The Killing Connection

by T F Muir

  ‘You could’ve phoned.’

  ‘That’ll be right. You’d shop me in it. Or they’d trace the call.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Maxwell and his lot.’

  Hairs on the back of Jessie’s neck chilled. ‘Chief Superintendent Victor Maxwell?’

  The cigarette glowed red once more, then died as Tommy crushed it between his thumb and finger. ‘Yeah. Maxwell.’

  Jessie had met Victor Maxwell once before, when she was with Strathclyde Police before transferring to Fife. She remembered thinking he was full of it, how he fancied himself as a ladies’ man, how she’d squirmed under his X-ray gaze. Maxwell headed up the BAD squad – Battle Against Drugs – and was rumoured to have bought a couple of Spanish villas with the backhanders he was creaming off to turn a blind eye. But rumours and facts were at opposite ends of the same equation, and Victor Maxwell was an expert in deception.

  ‘So why is Maxwell after you, Tommy? You’re not dealing in drugs, are you?’

  ‘No me. But the auld dear was.’

  Nothing would surprise her about her bitch for a mother. When Jessie was growing up, Jeannie Janes had taken her along with her to meet clients, some of whom she’d do a turn with, usually out of sight. But on more than one occasion, Jessie had watched her mother having sex with a stranger. Even though she’d been too young to comprehend what was happening, these images seared into her mind with such indelible force that by the time Jessie was in her teens, she had clear recall of what her mother had done. Which was why she’d gone to such great lengths to protect her son, Robert, from the toxic contamination of his grandmother.

  Although Jessie had last seen Terry and her mother about a year ago, she had no idea when she’d last seen Tommy. Three years ago? Four? Longer?

  With Tommy’s cigarette finished, Jessie’s night vision had recovered. Where she had a fine nose, Tommy’s was crooked and battle-thickened. He could be handsome, she thought, if you ignored the scars and the missing lobe on his left ear where it had been bitten off in a street fight. Rumour had it that Tommy had retaliated by biting the man’s bottom lip clean off.

  Jessie shuffled in her seat. ‘How did you find out where I live?’

  ‘Friend of a friend.’

  ‘You know I could lose my job if we’re seen together and I don’t arrest you.’

  ‘We’ll no be seen thigither.’

  She could not fail to catch his anger, which shimmered off him like heat from rock. His temper had been the architect of his life of crime. If he’d not been so wild-headed and lightning fast with his fists and boots, he might have become a decent family man. On the other hand, having a drink- and drug-addled prostitute for a mother, all chance of an honest life had been lost to him at the moment of his birth.

  ‘You know, Tommy, despite all the shit you’ve done in your life, I never thought you were stupid. You were never the brightest, right enough. But you had street smarts.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Jessie. Whit’s wi the fuckin degree in psychology?’

  ‘You don’t need a degree to know I can’t help you.’

  ‘You’re all ah’ve got,’ he said. ‘We’re the same flesh and blood, Jessie. There’s only you and me now. That’s all.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, there’s only me and Robert.’ She regretted mentioning her son’s name the instant it slipped from her mouth. She tensed as Tommy’s dark shape shifted, felt her car move under the transfer of his weight. Was she about to witness first-hand his infamous temper? Was he going to take his knife to her?

  Then she breathed a sigh of relief as his face lit up, and a cigarette glowed like a beacon of truce. He held it out to her. ‘Take it.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Go on. Take it. It’s only nicotine.’

  She obliged, but didn’t put it to her lips. He lit another, took a deep pull and exhaled in her direction. She breathed in his secondhand smoke, loving its acrid taste. On impulse, she placed the cigarette between her lips.

  She inhaled, and felt faint as that first burst of nicotine worked into her system. For a moment her vision threatened to vanish, but smoking was a bit like riding a bike – you never lost the habit. She took another pull, held it in her mouth for a long second, then said, ‘Get real, Tommy. How the hell do you expect me to help you?’

  ‘You’ll help me,’ he said. ‘Ah know you will.’

  She could sense his smile of victory, almost see the tilting of his head, the narrowing of his eyes, a stance he took when he was about to overpower an opponent. The gap between them flickered in shades of greys, one moment dull, the next clear. The fragrance of cigarette smoke could be a drug that smothered them like an ethereal cloud. If she closed her eyes, she could be floating in a dream. She was about to take another pull when she realised what she was doing. She opened the car’s ashtray, and killed the cigarette.

  ‘Fuck off, Tommy. I’m not going to help you.’

  The speed with which he closed the gap shocked her. She jerked back, thumped her head against the window. His face was tight to hers, the stink of cigarettes and sweat almost overpowering. Spittle splashed her mouth as he said, ‘Don’t play high and fuckin mighty with me, Jessie, just ’cause you’re in the polis. Ah’m no goin down for something ah never done. You got that?’

  Jessie held her breath.

  ‘Have you? Eh? Have you fuckin got that?’

  At the metallic click of a flick-knife, Jessie tried to push herself back. But there was nowhere to go. ‘Don’t, Tommy, don’t.’

  The point of the blade dug into her fleece jacket with a force that should push it through the material and straight into her heart.

  ‘Tommy, please.’

  His breath hissed in and out of clenched teeth.

  ‘Please, Tommy. Robert needs me.’

  The mention of Robert’s name was like clicking a switch.

  Tommy stopped breathing, as if his lungs had been turned off. Five seconds, maybe more, passed in silence. Then the scene rebooted, and he pushed away.

  ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Just fuckin go.’

  Jessie opened the car door. Night air rushed in, fresh and cold, sweeping away the stench of sweat and fear. She was about to step out when she turned and faced him. He hadn’t moved, as if he intended sitting in her car overnight.

  ‘What will you do?’ she said.

  ‘Run. Hide. It’s what ah’m good at.’

  The words were out before she could stop herself. ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  His eyes were tight beads that brightened with surprise. He removed something from his pocket and held it out to her.

  She took it. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Names.’

  ‘Of?’

  ‘Them that done it.’

  ‘Murdered Mum and Terry?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You have proof?’

  ‘Naw. Only what’s there.’

  ‘Why not hand this in yourself?’

  ‘Don’t act the daft cunt, Jessie. Who’d fuckin believe me?’

  ‘And when they ask me where I got this, I’m going to tell them I just woke up and there it was, lying on my pillow? I don’t think so. They’ll put two and two together, Tommy. And once they do, I’ll be in deepest shit.’

  ‘Won’t be the first time, will it?’

  Headlights swept the driveway behind them.

  Tommy’s head jerked, his flick-knife clicked, and his whole being tensed like a rabbit ready to sprint from danger.

  ‘It’s no one, Tommy. Only our curry.’

  ‘Get rid of the fucker.’

  She met the delivery boy halfway down the drive, positioning her body to prevent him from seeing someone in her car. ‘Keep the change,’ she said, and waited in the driveway as the van drove off.

  She returned to her car and pulled the passenger door open. ‘I’d invite you in. But I’ve only got two straws.’

  Tommy stepped out, and she closed the door behind him.

  ‘
I can give you some naan bread—’

  ‘Naw, ah’m fine.’ He stood in the dark, hands deep in his pockets, breath fogging the night air. Then, without a word, he turned and strode down the driveway, into the shadows.

  Jessie’s fingers shook as she tried to insert the key into the lock.

  When she pushed the door open, she stumbled inside and managed to carry the curry into the kitchen without spilling it. She removed the note from her pocket, and for a moment thought of just binning it. Who could she give this to? But more troubling, if anyone found out that Tommy had given it to her in person, she could be suspended, maybe even charged with aiding a wanted criminal, perverting the course of justice.

  She stuffed the note back into her pocket.

  For the time being, she would do nothing.

  Well, not exactly nothing.

  She opened the cabinet and removed a bottle of Glenfiddich Toasted Oak Reserve, a decent whisky she had intended to give to Angie as a present for all the times she looked after Robert. She opened it and sloshed a goodly measure into a tumbler, conscious of her hands shaking as she took a large gulp. The next mouthful drained the glass, and she poured another.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘What on earth am I doing?’

  CHAPTER 21

  7. 33 a.m., Monday

  North Street police station

  St Andrews

  Gilchrist played the CCTV footage DS Baxter had retrieved from Edinburgh Airport.

  Together, they watched Kandy Lal leave the terminal at 10.25 p.m. and walk across the pedestrian access to the passenger pickup point. A Land Rover Discovery bearing the same registration number as Black’s abandoned Land Rover pulled in, and Scott Black – Gilchrist could tell it was Black from his physical stature alone – took the suitcase from Lal and lugged it into the back.

  Then the Land Rover drove off.

  ‘Let’s go through it again,’ Gilchrist said.

  As they replayed the footage, what troubled him was that Kandy Lal seemed not in the least wary of Black, which told him she had no suspicions of his involvement in Alice Hickson’s murder. Had Kandy Lal walked straight into the arms of her own killer?

  ‘We were able to track them all the way to St Monans,’ Baxter offered. ‘They got back just before midnight on Saturday. Then we lost them in the fog.’

  Despite the UK having more CCTV cameras than anywhere else on the planet, many villages, small towns, and much of the Scottish countryside did not have them installed. And every now and then Sod’s Law would kick in, with the camera not focusing on the area they needed, or the one camera that would have caught all having been vandalised. Then there was the Scottish bloody weather, with its driving rain, heavy winds, or plain old fog that could turn a CCTV camera blind.

  Christ, it was enough to drive a sober man to drink.

  Gilchrist pushed away from the monitor. ‘Have you seen Jessie?’ he asked Baxter.

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  So Gilchrist phoned her. ‘Got the search warrant for Kandy Lal’s place in my greasy little mitts,’ he said. ‘I can pick you up, or meet you there.’

  ‘Meet you there in thirty minutes,’ she said. ‘And mine’s a tall latte.’

  Before leaving, he spent ten minutes checking the latest with his team. But he might as well not have bothered. No news on Black’s whereabouts; and Kandy Lal was still uncontactable. He instructed his team to go through any and all CCTV footage in the vicinity of Montrave House where Black’s Land Rover had been abandoned.

  If Black had a motorbike, he wanted to know about it.

  By the time he arrived at Kandy’s, Jessie was already there, pacing the street, mobile to her ear. As he walked towards her, she finished the call.

  ‘That was DCI Joe Donaldson,’ she said. ‘Confirmed that Terry fell off the perch last night.’

  He grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, Jessie.’

  ‘I’d already marked him down as murdered.’ She stared off along the street. ‘We didn’t have a normal family upbringing. So I can’t blame Terry for turning out the way he did.’

  ‘You turned out fine.’

  She faced him, her eyes glistening. ‘For Terry and Tommy it was worse. They were a right pair of hard cases,’ she said. ‘But they stood up for each other, and would stand back to back against all comers.’

  Not quite Gilchrist’s recollection of Terry. But Jessie was hurting, trying to find some rationale in what appeared to be a pair of senseless killings, much too close to home.

  ‘Donaldson wants me to ID his body.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today, if possible.’

  Gilchrist nodded. ‘Take whatever time you need.’

  She gave a tight-lipped smile and said, ‘Did you forget the coffees?’

  ‘In a rush. Sorry.’

  ‘Just as well your head’s screwed on.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘Could’ve done with one to beat the chill.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Maybe the heating’s on.’

  Together, they crossed the road.

  At the door, they pulled on latex gloves, and Gilchrist held the doorbell down for ten seconds. ‘She’s not here,’ he said, and pulled a key from his pocket. ‘Courtesy of the next-door neighbour.’

  ‘Clever clogs.’

  The lock was stiff, and he had to wiggle the handle to release it.

  With a helpful nudge from his shoulder, the door opened to a gentle waft of heat.

  The first thing that struck him was that something was not fresh, nothing he could pin down, just . . . not quite fresh. ‘Anyone?’ he shouted, in case Kandy Lal was in bed and not answering her phones or door.

  Silence came back at him.

  The house had been renovated, with a dividing wall knocked down to create an open-plan living space. A room to the side – an original bedroom? – had been turned into a master bathroom with a glass wet room that glistened like new and still had its original seals attached like strips of plaster printed with the name and address of the manufacturer.

  ‘Take a note of that,’ he said. ‘Find out if Black installed this.’

  The kitchen, too, had been upgraded, with new cabinets that slid in and out on silent runners. A brightly coloured rug covered a length of the laminate flooring, which flexed a tad under his weight. He laid the key on the breakfast bar, then opened the fridge – well stocked with basics, but more suited to someone who ate out rather than dined in.

  Stairs in the hallway led to an attic that had been turned into two bedrooms, one with a pair of dormer windows that overlooked the street, the other with a skylight and a view of a wasteland of a garden that could do with being rotovated and turned into a potato field.

  Only one bedroom showed signs of having been slept in. A wardrobe full of clothes told him that wherever Kandy Lal was, she had not left town with Scott Black. No, this place was all ready for a woman to return to from holiday.

  Back downstairs, Jessie had her ear to the landline. ‘Anything?’ he asked her.

  She replaced the handset. ‘Nothing on the answering machine. And the last incoming call was one of these sales calls you can’t phone back.’

  He spread his arms out and slowly turned around the room. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘A house that’s far from being a home?’ She pointed to a framed picture on the wall. ‘Who lives in a home with only one picture on the wall? And not a house plant in sight. What does that tell you?’

  ‘That she’s not into gardening?’ He sniffed the air. ‘Do you smell anything?’

  ‘Can’t smell a thing. I’m all blocked up. Why?’

  He screwed up his face. ‘Something’s off.’

  ‘Maybe it’s something in the kitchen.’ She found the rubbish bin under the sink and flipped it open. ‘Nope. Been cleaned before she went on holiday.’ She closed it and sniffed the air. ‘Still nothing. Maybe the place just needs an airing, or something.’

  ‘Or something.’ He walked back to the lounge, mobile in his ha
nd, and called Colin.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Colin asked.

  He almost shrugged. Nothing seemed out of place. ‘Check for bloodstains,’ he said. ‘And bag any personal items. There’s no evidence of a crime, but until we know what’s happened to Ms Lal, we need to be careful on this.’

  He ended the call, and Jessie said, ‘Fancy that coffee now?’

  ‘I fancy finding that motorbike.’

  ‘I’m still not convinced,’ she said. ‘Someone could’ve picked him up and driven him off. That seems the sensible thing to do.’

  ‘But he’s a loner.’

  ‘He wasn’t such a loner that he couldn’t do without women’s company,’ Jessie said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Hold on there. Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m only brainstorming here.’

  Gilchrist realised he was glaring at her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just thinking.’ He tried a smile, but didn’t think he pulled it off. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more to see here. Let’s get that coffee.’

  They were almost at the front door when he slapped his jacket pockets.

  ‘On the breakfast bar,’ Jessie reminded him.

  ‘I knew that.’ He returned to the kitchen and picked up the keys. As he turned back to the hall, his gaze tripped up on something on the floor, by the kick-plate under the cooker. He leaned down, swept his hand over the flooring, held his fingers up to the light.

  ‘What’ve you got?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘Sawdust?’

  ‘So you’re thinking this means . . . what?’

  ‘It’s fresh.’ He eyed the rug that ran the length of the kitchen, then pressed his foot on it, hard. The floor creaked. Down on his knees now, peeling the rug back, pushing it to the side, until . . .

  He saw it, a rectangular panel cut through the laminate flooring.

  ‘Jesus,’ Jessie hissed.

  ‘Get me a knife.’

  She opened a drawer and clattered her fingers through cutlery. ‘This do?’

  He pushed the blade into the saw-cut close to the panel’s corner, and tried to prise it up and off the floor. But the wood was too tight for proper leverage, and the knife bent.

  ‘Give me another one,’ he said.