consisted of a cottage that sat close to the sea. The front garden had been replaced by brick pavers that were in need of a weed-killing exercise, and doubled as parking space for a dark blue 1990s Land Rover Discovery and a rusting trailer, on which sat a small day-sailing yacht, twenty foot long, at a guess, with a cuddy cabin and retractable daggerboard, and a 40hp Evinrude outboard motor.

  The driveway was narrow, and they had to squeeze between the garden wall and the Land Rover to gain access. A glance through the passenger’s window revealed a dust-ridden seat covered with plans and drawings, and a footwell packed with a toolkit that displayed chisels, screwdrivers, saws, a pair of leather gloves.

  The vestibule lay open to a glass-panelled front door through which Gilchrist could see the length of a bright hallway. He rang the doorbell, and stood back as a well-built figure walked towards him.

  The inner door opened to reveal a bearded man with thick black hair, 1970s-style long, and wide shoulders that almost filled the doorway. ‘If you’re selling, I’m not interested.’

  ‘Scott Black?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Gilchrist introduced himself and Jessie, showing their warrant cards, and asked if Black could answer a few questions that might help them in an ongoing investigation.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  Gilchrist nodded to the yacht. ‘You take it out often?’

  ‘Now and again.’ Black stepped outside on to the pavers. Although he stood the same height as Gilchrist, six-one, where Gilchrist was slim to the point of skinny, Black’s build gave the impression that he was used to hard work.

  Strong hands, too, Gilchrist noted.

  ‘You take it out any time last week?’ he asked.

  ‘In all that bad weather?’ Black shook his head. ‘Seas were too rough.’ He cast his gaze seaward, his thick hair ruffling in the wind, and Gilchrist had a sense of narcissism, of a man knowing he was handsome, adopting an affected posture to show off his best features.

  ‘So that’s a No,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I’m a fair-weather sailor, Mr . . .’ He turned to Gilchrist.

  ‘Gilchrist. DCI Gilchrist.’

  Black smiled, showing white teeth as even as a dentistry teaching aid. ‘I only take her out in the summer,’ he said, ‘and even then only when the seas are calm.’

  Gilchrist was intrigued by a twin line of weeds in the brick paving that appeared to have been flattened by wheels rolling over them. ‘Looks like you’ve had the trailer out in the last few days.’

  Black followed Gilchrist’s gaze and said, ‘Got to clean the Evinrude for the winter.’

  ‘So you pull the trailer all the way out the driveway just to do that?’

  ‘I give everything a final going-over. The outboard, the trailer, the wheels, the tow-hitch, the lights. Preparing it for the winter months.’

  ‘It’s cold enough to be winter now,’ Gilchrist said, and ran a hand over the outboard motor’s casing. ‘You didn’t do a good job at cleaning,’ he said, and held up his thumb and forefinger, rubbing salt between them.

  ‘Chased back indoors because of the weather. Besides, it’s in the air.’ Black inhaled deeply, as if to prove a point. ‘Living by the sea, saltwater gets everywhere.’

  ‘It certainly does.’ Gilchrist turned to Jessie.

  ‘Alice Hickson?’ she said to Black.

  Black looked down at her. ‘What about her?’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  Black bared his teeth, sucked air through them with a grimace. ‘Sunday?’ he said.

  ‘Asking or telling?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Sunday for sure.’ He narrowed his eyes at the horizon again. ‘I went to her home to finish a job and collect payment.’

  ‘Collect anything more than payment?’ Jessie again.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Black smirked at her and Gilchrist stepped in with, ‘Finish what job?’

  ‘Skirting board in the kitchen. Had to be replaced due to water damage.’

  ‘Insurance claim?’

  ‘Preventive maintenance.’

  ‘Anybody see you?’ Jessie said.

  ‘See me?’

  ‘Yeah. Anyone who can corroborate your story?’

  Black didn’t rise to Jessie’s close-to-the-bone snipes. He shrugged. ‘Neighbours, I suppose. But Alice keeps herself to herself, so I really couldn’t say.’

  Gilchrist noted the present tense – keeps – and had a sense of Black telling them more than they asked for, and all for effect. ‘Do you know Alice well?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. Just see her from
time to time.’

  ‘But well enough to know she keeps herself to herself,’ Gilchrist said, ‘and well enough to offer her a lift to Edinburgh Airport.’

  Black never so much as flinched. ‘Not offer. I was going to charge them for the lift. Not as much as a regular taxi. But I’m a businessman, and a businessman has to make a living.’

  ‘Them?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said you would charge them for the lift.’

  A hint of uncertainty slid behind Black’s eyes, as if he were only now seeing Gilchrist for the first time. ‘Alice and her friend,’ he said.

  ‘Does the friend have a name?’ Jessie asked.

  Black held her look with a stare of his own, then his face relaxed into a slow grin. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Do you watch the TV?’ she said.

  Gilchrist added, ‘It’s been on all the news channels.’

  ‘Don’t watch the news,’ Black said. ‘Nothing but doom and gloom.’

  Jessie stepped closer. ‘You never told me Alice’s friend’s name.’

  ‘Kandy Lal,’ Black said.

  ‘You do work for her, too?’ she asked.

  ‘From time to time.’

  ‘Like what? More preventive maintenance?’

  Black’s smile widened. ‘As I said, the saltwater gets everywhere.’

  ‘So you drove her to Edinburgh Airport last week?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Without her friend?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In the Land Rover?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Your Land Rover’s in good condition,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Want to buy it?’ Black chuckled, as if amused by the change in tack.

  Gilchrist ran a hand over the tow-hitch, intrigued by a shiny glint of worn metal where the trailer had ground against the tow-bar, which confirmed – at least in his own mind – that Black had moved it recently. But to do what? Not to have it cleaned. He thought he knew that much.

  ‘You had the trailer long?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Couple of years. Bought it from a local. Sundancer came with it.’

  ‘Sundancer?’

  ‘My yacht.’

  Gilchrist gave a tight grin, and nodded with his chin to the Land Rover’s cabin. ‘Is that a dashcam?’

  Black nodded. ‘You get an insurance rebate if you have one of those.’

  ‘Linked to your computer, is it?’

  ‘Wi-fi.’ As if that explained it all.

  ‘Where do you launch Sundancer?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘Once the weather clears up?’

  ‘Down by the harbour. There’s a concrete ramp.’

  ‘Just back up and float her off?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Gilchrist turned to the trailer. If he half-closed his eyes, he could imagine a waterline on the metal. And spots of white that clung to the wheel-rims like dried salt. He leaned down, ran his fingers over them, rubbed flakes of dried salt off. ‘Down by the harbour, you say?’ He pulled himself upright.

  ‘Find what you were looking for?’ Black said.

  Gilchrist returned Black’s firm look with a friendly stare. ‘Getting there,’ he said, then turned to Jessie. ‘Do you have any other questions you’d like to ask Mr Black?’

  ‘No, I think he’s pissed me off enough for the moment,’ she said, and walked back to the car without another word or a backward glance.

  Gilchrist was conscious of how close Black was standing to him, almost cornering him against the end of the trailer. Not exactly in his face, but his personal space was being violated. That close, he felt the warmth of Black’s minty breath. Red veins in the whites of his eyes suggested a night of little sleep.

  ‘Thanks for your time,’ Gilchrist said, and made to step past him.

  But Black didn’t move.

  Gilchrist didn’t think it appropriate to push him out of the way. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘There’s nothing stopping you from walking around me.’

  ‘No, there isn’t, is there?’ he said, and gave Black a wide berth as he headed to his car. When he fired up the ignition, Black was still staring at him.

  He chose to ignore Black as he reversed up the narrow street.

  But it was too much for Jessie, who gave a toodle-doo wave and a deadpan smile, and muttered, ‘See you later, dickhead.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Gilchrist parked in a half-empty car park and switched off the engine.

  ‘He’s lying to his back teeth,’ Jessie said. ‘See him posing like a haddy? And the way he looked at my tits?’ She let out a hard gush of breath. ‘Give you the bloody creeps.’ She opened the door, pulled her scarf around her neck as a gust of wind whipped in off the sea. ‘What is it about the east coast?’ she snarled. ‘Is it closer to the North Pole or something?’

  Gilchrist followed her as she stomped her way down the concrete ramp.

  At the water’s edge, the harbour air was thick with the heady stench of fish, kelp, oil, petrol. The water lay flat and still. A fishing boat puttered towards the open sea, spluttering water, trailing grey exhaust. Gulls strutted the harbour walls, some stretching their wings like fledglings, others pecking at spilled rubbish from an overturned bin.

  ‘And did you see him?’ Jessie said. ‘Face to the wind. Flexing his muscles like he’s God’s gift to women. Christ,’ she hissed, ‘I hate bastards like that.’

  ‘I’d have to say he was handsome in a rugged sort of way.’

  ‘I’ve seen better-looking chimpanzees.’

  ‘So you’d turn him down if he asked you out?’

  She smiled at that, and it struck him that he’d not seen her happy in days. But it didn’t last. She scowled at the ramp, the concrete walls, the frothy scum on the water, the industrial detritus of a busy harbour.

  ‘Is this where he would launch his boat?’ she said.

  Gilchrist eyed the ramp. Rusted rails ran like tramlines into the water. To the side, an expansive concrete area permitted boat owners to back their trailers to the water’s edge. He remembered as a teenager helping a friend’s father pull his dinghy from the sea. The wind had been blowing, the waves choppy, and the dinghy had a 75hp outboard. But what he remembered most about that day was how difficult it had been pulling the boat from the water. Single-handedly, you would have to be strong to launch a yacht the size of Black’s from a pier like this. And Black was strong.

  ‘Could be,’ he said.

  Jessie looked at the harbour buildings. ‘I don’t think so. Not here. Too many houses and people around. Not exactly Sauchiehall Street, but it’s too open. Even in the middle of the night, someone could see him.’

  In the short time he’d known Jessie, he’d found her intuition to be second only to his own. But you couldn’t make an arrest based on intuition. ‘So you’re thinking what I’m thinking? That he was the last person to see Alice Hickson alive, and took his boat out during the storm last week to dump her body?’

  ‘His story about cleaning it for the winter doesn’t wash, excuse the pun.’

  ‘We’ll ask around, find where else you could launch a boat.’

  ‘Maybe we should just get a warrant to give his excuse for a yacht a thorough search. The SOCOs could put the whole thing to bed in a matter of hours.’

  Gilchrist had already thought of that. Black was someone he would want to talk to again, no doubts about it, but it was all too soon, the link too tenuous, to throw limited resources into a forensic examination of Black’s boat and his premises. ‘Let’s see what Hickson’s place turns up first.’ He called Mhairi for the status of the warrant.

  ‘Just had it signed off,’ she said. ‘Was about to call you, sir.’

  ‘Meet us there,’ he said, ‘while I drum up a joiner to help us gain access.’

  Ten minutes later, they stood at Alice Hickson’s address, a cottage on the outskirts of St Monans, within sight of the caravan park. A look through the windows revealed no broken furniture, shattered glass
, pools of blood, or anything that would permit them to break down the door in advance of the warrant – just a tidy home with a tidy garden, at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac.

  Jessie whistled. ‘It’s bloody brass monkeys out here.’

  ‘Thought you said the fresh air would do you good.’

  They both turned to the sound of a high-revving engine as a white van raced down the street towards them. It screeched to a halt at the end of the cul-de-sac, the driver not quite judging it. Its front wheels mounted the kerb with a hard thud. A quick tyre spin had the van reversing on to the road. The driver’s door opened and a young man wearing paint-spattered overalls stepped out. Shorn head, tattooed neck and studded ears gave the impression that he was a painter-decorator only just freed from jail.

  He strode towards them, carrying a crosscut saw. ‘S’is it?’ he said.

  ‘Thought I’d called for a joiner, not a painter,’ Jessie said.

  He held up the saw like a rifle. ‘S’is look like a paintbrush to you?’

  She turned to Gilchrist and said, ‘Does this look like a joiner to you?’

  Gilchrist ended the verbal tussle with, ‘We’re still waiting for the warrant. So it’ll probably be another five minutes.’

  The young guy flexed the saw like a weapon. ‘I can get youse in right now.’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ Gilchrist said, ‘but we need the warrant.’

  ‘Suit yoursels. Youse’re on the ticket anyway.’ He ran a hand down the edge of the front door, then peered in the gap by the lock. ‘S’no deadbolt. Youse’re in luck.’ And with that he returned to his van, wobbling the blade, and slid in behind the wheel.

  Gilchrist thought he was going to drive off, until the hard bass beat of some reggae music spoiled the country silence.

  ‘Is it just me?’ Jessie said. ‘Or are kids becoming thicker?’

  In response, Gilchrist phoned Mhairi. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just driven through Pittenweem, sir. So I’m almost there.’