The Killing Connection

by T F Muir

She did.

  He pushed that into the flooring on the other edge of the panel, and wiggled both knives together. Still too tight, but he felt the panel move.

  ‘Stand on that corner,’ he said, ‘and when I edge it up, press down.’

  Jessie positioned herself at the corner.

  Gilchrist pressed the knives in and twisted. ‘Now,’ he said.

  She leaned forward, and the flooring eased up. ‘A bit more,’ he panted, and managed to slide one of the knives under the panel as it lifted clear. He gripped it with his free hand, and lifted it up and out, and slid it on to the floor.

  A waft of something not quite fresh rose from the opening.

  Gilchrist felt his anger smoulder as he stared at Kandy Lal’s body crammed into a tiny space between floor joists, too small for her to be laid lengthwise. He couldn’t see her face, but knew from the colour of her skin that they were looking at Kandy Lal.

  He pushed himself to his feet, and tried to work out what had happened. No signs of blood, so she’d likely been throttled to death – Black’s modus operandi. Her body had been folded up, knees and arms bent at impossible angles, then jammed into her makeshift grave. He could almost make out the boot-marks on her clothes, from Black stomping down on the body to squeeze her in.

  He removed his mobile and called Colin.

  ‘Change of plan,’ he snarled. ‘We need the works. The whole shooting match.’

  CHAPTER 22

  By midday, Gilchrist and his team were no closer to finding Scott Black. The DVLA had no record of any motorbike registered in his name, and Gilchrist was now having serious doubts over his rationale. Had Black really abandoned the Land Rover and driven off on a motorbike? Or was it all conjecture and wishful thinking on his part?

  Was Jessie correct? Had there been another vehicle? Another person?

  CCTV footage on the outskirts of Cupar and Leven captured seven motorbikes on the southbound A916, and ten heading north, all within the estimated time frame. But they could be hours out, and had no way of confirming if any of these bikes had originated from the area around Montrave House.

  And they hadn’t even considered roads leading inland or to the coast.

  Christ, he could quadruple his team, and they would still be short on manpower.

  There had to be some other way of finding Black, as another thought struck him: the post office might be able to help. The Royal Mail was legally obliged to deliver mail to the noted address, whether the addressee was the registered occupant of that address or not. So, he instructed Mhairi to visit St Monans’ post office and the Royal Mail sorting office in Anstruther to find out if they had any record of delivering mail to Black’s home address, but in some other addressee’s name.

  A long shot, he knew. But so far his team were spinning their wheels.

  Next, he phoned Cooper.

  Preliminary findings on Kandy Lal’s body confirmed extensive bruising on her arms and thighs, which had Gilchrist asking the staggering question, ‘Could she have been alive when she was put under the floor?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Cooper said. ‘Heavy bruising around the neck, and fracture of both the thyroid and cricoid cartilages, suggest death by manual strangulation. So I’d say she was throttled first, then hidden.’

  Thank God for small mercies. ‘And the other bruises?’

  ‘Cutaneous cuts and abrasions from defending herself, probably. I’ve also managed to scrape skin tissue from under the fingernails, which suggests that our Ms Lal put up one hell of a fight.’

  Gilchrist pinched the bridge of his nose. What chance would a woman have against a brute of a man like Black? None, came the answer, and an image of Kandy Lal being booted around the kitchen floor hit him with such force that he had to walk to the window and press his forehead against the cold glass.

  ‘You still there, Andy?’

  ‘Sure, Becky. It’s just . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t get any easier, does it?’

  He closed his eyes. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘I should be able to get a good DNA profile from the skin tissue under the fingernails, and compare that to the samples from Black’s toothbrush and razor.’

  Gilchrist gave a quiet sigh of relief. After entering Black’s home without a warrant, he and Jessie made sure their stories matched. With a subsequent search warrant issued, Black’s personal effects had been bagged and sent for DNA testing. He caught a glimpse of Mhairi walking past his office door and said, ‘Got to go, Becky. Get back to me as soon as you have a match.’

  He caught up with Mhairi in the incident room.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘St Monans post office confirmed that they deliver mail to Black’s home slash business address for a Mr Scott Black and SB Contracting only. They have no record of delivering mail to that address for any other person.’

  ‘So that’s the No. What about the Yes?’

  ‘I asked if they had a Post Office Box in his name.’ A pause, then, ‘They don’t.’

  ‘But . . . ?’

  ‘But if Black wanted mail delivered to him under some other name, he wouldn’t use a local PO Box where he might be known, would he? So I drove to Anstruther post office, and showed the staff Black’s photo, and that’s when I got lucky. One of them – Liz Murray – said she recognised him, but not as Scott Black. She knows him as Robert Kerr.’

  ‘She’s sure it’s him?’

  ‘No doubts.’

  ‘And there’s a PO Box in that name?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Find out how he pays for it, and if he’s got a bank account. Credit and debit cards, too. And see if he’s got a Social Security number, then get on to the Inland Revenue. Maybe he’s paying taxes. Who knows.’ Another thought struck him. ‘This Liz Murray, would she know if mail’s delivered to that PO Box on a regular basis?’

  Mhairi smiled. ‘This is the Yes bit, sir. The return address is mostly from the Standard Chartered Bank in St Helier, Jersey. I was about to contact them.’

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Without a warrant, you’re wasting your time. Get on to the FIU in Glenrothes, and have them jump on the paperwork. We need access to all accounts in the name of Robert Kerr as a matter of priority. And make sure they understand that he’s wanted for questioning on suspicion of double murder.’

  ‘I’ll do that right away, sir.’

  He returned to his office, enthused for once. A bank account in the Channel Islands might give his investigation the injection it needed. The Financial Investigation Unit should be able to fast-track the paperwork, particularly at the mention of double murder.

  He was scribbling down his thoughts when a knock on his door interrupted him.

  Jessie stood there, face pale and drawn. ‘Have you got some time, sir?’

  ‘If you’ve got the money,’ he joked. But whatever was troubling her seemed to have stifled her sense of humour.

  ‘I was going to drive to Glasgow this afternoon to ID Terry.’

  He almost cursed at his thoughtlessness. Recent events must have had her tottering on the edge. ‘I’m sorry, Jessie. Of course. Take whatever time you need.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He held her gaze, expecting her to leave, but she just stood there, eyes tearful.

  ‘Can I help?’ he said.

  She jerked a smile. ‘I’ve been stupid.’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’

  ‘No, Andy, I’ve been really stupid. Tommy came to my house last night.’

  Ice zapped his spine. He recalled Dainty’s words of concern, of Jessie being next on her brother’s list of people to kill. ‘Did he threaten you?’

  She slipped a hand into her pocket. ‘He wanted my help. But I can’t do that. So I’m just going to pass this on.’ She laid Tommy’s note on Gilchrist’s desk.

  Gilchrist stared at it, not sure if he should bag it as criminal evidence. But being given a note from a criminal brother – albeit one wanted for
questioning on suspicion of murder – was not criminal in and of itself, although he could already hear the legal arguments.

  ‘Have you looked at it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s some names.’

  ‘Whose names?’

  ‘I think you should have a look yourself, sir.’

  ‘Where’s Tommy now?’ he asked.

  ‘On the run. Said he wasn’t going down for something he didn’t do.’

  ‘Meaning . . .’ He hesitated, tongue-tied as to how best to phrase it. ‘Your mother’s and brother’s . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he’s saying he’s got nothing to do with either of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Yes.’ She blinked, and a tear spilled down her cheek.

  He sensed that what she was asking him to do was beyond what anyone could expect to be reasonable. But he couldn’t let her down. ‘So this list is presumably the names of those responsible for the crimes for which Tommy is wanted for questioning?’

  ‘I think so, sir, yes.’

  He felt helplessness swell within him. He would never have taken Jessie for a fool, but she was being as gullible as any fool he’d ever come across. ‘You do realise, don’t you, that Tommy could be spinning you a line.’

  ‘He’s not lying. I know he isn’t—’

  ‘He’s wanted on suspicion of a double murder, Jessie. He’ll say anything to get out of it. He’ll lie to his back teeth if he has to.’

  ‘He’s not lying, Andy.’

  Well, there he had it. Blood really was thicker than water. Even bad blood.

  ‘Tommy’s been in and out of prison all his life,’ he said. ‘He was charged with GBH and got away with it before. He’s perfectly capable of killing, so it’s not unreasonable to suspect he’s responsible for . . .’ Jesus Christ, here he was again, trying to tiptoe on eggshells around the obvious. ‘For murdering your mother and brother,’ he said.

  ‘Yesterday you were worried that I could be next on Tommy’s list. Last night he had his chance to kill me. But he didn’t. Is that not convincing enough?’

  ‘If he had, there was no turning back for him. He now sees you as his only chance of staying out of prison.’

  ‘I know he’s not lying, Andy. I just know it.’

  Well, the mood Jessie was in, it was pointless continuing to argue. He pulled the note closer. ‘And this will prove Tommy’s innocence?’

  ‘No. It’ll give them some other names to consider.’

  ‘By them, you mean . . .?’

  ‘Someone only you can trust.’

  He nodded. She was implying Dainty. Over the years, he and Dainty had confided in this, shared in that, none of it ever illegal, but all of it played close to their chests. If Gilchrist had to trust someone with his life, Dainty would be his go-to man.

  He unfolded the note, ran his eyes down it, then grimaced.

  She nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s have it from the beginning.’

  CHAPTER 23

  An hour later, Gilchrist phoned DCI Peter ‘Dainty’ Small of Strathclyde Police.

  ‘Keep it short,’ Dainty said. ‘I’m up to my oxters in fucking alligators and horse shite and Christ knows what else.’

  ‘What’s the latest on Tommy Janes?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Not being handled by me. Like me to pass you over to Victor?’

  ‘Would that be Chief Superintendent Victor Maxwell of the BAD squad?’

  Dainty hesitated, but caught the emphasis. ‘What’ve you got, Andy?’

  Gilchrist smiled. ‘A few names you might like to have a look at.’

  ‘To do with Tommy Janes?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Names you don’t want Maxwell to look at because . . .?’

  ‘Because Tommy Janes could be innocent, and is being set up.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘A friend.’

  The line filled with electronic silence long enough for Gilchrist to worry that Dainty had hung up. But Dainty harboured a mistrust of phones and all things digital, and would be considering how to carry on without mentioning a snitch’s name over a phone line that could be – as unlikely as it seemed – compromised.

  ‘Do you want to meet?’ Dainty said at length.

  ‘Probably easier if I arranged a delivery to your preferred address.’

  ‘You got my home details?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Tonight. Between seven and eight. I’ll be there.’

  The line died.

  Gilchrist wrote a brief summary of Jessie’s incident with Tommy, then inserted that and the note into an envelope addressed to Dainty’s home in Bearsden, north of Glasgow. He then spent the next hour reading fresh reports, before catching Ted Baxter sneaking a smoke in the Office car park.

  Baxter ground out his dout when he saw Gilchrist approaching. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Any advance on the motorbike footage?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Keep hard at it.’ He held out Dainty’s envelope. ‘You’ve got family in Glasgow, haven’t you?’

  ‘I do, sir, yes.’

  ‘And you’re familiar with Bearsden?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I want you to deliver this in person between seven and eight tonight.’

  Baxter took the envelope. ‘Do you need a signed receipt for it, sir?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll be talking to DCI Small later.’ He levelled his gaze at Baxter. ‘And it would be useful to have something positive on that motorbike when I do.’ He caught a look of puzzlement creep across Baxter’s face – what does Strathclyde Police have to do with a search for a motorbike in Fife? Nothing, if he had to be told the truth. But it was as good a kick up the arse as any. ‘Can you manage that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Gilchrist found Mhairi in Jackie’s office.

  ‘I got hold of the FIU like you said, sir, and they jumped on it. Standard Chartered has one account for a Robert Kerr, sir, but the home address they have for him isn’t St Monans, but Alloa.’

  Gilchrist didn’t like the sound of that. Did he have it wrong? Were they chasing down some other Robert Kerr? ‘Do you need to speak to Liz Murray again?’

  ‘No, sir, there’s no doubt it’s him. Standard Chartered does mail monthly statements to the Anstruther PO Box, sir. In his name.’

  ‘So Alloa is where Black lived before changing his name and moving to St Monans?’

  ‘I think so, sir. Standard Chartered also confirmed a change in mailing instructions three years ago.’

  ‘About the time Black arrived in St Monans?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Now they were on track. ‘But why not change his address to St Monans?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. Maybe he didn’t want the bank to know where he’s moved to.’

  Gilchrist’s mind crackled with possibilities. ‘Whose name is on the title deeds of that Alloa address?’

  Mhairi smiled, to let him know she was one step ahead. ‘Jackie’s already done a title search, sir, and it was transferred into some holding company three years ago.’

  Again, about the same length of time Black had lived in St Monans. ‘Does that holding company have a name?’ he asked.

  ‘Butterworth Holdings.’

  The name meant nothing to him. But they were now uncovering some historic trail to Black – or was it Kerr? – and he was itching to reassign his team from tracking an imagined motorbike, to digging deeper into the fresh tracks of Black’s past. But experience had taught him that murder investigations were not solved by simple flashes of inspiration, but through persistent plodding and relentless pursuit of the mundane and the boring.

  No, better to continue with two fronts for the time being.

  ‘Get on to Companies House and find out what you can on Butterworth Holdings – who its directors are, what its value is, how it earns its keep, is
it privately owned, et cetera. You know the score.’

  Back in his office, he called Cooper again.

  ‘You’re becoming impatient,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect the DNA results today.’

  ‘Speed it up if you can, Becky. I need to be one hundred per cent certain that it’s Black’s DNA under Kandy Lal’s fingernails.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  He spent the next thirty minutes being brought up to speed on his motorbike theory. But no one had any luck interviewing the motorbike riders captured on CCTV, and by late afternoon he was about to abandon that line of enquiry once and for all when his mobile rang – ID Jack.

  ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘This is a rarity.’

  ‘Me calling you during daylight hours, you mean?’ Jack gave a dry chuckle, then said, ‘Are you busy, man? You eaten yet?’

  Jack’s question made Gilchrist realise he’d had nothing to eat all day, just a cup of coffee. A late lunch might reinvigorate his tired brain cells. ‘Could do with a bite.’

  ‘And a pint?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘Just walking into the Central. Want me to order a Best?’

  ‘That’ll work.’

  ‘Better get here before it goes flat, then.’

  Outside, the day was dying. A stiff wind chilled North Street with its ice-cold breath. The middle of winter was still five weeks away, but no one would call you a liar for saying it had already arrived. He turned into College Street, now pedestrianised, not much more than a single lane. His footfall echoed off the old stone buildings either side. Damp cobbles glistened with an early frost. Ahead, Market Street glowed like a welcoming beacon.

  He pushed through the Central Bar’s side door, into the hubbub of a busy town pub. Only Monday evening, and it seemed as if the crowd was already practising for the weekend. He located Jack at the bar, pint in hand, talking to a woman he would place somewhere in her forties, maybe even fifties. A full pint of beer stood next to an empty shooter glass – Jack’s double vodka?

  Jack surprised him by holding out his hand – not the usual high-five – then turned to the woman by his side and said, ‘Jen, I’d like you to meet the old man.’

  Jen flickered a smile, a flash of whitened teeth that could do with being straightened. ‘Does the old man have a name?’ she said.