by T F Muir
Gilchrist decided to go for the thinner of the files.
Janice Crichton’s PM report stated cause of death as drug overdose, with enough alcohol in her system to floor a horse – four times over the legal limit. Apparently Janice had been found unconscious in bed by her husband, James, who had tried but failed to revive her. He had immediately dialled 999 for an ambulance, but she was pronounced dead at the scene by the paramedics.
As Gilchrist read on, he learned that Janice had been taking medication for a sleeping disorder for five years prior to her death. He had read enough PM reports in his time as a DCI to recognise some of the names of the pills she’d been prescribed – Xanax, Ambien, Zopiclone – but his antennae twitched at the sight of Diazepam. The other pills were mostly prescribed for someone who had difficulty sleeping – as simple as that. But Diazepam could also be taken for anxiety disorders or to counter the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. If taken in accordance with the prescription dosage, these pills were safe enough. But for someone determined to end their own life, these pills, together with a high alcohol intake, could be as deadly a cocktail as any.
Back to the police report.
James Crichton had been questioned under caution over his wife’s death by the Oban Office of the Strathclyde Police Force, but released when he told them his wife suffered from panic disorder – which explained the Diazepam – and had threatened to take her own life on a number of occasions. Crichton had persuaded her to see a local psychiatrist who, when questioned by the police, not only confirmed Crichton’s statement, but said he had put Janice on a course of cognitive behavioural therapy to treat her disorder. The results of that treatment were not what the psychiatrist had hoped, so he had prescribed Diazepam, which Janice had been taking for six months at the time of her suicide.
Gilchrist’s phone rang. He thought about ignoring it, then picked it up. ‘Gilchrist,’ he said.
‘Good morning, DCI Gilchrist. Do you have a minute?’
He needed to prepare for that morning’s briefing, and in light of the reams of paper presented to him by Matt, he was thinking of assigning two of his team – Mhairi and Baxter – to review the printouts first, parse the text, and copy only the relevant sections.
‘I’m a bit busy at the moment, ma’am.’
‘We all are, DCI Gilchrist. You know where my office is.’
The line died.
Gilchrist flicked through the pages of the police report, and swore under his breath when he couldn’t find a photograph of James Crichton. Of course, if the man hadn’t been charged with a crime, there was little likelihood of his DNA, fingerprints, or even just a common or garden photo being included.
He picked up his phone, and got through on the second ring.
‘Jackie?’ he said.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I need you to access the archives of the local Oban newspapers, the Oban Times or whatever it’s called, and get me copies of any articles or reports about Janice Crichton’s suicide. You got that?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘But what I really need is a photograph of James Crichton. Anything you can find would be helpful. You think you can do that for me?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Thanks, Jackie. You’re a darling.’ He gave her a loud Mwah – again not pc, but who was listening? – and got a chuckle in response. ‘As soon as, Jackie.’
When he entered Smiler’s office, it was just as it had been the other day, as if she was not interested in personalising her working space.
‘Take a seat, DCI Gilchrist.’
‘Andy will do just fine, ma’am.’
‘I prefer to keep our conversations formal.’
He gave a tight smile in acknowledgement, and remained standing.
‘I’ve had the Alloa Office on the phone this morning, expressing concern about being compensated for assistance with resources.’
Money. It was always about money.
‘I hear you racked up a tidy bill,’ she said.
‘They did offer to help, ma’am.’
‘I’m sure they did, DCI Gilchrist. Rather than sit around twiddling their thumbs up their proverbial arseholes, they’re more than happy to assign whatever idling resources they had sitting around doing nothing, so they could be paid for your sorry escapades.’
‘Escapades, ma’am?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, DCI Gilchrist, don’t act the idiot. I’ve been told you hijacked half their bloody mobile units and sent them traipsing over most of bloody Clackmannanshire in search of some phantom figure—’
‘Scott Black,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We had him in our hands, but he escaped.’
‘Yes, he did, DCI Gilchrist. He did indeed escape.’ She sat back and eyed him with thinly veiled contempt. ‘Any idea where he is at the moment, then?’
‘No, ma’am.’ Well, what else could he tell her?
‘Any guesses?’
‘Plenty of guesses, ma’am. But I wouldn’t want to waste valuable resources running around—’
‘Stop right there.’ Her eyes blazed. Her lips quivered. She palmed her desk as if to make sure she couldn’t claw his eyes out by accident. Then she took a deep breath and said, ‘I’d been warned about your impudence, but by God I never believed you would be so brazen as to—’
‘Scott Black has killed at least two women, possibly many more. It seems to have escaped everyone’s attention that we are trying to track him down and arrest him.’
Her face paled, and she pushed her chair back as if to stand.
It seemed that cutting Smiler off mid-sentence only inflamed her. But Gilchrist gave her a tight look of his own, and before he could think it through, said, ‘We’ve only just uncovered evidence that gives me every reason to suspect that Black has killed before.’ As he watched the meaning of his words nuzzle into Smiler’s mind, he wished he’d engaged his brain before letting off with his mouth. This was the sort of rash statement that ended careers, sent well-respected DCIs – maverick or not – into the grazing fields, or punted them straight into touch and out of the game for good.
‘Explain,’ she said.
Well, what had he expected? Nothing quite like putting your head on the block to give clarity of thought. ‘We’ve had it confirmed by New South Wales Police that Alice Hickson was an Australian investigative journalist whose sister, Janice Crichton, committed suicide under suspicious circumstances while living in Oban.’ He brought Smiler up to speed with his investigation, bending the truth a little to favour his argument, and ending with the revelation that they’d uncovered an entire library’s worth of voyeur videos – not strictly correct, but he felt he’d earned the right to use poetic licence – and fraudulent Internet romance sites that Black was using to extort money from innocent victims, and possibly lure them to their death. Another quantum leap, he knew, and no proof to date, but it was possible.
Throughout it all, Smiler’s eyes never left his.
When Gilchrist finished, she studied her hands for a long moment, then stared at him with a look that could burn through reinforced concrete. ‘And what proof do you have that this missing James Crichton and Scott Black are one and the same?’
The truthful answer was No proof at all, but he was in so deep that it seemed silly not to compound his problems. ‘We should have photographic confirmation within the hour.’
Smiler glanced at her watch. ‘Let me know the minute you do.’
He nodded.
‘That’ll be all, DCI Gilchrist.’
‘Ma’am,’ he said, and turned on his heels.
He found Jackie at her computer, fingers typing with the speed of a woodpecker. ‘Any luck with that photograph from the Oban Times?’ he asked her.
Her rust-coloured hair wobbled like a loose Afro.
‘I need it within the hour,’ he said. ‘Think you can do that?’
She turned to her computer, and waved him away.
Back in his office, he walked to the window, pressed his forehead against
the cold glass. Below, headlights brushed the car park. Tyres splashed slushy puddles that glistened for a moment, then settled into blackness. He recognised Jessie’s Fiat pulling into a parking spot. Even in the early-morning darkness, he had a sense of the sky being low, the rainclouds close enough to touch if he just reached for them. November on the east coast of Scotland.
For all anyone knew, daylight could be an imaginary state.
He watched and waited, while the hammering in his chest settled down.
What a bloody mess he’d made of it.
And all to prove . . . what?
It had been a long shot, he knew, one of his longest, and he struggled now to work through the rationale that had seemed so logical only moments earlier. James Crichton and Scott Black were one and the same. That’s what he’d claimed. That’s what had been so clear to him only minutes earlier. Why else would Alice Hickson have crossed paths with Black or, more to the point, why else would Black have murdered her? The logic was crystal clear, and he wondered why it had taken him so long to work it out.
Except . . .
Except that it wasn’t crystal clear at all. Or obvious. In fact, it was as far-fetched an idea as he’d ever come up with. He realised that now. How in hell had he let himself be so stupid, so bloody fucking stupid? And now he had hung his investigation, his reputation, his career, everything, the whole fucking shooting match, on the stupid assumption that James Crichton and Scott Black were one and the same.
He turned from the window and picked up his phone.
‘Any luck, Jackie?’
‘Nuh-uh.’
He replaced the receiver.
Christ, this was it. It was finally about to happen.
Shot down by friendly fire. His very own gun.
He picked up Black’s Facebook messages and flicked through them.
But his heart wasn’t in it.
CHAPTER 33
Gilchrist brought his briefing to an end with, ‘We know Black’s gone into hiding, but we don’t know where, and we don’t know for how long. What we do know is that we need to find him, and we need to find him soon, before he kills again. So let’s get cracking.’
His team dispersed, some leaving the room, others returning to their desks.
Mhairi caught his eye and said, ‘Sir? Do you have a moment?’
Gilchrist followed her to a corner of the room where they could talk in comparative privacy without being heard by everyone in the office. ‘Yes, Mhairi?’
‘I’ve got some feedback on the Tinto Gallery, sir, like you asked me to.’ She shook her head. ‘The address doesn’t exist. I’ve tried different variations of it, Avenue, Road, that sort of thing, sir, but nothing comes up for London. Closest I could find was a Crescent in Tadcaster, York.’
Gilchrist felt his heart stutter. What the hell had Jack got himself into? ‘Keep going.’
She shook her head. ‘And nothing on Jen Tinto either, sir. I ran a check on the mobile number on the business card, but it’s pay as you go.’
‘So Jen Tinto could be anybody,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid so, sir. Yes.’
‘There’s no mistake about the address, is there?’
‘None, sir. I’ve got a friend in the Met, and I phoned and asked him to check it out. He came back to me with the same result, sir. The business and address don’t exist.’
He thanked her, told her that was the end of it, and walked back to his office. He was about to sit down, when Jessie stuck her head in.
‘Heard anything more from the Alloa Office?’ she said.
He groaned. ‘Only their invoice for services rendered, which Smiler was happy to tell me exactly how far up my arse she was going to shove it.’
‘Ouch. That’ll make your eyes water.’
He picked up movement to the side, and turned to see Jackie in the hallway, clutching her walking stick with one hand and waving a printout with the other. He couldn’t tell from her face if it was good news or bad.
‘S . . . s . . . s . . .’ she tried, and handed him the printout.
He took it from her – a grainy image of a woman in her late twenties, early thirties, wearing a twin-set and corduroy trousers, sunglasses on her face, the frames deep enough to date the photograph somewhere in the 1990s, maybe 1980s. She was standing on a gravel drive of sorts, backside pressed against some luxury car that glistened showroom new – Jaguar or Daimler, he couldn’t say. At her side stood a clean-shaven man in his mid-thirties, with a gaunt face and neat, short hair, white at the temples, giving him a distinguished look – lord of the manor, it seemed. Corduroy trousers could be order of the day, and a burgundy and white check shirt, open neck stuffed with a cravat, somehow spoke of champagne and salmon for breakfast, and unearned income – lots of it.
Gilchrist felt his heart slump.
He’d got it wrong, oh so fucking wrong.
The caption beneath the photograph read Woman found dead in luxury villa. The background looked distinctly Scottish – pine trees, black loch, cloud-covered sky – which had him puzzling over the term villa – more of a continental term, he thought.
The accompanying article offered nothing new, other than the fact that Crichton ran his own business – a local building contractor. Gilchrist stopped at that, and read the words again. Then he stared at the photograph, narrowed his eyes and tried to imagine Crichton ten years older, hair longer, dyed black, heavy beard, thick moustache, and twenty – make that thirty – pounds heavier.
Could it be?
The picture was too grainy to be conclusive, but the longer he studied it, the more he came to see that he could be looking at a younger, slimmer, fitter version of the Scott Black he’d confronted at his cottage by the sea. But it was the shoulders that did it for him – sculpted and wide, with long arms that hung by his sides, and wide hands and thick fingers that hinted of powerful muscles covered by the sleeves of his shirt.
‘Is this the only photo you could find?’ he asked Jackie.
She wobbled her head.
‘Can you give me another one? A cleaner copy?’
‘Uh-huh,’ she grunted, and hobbled off, shoulders lurching, hips heaving, with the effort of simply walking.
He watched her go, his heart swelling for her, a young woman in her early thirties who lived by herself, who had no social life and who spent every waking hour, it seemed, working as a researcher for Fife Constabulary. He took a deep breath, and turned away.
He found Jessie and Mhairi at Jessie’s desk, both of them riffling through a pile of paperwork. He placed Jackie’s photograph in front of them. ‘Recognise anyone?’ he said.
Jessie scrunched her eyes. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Who does it remind you of?’
Mhairi said, ‘Scott Black, sir, but twenty years younger.’
Jessie leaned closer. ‘Now you mention it, I’d recognise that ugly face anywhere.’
‘Who’s the woman?’ Mhairi asked.
‘Alice Hickson’s sister.’
Both Jessie and Mhairi jerked a look at him.
‘What?’
‘Sir?’
He’d mentioned nothing at the briefing of the NSW Police identifying Alice Hickson, nor that her sister, Janice, once lived in Oban. It seemed more sensible to hold off until he had feedback from Jackie on the Times article. If the photo had proved him wrong, Smiler would announce that he’d been removed from the investigation, or suspended, or even fired, and she could give them all that interesting bit of news to go on. But now it was positive, or at least appeared to be so, he was able to bring both Jessie and Mhairi up to speed.
‘That’s it right there,’ Jessie said. ‘His motive for murdering Alice. She tracks him down and confronts him. They argue, he kills her, takes her out on his boat, then dumps her body into the sea.’
‘Confronts him with what?’ Gilchrist said, searching for the side of the argument so he could compare it with his own. ‘Her sister committed suicide.’
‘S
ure she did,’ Jessie said. ‘Is that what the police report said?’
‘Accidental overdose was the general conclusion.’
‘You know what I think?’
Gilchrist cocked his head in a silent question.
‘I think that bastard’s got a history of killing women.’ Jessie studied the photo. ‘How old is he there? Thirty? And Alice’s sister? Twenty-something?’ She slapped the image. ‘You don’t wake up one morning and say, Hey, I think I’m gonna kill my wife.’ She scowled. ‘No, sir. That ugly face right there is the face of a serial killer, someone who’s murdered before, and will murder again.’
‘And all we have to do,’ Gilchrist interrupted, ‘is find and arrest him. I want the pair of you to dig out everything you can on Crichton. Check the PNC for any previous. Contact the Department of Work and Pensions, the DVLA, and HMRC for starters. If Crichton really is Black, and he was playing happy families back then, he would have a financial history, tax returns, National Insurance stamp in his or somebody else’s name . . .’
‘Like Bobby Kerr?’ Jessie said.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But if so, then he seems to have more identities than . . . than . . .’
‘Than a chameleon?’ Jessie offered.
‘That’ll do. But you get what I’m saying. If he’s a serial killer with a past, then there’s a strong possibility that he lived under someone else’s name, maybe even married and had a whole different family before he married Alice’s sister.’
‘Want me to look into that, sir?’
‘No, Mhairi, I need you and Jessie to work on building a history for Crichton. If he’s got a driving licence or paid income tax, then I’d love to know what address he’d given. For all we know, he might be back-tracking through his past.’ He nodded to the photo. ‘Email a copy of that, and a photo of Black, to Glasgow University’s Dr Heather Black – no relation. She works in the Computer Science Department and Turing Institute, as best I recall. Ask her to carry out a digital facial comparison, and get back to me today with the result.’
‘Is she expecting it?’ Jessie asked.
‘No.’
‘That’s asking a lot, is it not?’