by T F Muir
She thrust out her hand, palm down, ring up.
He held the tips of her fingers. ‘A solitaire?’ he said. ‘I’m impressed.’
She giggled. ‘As if you would know.’
He wasn’t sure if he should ask how many carats the diamond was, or where Tom had bought it, so he chose safety in, ‘Where’s Tom anyway?’
‘Gents.’ Her gaze shifted over his shoulder as her eyes lit up, telling him that the man of the moment was on his way. A hand clasped his shoulder, and he turned.
The first thing that struck him was that Tom was taller than he remembered – six-two, maybe -three – and more masculine, too, as if he’d gone to bed one night and woken up in the morning with a heavy growth. The second was that he’d supped more than his fair share of alcohol that day; his eyes were glazed, almost struggling to focus. Of course, if he’d been in the Criterion since one o’clock to meet his future father-in-law, a DCI with Fife Constabulary no less, he might be excused for having one too many in search of Dutch courage. On the other hand, Maureen seemed alert and ready to carry on, although he’d long known that both of his children could hold their drink, a trait they seemed to have inherited from their late mother.
‘Mr Gilchrist,’ Tom said, sliding his hand off Gilchrist’s shoulder and reaching for a handshake. His grip was too firm, a manoa-mano squeeze that tried to convey . . . what? That he was man enough to look after Gilchrist’s daughter?
‘I’m sorry I didn’t seek your permission before asking for your daughter’s hand in marriage, sir,’ he said, pumping Gilchrist’s hand. His speech was made with sincerity, and without stuttering, which suggested he’d spent time practising it. ‘I hope you don’t mind, sir.’
Gilchrist kept his rictus smile going, and managed to extract his hand from Tom’s, aware of Maureen’s eyes on him. It seemed that Tom wasn’t the only one being put through a test here.
‘Well, Tom,’ he said, ‘I don’t know anything about you, other than what Mo has told me.’ Tom seemed to hold his breath. ‘But if you’re half as nice as Mo says you are, then I’m sure I’ll have no worries at all.’
Tom gripped his hand again, a two-handed pumping action this time. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll look after your daughter, sir. Don’t you worry about that, sir. I love her so much, sir, that I . . . eh . . . I . . .’
‘Why don’t I buy a round to celebrate?’ Gilchrist said, recovering his hand a second time.
‘No, sir. Let me. I’ll get that.’
‘Tom.’ He gave a stare that froze the lad to the spot. ‘This is my round, OK?’ He waited for Tom’s nod of agreement. ‘And one other thing, Tom?’
‘Sir?’
‘Stop calling me sir. Andy will do just fine.’
Relief washed over Tom’s face – like watching butter melt on a hot roll. Gilchrist smiled, then turned to Maureen and whispered, ‘I’m very happy for you,’ and pecked her on the cheek. He took their order – pint of Tennent’s for Tom, ice-cold; dry white wine, small, for Mo – a change from the usual large. Maybe marriage would suit her, after all. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, he ordered a pint of Deuchars for himself.
His mobile vibrated in his pocket as he watched the pints being poured. He checked the screen – ID Jessie – glanced at Maureen and Tom, who seemed deep into some tender conversation, then squeezed from the bar to take the call in relative quiet.
As he reached the door, he said, ‘Don’t tell me you scraped the Beemer.’
‘You wish,’ she said.
He stepped into the entrance vestibule, staying out of the rain. The storm might have slackened, but not by much. The pavement hissed with complaint. He said, ‘Come on – let’s have it.’
‘They’ve found the Land Rover,’ she said. ‘Near Montrave House.’
He’d heard of the place, but that was about it. ‘Where’s that?’
‘North of Leven, south of Cupar.’
Well, that covered a lot of ground. ‘Abandoned?’
‘They told me you were good. I’ve arranged for the SOCOs to give it a going-over,’ she said. ‘But that’s not all.’
He cupped his hand over his other ear to block out the ambient din.
‘Sundancer’s been found, too. It ran aground on the Isle of May.’
He struggled to place the island – somewhere in the Firth of Forth was all he could come up with. But if Sundancer had run aground, was that a mistake? Had Black hoped it would capsize in rough seas and sink? Had he not breached the hull?
‘I’d say that’s an unexpected find,’ he said. ‘What about DNA?’
‘The boat’s in bits. Any DNA will have been washed off by the sea.’
‘We’ve got his Land Rover,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me it’s in bits, too.’
‘It’s intact. And if there’s any DNA to extract, Colin’s team will find it.’
He knew they would find Kandy Lal’s DNA all over the Land Rover – Black had driven her to Edinburgh Airport, after all – but if they found Alice Hickson’s DNA, then that would go some way to avenging her murder. Gilchrist realised the main thrust of his investigation had changed. They were no longer trying to solve Alice’s murder, but attempting to locate Kandy Lal before it was too late and she, too, was killed. But even as these thoughts filtered through his mind, his gut instinct told him that Kandy Lal was already dead, that her body was rotting away, returning itself to the ground.
He glanced back inside the pub. He needed to get on with his investigation. But he’d only just arrived, and couldn’t leave right away. ‘Listen, Jessie, come and get me in fifteen minutes.’ He slid his mobile into his pocket and returned to the bar.
He paid for the round and passed over Tom’s and Maureen’s drinks. Picking up his own, he said, ‘A toast.’ He chinked their glasses. ‘To a happy and healthy marriage.’
Tom repeated it, then did his best to finish his pint in the one sitting.
‘Steady on,’ Maureen said. ‘There’s no rush.’
Gilchrist detected a nip in her tone, but thought it wise not to comment. ‘So tell me, Tom. What have you got planned for the future?’ he said, and felt puzzled when Tom looked at him like a deer caught in headlights, then buried his mouth in his pint.
‘We’re going to emigrate to Australia, Dad.’
Gilchrist almost stopped mid-sip, but forced himself to finish. He licked his lips, and said, ‘East coast or west?’
‘West,’ Tom said. ‘Perth.’
Gilchrist nodded, trying to quell his rising panic. This was something he’d not given thought to. Not at all. Maureen marrying was one thing. Emigrating to the other side of the planet was something else entirely. Not that he hadn’t expected his children to marry, start a family, have lives of their own. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon, and with such carefree finality in the announcement of a distant destination.
Australia?
‘I hear it’s a beautiful place to live,’ he said.
‘We’ve never been, of course.’ Tom shook his head with wisdom. ‘But from what we’ve seen and read about it, it certainly is beautiful.’
It struck him that, since blurting out her intentions, Maureen had gone silent. Her wine glass was clamped to her lips as if to prevent anything else slipping free.
‘It has to be one of the most remote cities on earth,’ Gilchrist suggested.
Tom gave a nervous chuckle. Maureen sipped her wine.
‘When you think about,’ he continued, ‘thousands of miles of ocean to the west, the same to the north, Antarctica to the south, and four thousand miles of desert to the east—’
‘And your point is?’ Maureen snapped.
He couldn’t say it, but his point was that he didn’t want her to leave. Why Australia, for God’s sake? Glasgow had been bad enough. But now she’d returned to St Andrews – they both had, she and Jack – he’d somehow taken it for granted that they would remain there, the pair of them, himself, too, his whole family, together again at long last. He’d missed s
o much of their lives growing up; the relentless demands of the job, the necessary but hated overtime to pay the bills, climbing the career ladder of success – and look where that got him; stuck at DCI with no hope of promotion – that he’d thought he would spend more time with his children in later years, now they were together again.
But reality was different. He still worked too many hours, still didn’t spend enough time with them, still missed arranged appointments – today being the perfect example. He felt his face warm with the knowledge that he had failed as a father, not been there for them back then, and not making the effort to be in more regular contact with them even now.
He smiled at Maureen. ‘No point,’ he said. ‘Just an observation. But you will invite me to come and stay, I hope.’
‘Of course, sir, I mean . . . Andy. Of course we will. Won’t we, Maureen?’
Maureen’s eyes never left Gilchrist’s, as if they were searching his soul. Even when he gave Tom a quick smile, her eyes were waiting for him.
‘Here,’ he said, and retrieved the card from his inside pocket. ‘To wish you well.’ He handed it to Maureen, who passed her drink to Tom, then eased the envelope open, as if not wanting to tear the seal. She removed the card, read the printed cover, then flipped it open.
Silent, he watched her eyes dance over his words.
Without looking at him, she held up the card for Tom to see. ‘I can’t believe my baby is getting married,’ she read. ‘It seems that it wasn’t so long ago that I was doing the same. I wish you and Tom a long and happy life together. If he loves you only half as much as I do, then you truly are a lucky woman. I know Mum would have been so proud of you. Love you, princess. Forever. Dad, and two kisses.’
‘That’s lovely, Mr Gilchrist . . . Andy. That’s nice. It really is. Thank you.’
Tom gave him a hug, which Gilchrist managed to reciprocate without spilling his beer. He hadn’t expected Maureen to read his words out loud, and oddly felt disappointed by her lack of emotion. But that detached coldness was a trait inherited from her mother, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. With a watchful eye, he sipped his beer while she returned his card to the envelope and placed it with care into her handbag.
She looked up at him then, her eyes glistening, then stepped forward and put her arms around him. ‘I love you, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘And I’m sorry.’
He hugged her in response, feeling her lips against his cheek, confused as to why she was sorry. Sorry for the problems she’d given him as a child? Sorry for marrying Tom, someone he barely knew? Sorry for announcing their intention to emigrate to Australia? Sorry for snapping at his comment about Perth? Sorry about what?
But he was saved by his mobile vibrating. He gave an apologetic smile as he retrieved it – a text from Jessie – and placed his unfinished pint on the bar.
‘Got to go?’ she said.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He shook Tom’s hand again, gave Maureen a quick peck and a, ‘Love you, princess,’ then headed for the door.
CHAPTER 18
Gilchrist parked his car behind the SOCO Transit van and switched off the engine.
Dragonlights lit the scene like a summer party. If not for a sharp-eyed cyclist, Black’s Land Rover could have lain abandoned half in and half out of a shallow ditch for the rest of the night, and not been discovered for days, maybe even weeks. Finding it had been a stroke of luck. The number plates had been switched, which explained why nothing had come up on the ANPR – Automatic Number Plate Recognition System – but it had been confirmed as Black’s from the Vehicle Identification Number.
The recovery vehicle had not yet arrived, and the SOCO team had all the doors wide open, dusting the cabin for fingerprints. One of the SOCOs was crawling in the back, searching the boot carpeting for the tell-tale blue glow of luminescence from the reaction of luminol with iron in blood haemoglobin. Despite being forensically suited up, Colin was recognisable from his slender build.
‘Black might not have a criminal record,’ Gilchrist said to Jessie, ‘but he’s done this before.’
She glanced at him. ‘You think so?’
‘Who keeps a spare set of number plates handy just in case they have to do a runner?’
‘He probably changed them on the beach when he was launching his boat.’
‘Out of sight?’
‘That’s the idea.’
It irked that he’d missed his chance to pull Black in for questioning. And it angered him that he had walked around the man like a scared dog, when confronted. He should have told him to step out the way, maybe egged him on a bit. The fire in Black’s eyes had warned him that the man might have been about to do something he would later regret. But if he had, then Black would now be in custody instead of scuttling yachts and abandoning cars.
Or worse, murdering another woman.
With that thought, he could not shift the gut-wrenching sense that whatever danger Kandy Lal had found herself in, he had done nothing to prevent that. It might even be argued that their visit to Black’s home had forewarned the man. And by not arresting him, they had simply let him carry on with getting rid of the evidence.
Christ, it didn’t bear thinking about.
He stepped into the frosted chill and walked towards the Land Rover.
Colin slid from the back and pulled down his mask. ‘A couple of specks of blood,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t hold my breath. It’s been thoroughly cleaned. Also found strands of black hair trapped in the door hinge.’ He pushed the cargo door wide open as far as it would go, and pointed with a gloved finger to the bottom hinge. ‘Found them here,’ he said.
Jessie said, ‘So you’re saying they could’ve been trapped by the hinge if he’d thrown a body into the back and closed the door?’
‘I’m saying no such thing. I’m just telling you what I found.’
‘How about ethnicity?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Can you conclude anything?’
‘Not until I’m back in the lab.’
‘Indian?’ Gilchrist tried.
Colin shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t rule it out.’
Gilchrist nodded to the Land Rover. ‘Cleaned, you said. So no fingerprints?’
‘Mostly smeared from cleaning. But we’ve managed to lift a few partials. Maybe enough to piece together a full print. But I wouldn’t bank on it.’
‘Let me know what you find,’ Gilchrist said, and walked to the edge of the dirt-tracked lane.
Surrounding fields lay in blackening silence. A burst of wind shivered the hawthorn hedgerow, flicking water from its branches, causing him to step back. He stared off beyond rain-flattened grass that faded into a dark horizon. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, what would Black have done after abandoning his Land Rover?
It was a long walk back to town, far too long for someone on the run from the law. So, how had Black left? He was a loner – Gilchrist was already convinced of that. Everything he had seen so far told him that Black was a man who liked solitude; his home at the end of a dead-end road; his fridge with barely enough food to feed one; his yacht, large enough for two perhaps, but not for bigger parties; his spare bedrooms with their smell of dust and emptiness; his Land Rover with its tattered passenger seat covered with plans and drawings and . . .
And . . .?
Something else that his eyes had caught, but his brain hadn’t registered.
He forced his mind back to that first glance through the Land Rover’s window.
Then thought he saw it. In the opened toolbox.
Thick leather gloves. Not workman’s gloves. But . . .
Motorbike gloves.
He retrieved his mobile and phoned Mac Fountain, the CCTV Manager.
‘I need you to check CCTV footage for a motorbike on the Cupar to Leven road.’
‘What make and model?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Registration number?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Travelling in which direction?’
‘Don’t know.’
Mac let out a sigh, and Gilchrist could only pinch the bridge of his nose in despair. ‘You’re not making it easy,’ Mac said. ‘Cupar to Leven’s what – ten, fifteen miles? Through open country? We don’t have cameras out in the country. If you could pin it down to a time, Andy, I could maybe give it a better shot.’
Gilchrist whispered a curse. ‘Let me get back to you,’ he said.
He found Jessie by the Land Rover, texting on her mobile. He sliced a hand across his throat, and she dropped it into her pocket.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Get on to Mhairi and Jackie and find out if Black has a motorbike registered in his name. I want make, model, registration number, the works.’
‘What kind of motorbike?’
‘One with two wheels.’
Without a word, Jessie turned away, mobile out again and pressed to her ear.
Gilchrist walked to the rear of the Land Rover and squatted. The registration number plate looked scraped and dented, and dotted with specks of rust. Close up, it was obvious that the plate did not belong to the Land Rover. But a passer-by, or anyone driving past, would be none the wiser.
‘They belong to a 1976 Reliant Scimitar,’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist jerked a look at her.
She held up her mobile. ‘Just in from Jackie.’
He grunted as he stood, knees stiff from the cold, or from getting older.
‘Been registered as SORN for the last ten years.’
Statutory Off Road Notifications were used by owners who did not want to sell or scrap their vehicle, but garage it without paying road tax. Which meant the vehicle was not allowed to be driven. With a SORN you could hold on to a car you might wish to restore in future years. A 1976 Reliant Scimitar would fit that bill. But importantly, a SORN recorded ownership details.
‘Did Jackie give an address?’ he asked.
‘John Smith, Kingsbarns,’ she said. ‘One out of ten for originality.’