The Killing Connection

by T F Muir

  ‘OK, let’s go.’

  But Jessie was right, and he found himself on his backside in short order, slithering through damp grass, fingers clawing the ground to control his descent. He managed to stop the downhill rush, but slipped again when he took another step. When he reached the bottom of the slope, he pulled himself to his feet and cleaned his hands in the damp grass. Jessie was still only halfway down the slope, working around tufts of grass, clumps of ferns, patches of thistles.

  ‘You look a mess,’ she said to him, but he was already walking to the hut.

  He peered through the small window. Although the hut looked new, spiders’ webs clouded the glass like sheer curtains. But he let his eyes adjust to the dark interior, and ten seconds later had his answer.

  Garden tools littered one wall, hanging from nails or hooks screwed into the wooden framing. But on the opposite side, a tarpaulin or canvas sheet took up most of the space, its angular shape and size suggesting it was covering a motorbike.

  Had they really found it?

  He turned to Jessie. ‘We need to get inside.’

  ‘It’ll be locked.’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’

  Without a warrant, he could compromise evidence. But he needed to see for himself, just to make sure that his wild assumptions had been correct. If so, then they could apply for a search warrant, secure in the knowledge that the motorbike was here.

  ‘We could call the local Office for backup,’ she said.

  Jessie was right, he knew. But it still felt too early to involve others. He first needed to know what they had. ‘I’d rather check inside the hut first.’

  Jessie grimaced. ‘Well, if you’re going to try the door at the front of the hut, you can be seen from the house.’

  Which was Gilchrist’s dilemma.

  He needed to confirm the motorbike was the one they were looking for, before calling for backup. If he contacted the local Office, or requested a search warrant, and was found to be wrong – well, that was just the sort of waste of resources that Smiler would use against him. And the memory of Black facing him down on his driveway told him that he needed to make sure of his facts before he went in for the arrest.

  ‘Stay put,’ he said. ‘And keep me posted if you see anyone.’

  He crept around the corner of the hut, aware of being in full view of one of the windows at the front of the cottage – maybe the lounge? He was gambling that Black was in the kitchen or some other room, and that the lounge was for TV in the evenings. But he saw no satellite dish or aerials on the roof or walls or fixed to the eaves, and it struck him that maybe he had it all wrong.

  No time to waste.

  At the front of the hut, the door was secured with a padlock and hasp. He tugged the padlock – locked – which left him only one option. The four screws that fixed the hasp to the doorframe had rusted, and one of them appeared to be loose. A quick dig under the screw using his car key, and he was able to wriggle it out and confirm it was only a half-inch long – a bit short, he thought – which worked in his favour.

  He checked the cottage for signs of life, but it could have been deserted.

  He turned back to the hut door, put his shoulder against it, and pushed.

  The door creaked against the framing.

  He tried again, keeping pressure on the door, stressing the metal hasp.

  The strength of a padlock hasp is that if you try to force the door open by pulling it, you are confronted with a lock mechanism as good as a metal bar. But if you force the door inwards against the frame, consequent stresses work against the hasp fixings, and something has to give.

  Well, that was the theory. But the problem he now faced was that the doorframe was stronger than he’d thought, too strong to push the door inwards to the point where the hasp would tear the screws free.

  He put his shoulder to the door again, and gave it a quick thump.

  The door creaked. The hasp strained. He was about to give it another thump when—

  ‘Andy.’

  He froze for a split second, then slipped around the corner of the hut.

  Jessie said, ‘There’s a woman.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She just opened the door and walked outside and placed a potted plant on the step. It’s a wonder she never saw you.’

  Gilchrist peeked around the corner of the hut and there she was, with ill-fitting jeans and an anorak that had seen better days, fiddling with clumps of purple and yellow pansies in a glazed pot large enough to hold a small conifer.

  ‘Is she with Black?’ Jessie said.

  It took a second for him to make up his mind. ‘Only one way to find out.’

  As he and Jessie walked towards the cottage, the woman froze at the sound of their footfall. Then she saw them, and tucked a trail of dyed black hair behind her ear with a dirt-covered hand.

  Gilchrist saw no fear in her eyes, only puzzled curiosity.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said.

  He would put her in her fifties, with an attractive face that seemed prematurely lined. The closer he neared, the more decrepit her appearance became – scuffed brown shoes, toes white from lack of polish; jeans faded at the knees and several sizes too large, tied with a belt knotted like string; anorak shiny and smooth and fit for the bin. Maybe she was wearing old clothes for gardening. Warrant cards held out, he introduced Jessie and himself, then said, ‘We’d like to ask a few questions, if you have a moment, Ms . . .’

  ‘Kerr,’ she said. ‘Martha Kerr.’

  Gilchrist thought he kept his surprise hidden, then tried, ‘Is Mr Kerr here?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ Which confirmed that Black was now Kerr.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said.

  ‘Gone into town to get some shopping.’

  Electricity zipped his spine. Black-call-me-Kerr was here. In Alloa. They had him. All they had to do was wait. He thought of calling the local Office for assistance in making the arrest, but could not shift the worry that he was still missing something. Which brought him full circle to the hut and the motorbike. If the registration number was the one they were looking for, then they had Black good and proper.

  ‘When do you expect him back?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘An hour or two, perhaps.’

  That would work. It gave them time to check out the motorbike, then arrange for backup. He nodded to the hut. ‘Do you mind opening that for us?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re looking for a motorbike,’ he said, intrigued as to how she would react.

  But she seemed uninterested, as if it was the most natural thing for policemen to want to see a motorbike. ‘Wait here while I get the key,’ she said.

  He almost told Jessie to follow her inside, then decided against it. Doing so, without invitation, might alert Kerr to their high level of interest in talking to Black.

  ‘Is this for real?’ Jessie said.

  ‘We’ll know for sure once we see that motorbike.’ He glanced at his watch – 10.20. ‘Get on to Mhairi, and get her started on a search warrant for this place. And have someone liaise with the local Office here, and let them know we might need their assistance.’

  Jessie had her mobile in her hand, and was waiting for the connection to be made when she said, ‘What’s keeping her?’

  Gilchrist eyed the open door. How long had she been gone? One minute? Two? What was she doing? He walked on to the top step, peered inside. The hallway was dark, with flecked wallpaper that had to have come from another era. He thought he caught the metallic chinking of cutlery, voices talking – a TV in the kitchen? – and was about to step inside when Mrs Kerr appeared in the hallway, key in hand.

  ‘Problems?’ he said to her.

  ‘No. Why?’

  He said nothing as he followed her to the hut, her feet cracking ice. He held his breath as she slotted the key into the padlock, worried that she might notice the missing screw. She struggled to unclip the padlock, and he stepped in to give her a hand. ‘Pr
obably a bit rusted,’ he said, removing it from the hasp.

  He pulled the door open to the smell of petrol and oil masked with woody freshness. On the floor by his feet, a five-gallon plastic container seeped petrol from a recent purchase. To his right against the wall, a tarpaulin covered what looked suspiciously like a motorbike – handlebars high at the front. He gripped the edge of the tarp and eased it up to reveal a pair of black leather gloves and a burgundy crash helmet with a black visor on the motorbike’s seat.

  He eyed the plate on the mudguard, his lips reciting the number he knew by heart.

  It matched. Black was here.

  CHAPTER 28

  Gilchrist put on his best poker face as he replaced the tarpaulin. He said nothing as he closed the door, slipped the padlock into place and locked it with a click.

  That motorbike was going nowhere.

  ‘Is it what you were looking for?’ Mrs Kerr asked.

  Gilchrist ignored her question. ‘Where does Mr Kerr do his shopping?’

  ‘Tesco in town. Why?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he take his motorbike?’

  She shielded her eyes from a sudden burst of sunlight. ‘It doesn’t have a pannier.’

  For just that moment, with her face lit up by the sun, he thought he had never before seen eyes so dark – pupils as black as irises. But he was also struck with a sense of déjà-vu, that he had been here before, questioning someone who knew more than she was letting on. He eyed the cottage, seeing for the first time its lack of overhead wires, and as if in slow motion the tumblers in his mind slotted into place.

  He almost hissed a curse. How could he have been so stupid, so bloody stupid?

  ‘Do you have a phone?’ he snapped.

  She reached inside her anorak pocket and produced a black Nokia.

  ‘No landline?’

  ‘Only mobiles.’

  ‘You phoned him when you went inside for the hut key.’

  ‘Just to tell him to hurry back, that you wanted to look at his motorbike.’

  ‘Ah, fuck.’ He ran towards Jessie who was standing at the property entrance, mobile to her ear. She turned at the sound of her name. ‘He knows,’ he said. ‘She’s already phoned him. Get on to the local Office and give them a description, if they don’t already have one. He’s in Tesco. Approach with extreme caution. Arrest him on suspicion of murder.’

  He eyed the road leading to town – at least a mile long, probably more. Shit and fuck it. Even if he ran flat out, it would take him over five minutes to reach town, longer to find Tesco. He could call a taxi, but how long would it take to reach the cottage?

  Another glance at Mrs Kerr made his mind up for him.

  He jogged back to her. ‘Let me see your mobile.’

  She held it out.

  ‘I’m confiscating this,’ he said. ‘The key for the motorbike. Do you have it?’

  ‘It’s in the ignition.’

  ‘Open the hut,’ he said, and almost tore the key from her as she tried to insert it into the padlock. When the lock clicked, he pushed her out of the way, removed the padlock and entered. He ripped off the tarpaulin, spilling the helmet and gloves to the floor. He reached for the handlebars, tugged the motorbike upright, surprised by its weight. He kicked the stand, and it clicked into place. But the hut was too tight to wheel the motorbike outside, and he had to drag the rear wheel across the floor before he could pull it into the open.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Kerr said.

  ‘Going to find Mr Kerr,’ he said, mounting the bike. A turn of the key, and it fired first time. He pulled in the clutch, revved the engine, feeling the power beneath him. It had been years since he’d last driven a motorbike – well, a Lambretta scooter if he was being honest, and as a teenager. He slid into gear, eased out the clutch, and worked his way around ice-covered puddles until he reached Jessie standing in the middle of road.

  He handed her Mrs Kerr’s mobile. ‘Check out the number she called him on, then have the Office track it, see what mast it pinged.’

  ‘You realise that you’ve compromised evidence by riding his motorbike.’

  ‘Helmet and gloves are in the hut on the floor. And we have CCTV footage.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, but she didn’t seem convinced. ‘I spoke to a DS Whitby in the local Office here, who’s despatched two mobile units into town. Jackie’s emailing them a photo of Black even as we speak.’

  ‘Get back on to Whitby. Tell him they need to be armed.’

  He revved the engine, was about to release the clutch when Jessie said, ‘Do you know what you’re doing, Andy?’

  What could he tell her? That he was fired up because he’d let Black slip through his fingers once again? That he needed to nail him before someone else was killed? That he knew he was no physical match for the guy, but had no option but to take him on? He couldn’t say. All he knew was that he had to get into town and arrest Black when they had the chance. He would even run the bastard over with his own motorbike, if he could get him in his sights.

  ‘I won’t do anything silly,’ he lied.

  ‘Want me to ride pillion?’ Jessie said.

  He shook his head. ‘Keep an eye on Mrs Kerr. Other than the bike being garaged in the hut, why this cottage? We’re missing something, but I don’t know what. And prioritise that search warrant for this place.’

  Then he released the clutch, and the motorbike leaped forward.

  He took his time over the first hundred yards, working through the gears, changing down again, just getting the hang of it all. Even though it had been years, it all came back to him – well, it was just like . . . riding a bike.

  He accelerated to thirty, forty, fifty, and once he felt he had it under control, opened the throttle and accelerated downhill into town.

  He reached the main road, the A907, indicated right, then powered into town. Even in that short time, without gloves his hands were already frozen, his face cold enough to lock his lips into a determined grimace. He came to a roundabout and went straight through. At the next roundabout, he clocked Morrisons on the left and had an almost overwhelming urge to check out the car park – if you walked into town to do shopping, would you not stop at the first store you came to? But Morrisons wasn’t Tesco, so he carried on.

  He kept well back from an articulated lorry in front as he negotiated the roundabout, aware of traffic entering from his left. The lorry veered off into the Morrisons complex, and Gilchrist was accelerating when he caught a flash of movement in his wing mirror, some car exiting the complex at speed. Within seconds he had his speed back to fifty – in a thirty-mile-an-hour limit – intent on finding Tesco.

  He had no idea where it was, and pulled kerbside at a bus stop to ask for directions – next roundabout, and turn left, you cannae miss it. He set off again, struggling to stifle the niggling feeling that he had it wrong. This was too far to walk for shopping.

  The next roundabout opened up to an Asda store off to his right, but he turned left as instructed and accelerated uphill on to Auld Brig Road. When he reached another roundabout, and saw Tesco Extra off to his left, he knew he had it wrong. Who in their right mind would walk all the way up here, instead of shopping at the first store they came to?

  He stopped and rang Jessie. ‘Anything?’ he asked her.

  ‘No sightings,’ she said. ‘But there’s been an altercation in Morrisons.’

  ‘Ah, fuck it. I knew it. It’s Black. It has to be. Get me the details.’ He flicked the tail end as he did a quick U-turn, almost losing his balance, then headed back the way he’d come.

  When he reached the Morrisons roundabout, the flash memory of a speeding car had him powering through it, accelerating on to Clackmannan Road. The wind whipped through his hair with claws of ice. He gritted his teeth against the fierce wind chill, squinted his eyes as he accelerated to seventy. He felt his mobile vibrate in his jacket; he pulled on the brakes and skidded to a halt.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he said.

  ‘It
’s Jessie. You were right, Andy. A man matching Black’s description attacked a woman in Morrisons car park and stole her car. We’re now looking for a silver Ford Fiesta.’ She rattled off the registration number. ‘The reg is now on the PNC, and I’ve put out an alert on the ANPR.’

  Gilchrist grimaced. The Automatic Number Plate Recognition system was invaluable in tracking vehicles – provided the plates hadn’t been changed or discarded. He didn’t need to think hard to know that Black was an expert in criminal deception. Even in that short time, the Fiesta’s number plates would likely already be changed, or discarded altogether. False plates could help evade the police initially, but once they knew the changed number, they could track it through the ANPR.

  ‘Shit,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Put a call to all police forces to look out for that Ford Fiesta. And get cracking with the ANPR.’

  ‘Already on it.’

  ‘Get back to me if you come up with anything.’ Up ahead, he saw his BMW parked off the side of the road where he’d abandoned it earlier.

  He kicked into gear and drove towards it.

  He discarded the motorbike, resting it against a hedge, then clicked his car’s remote. Inside, he fired up the ignition and turned the fan to high. Cold air blew at him. Even though the engine had not yet heated it felt warmer than outside. He was shivering, and couldn’t stop his body jerking with spasms. The temperature gauge on his dashboard confirmed it was 1 degree Centigrade outside, but riding a motorbike at speed was as good as a sub-zero wind chill. A glance in the mirror reflected blue lips and a red-tipped nose, and strained eyes that looked years older. He palmed the air vents, revved the engine. ‘Come on, come on.’ But it would take several minutes for the warm air to work through the system and he had no time to waste. He could warm up later.

  He slipped into gear and did a fast U-turn.

  On his drive to Alloa earlier that morning, he remembered going through a five-way roundabout on the outskirts of town. As he approached it, he felt his heart sink. Black could have taken any one of four roads. His peripheral vision caught sight of something glittering in the grass on the side of the road, and he skidded to a halt.