The Killing Connection

by T F Muir

  Was he looking at Scott Black?

  He could not be certain. He needed to move closer.

  He crept into the open, keeping his head low, his body close to the ground. Out of the shelter of the woods, he felt exposed, vulnerable, as if all the man had to do was cast a glance his way and see him. The wind seemed to strengthen at that moment, whipping off snow-frosted fields with Arctic ferocity. Behind him, branches bristled and trunks groaned from the frigid onslaught. The moon lit up the skies for an instant, only to be extinguished by clouds that tumbled through the night as if on a rising tide.

  The figure stilled, and seemed to cock its head at the woods.

  Gilchrist held his breath. Had he been seen?

  He resisted the urge to drop on all fours. Any movement might be noticed. He kept his gaze fixed on the stationary shape, little more than a shadow, grey on grey, and prayed the moon would stay hidden, the winter night remain dark.

  Nothing seemed to move. Only the wind.

  Ice stung his face. Tears froze his eyes.

  The figure took another step, and the world rebooted.

  Then two more to reach the front entrance, and face the door as if to open it.

  Gilchrist saw his chance. And took it.

  He scurried into the open, half ran, half crawled across the road, and almost threw himself into a beech hedgerow that edged the property. He lay still, catching his breath, thankful to be out of the wind.

  From behind the hedgerow, his view was restricted to the front of the cottage, the hut to the side where the motorbike had been garaged, and the snow-frozen area of gravel beyond the entrance. He slid his hand inside his jacket for his mobile. Once the door opened, and the figure – call him Black – entered, he would call the local Office, report a break-in and secure backup, if Jessie had not already done that. Well, that was the plan, and like most plans it was easily disrupted, in this instance when the figure turned away from the front door and continued to creep along the face of the cottage.

  What was happening? Was he going to walk around the back and try the rear door, or break a window at the side to gain access? Or did Gilchrist have it wrong, and it wasn’t Black at all, but some other lawbreaker looking for easy cash or removable furniture from a derelict house? And at that moment, as if to answer his fears, the moon broke through.

  The night sky glittered alive. Fields glistened like a frosted carpet. And the silhouette slipped from shadow and glanced into the woods, tilting his head back as he did so, to reveal a shorn head and a clean-shaven face.

  And in that frozen instant, Gilchrist recognised Black – not bearded and thick-haired like he’d been a couple of days ago, but face shaved and skull polished from a recently shorn disguise. Then Black turned and strode to the corner of the cottage, no longer creeping, as if he’d only just realised that no one in their right mind would venture into such desolate country on a night like this, and that he was alone.

  Or worse – and this is what set Gilchrist’s heart racing – he had spotted Jessie.

  Gilchrist glanced up the steep slope at the back of the hut, searching for Jessie in the moonlight. But the woods and shrubs looked thick and impenetrable in the shifting shadows. Then Black surprised him by leaving the protection of the cottage wall and trotting across the side yard.

  Gilchrist’s heart leaped into his mouth.

  Black had seen Jessie – he must have – and was now about to climb the slope at the side of the cottage and tackle her head-on. But how could he have spotted her? How was that possible? As if on cue, the sky blackened as clouds shifted, and the night settled once more into winter darkness.

  But not before Gilchrist caught Black standing at the hut door.

  The shadows were too dark for him to see what Black was up to. Then the wind shifted, carrying the clinking of metal his way, and the hard snap of a padlock.

  The hut door swung open, and Black slipped inside.

  Gilchrist had his mobile in his hand; he called Jessie.

  ‘Do you see him?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s gone into the hut.’

  ‘What for?’

  What for, indeed? Gilchrist trawled through his memory, trying to pull up what he’d seen when he’d been inside earlier. But other than the motorbike, he came up blank. Was that why Black was here? Not for the money, but for his motorbike? Was he intending to drive off somewhere else? It just didn’t seem to make any sense, unless . . .

  Then the answer struck him.

  ‘The money’s not in the cottage,’ he said. ‘It’s in the hut.’

  ‘Jesus, Andy. You think so?’

  No, he wanted to say. He’d been wrong too often before. Instead, he said, ‘Check with the backup, Jessie. And get hold of Mhairi. Make sure she’s OK. I’m going in.’

  ‘Andy, don’t—’

  But he was already scarpering towards the hut, shoes crunching on the snow-covered surface, the rough-edged gravel giving him grip. He had no idea how long Black would take to recover whatever money he’d hidden there – and it struck him that it might not be money at all, but a stash of weapons.

  Too late now. No turning back.

  Ten yards from the hut, he heard movement inside, the heavy scraping of something being dragged across the floor, the dull thud of it being dropped. Five yards to go, and the gravel changed to iced grass and frozen mud. His feet skidded from under him, and he found himself on his back, stunned.

  The movement in the hut stopped.

  But he had no time to consider that. He sprang to his feet, shoes slithering on the frozen mud, and managed to reach the hut as Black’s figure filled the doorway. On instinct, Gilchrist rugby-tackled him with a shoulder into his midriff, powering them both inside. Black crashed against the side of the hut with a force that threatened to break it. But before he could regain his feet, Gilchrist pushed himself upright.

  Black scrambled to his knees, face twisted, eyes blazing.

  Gilchrist booted him on the chin, then stepped out of the hut.

  A glance at Black as he closed the door almost stopped his heart. Black was back on his feet – how had he done that? – and was already diving for the door, his intent clear in maddened eyes. Gilchrist slapped it shut, fumbled with the padlock and just managed to secure it as a force like a demolition ball thudded against it.

  The hut shuddered. The door shook. For a moment, Gilchrist feared the weakened hasp would tear free from the onslaught. But the metal lock rattled securely. A roar from within could have been an animal in pain. Another brutal thud rocked the hut to its foundations and had Gilchrist backing away.

  He tried to get through to Jessie, but her number was busy – likely checking on backup. He tried Mhairi’s number and gave a sigh of relief as she answered.

  ‘Are you OK, sir?’

  ‘For the time being,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Making my way towards you, sir.’

  Gilchrist jerked a glance at the hut again. The door seemed to bulge against its hinges, as if from some terrific force within. If Black broke free, Gilchrist was no match for the man, he knew that – and now saw how stupid he had been to think he could have arrested a man of Black’s strength by himself.

  Thank God backup was on its way. At least he hoped it was.

  ‘Stay out of sight,’ he said. ‘And that’s an order.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Wait until backup arrives. I don’t know if the door is going to hold him.’ He ended the call and faced the wooden hut, troubled by the sudden silence. What was Black up to?

  He ventured a few steps closer and eyed the door.

  Still closed. Padlock still secure.

  Nothing but silence from within.

  He stepped closer still.

  What the hell was Black up to? He’d heard no glass breaking, so the small window at the back was still secure. Was Black taking a breather, recovering his strength between door-battering episodes? Or had his heart given out from his explosive rage, and he was now
lying unconscious? Or was it all just a ploy to get Gilchrist to unlock the padlock and chance a look inside?

  Not a hope in hell, he thought.

  He stepped away and walked to the hedgerow for a better view of the road into town, when an explosion of splintering wood drowned out the wind. He turned in time to see the head of an axe wriggle in the moonlight as Black struggled to pull it free from the split wood.

  Then the axe head vanished.

  Another crash of wood splitting and cracking had the hut door at a wild angle, one of its hinges torn out by its screwed roots. A guttural howl and a kick to the door almost burst it free from its padlock hasp. Gilchrist looked around – nowhere to hide. He speed-dialled Jessie’s number as he hustled towards the far corner of the cottage, by the edge of the fields. It didn’t matter that his footprints could lead Black to him. He only hoped that Jessie would answer and tell him that backup was on its way.

  In the meantime, he had a madman to keep at bay.

  Behind him, wood cracked and disintegrated as if being crushed by a bulldozer.

  He slipped around the corner of the cottage and turned in time to see Black boot the remains of the door to the side, and pull himself from the ruined hut into the cold wind like an inchoate devil emerging from its shell. Gilchrist half expected smoke and fire to belch into the night, and a prehistoric roar fill the air . . .

  ‘Andy?’ Jessie’s voice exploded into his ear. ‘Where are you?’

  Her question puzzled him. She should be in the woods at the top of the hill, in a position to see everything. But his mind couldn’t work it out, and he said, ‘Back of the cottage. Have you called for support?’

  ‘On its way.’

  ‘About bloody time.’ He pressed his back against the roughcast wall, eyed the length of road into town. But it lay clear. ‘Christ,’ he hissed. ‘Where the hell are they?’

  ‘Gilchrist.’ Black’s bellow was loaded with rage and hatred, and fuelled with adrenaline from bursting free from his wooden prison. ‘You’re going to pay for this, Gilchrist. I’m going to find you and chop you into little pieces.’

  Gilchrist whispered into his mobile, ‘Stay hidden, Jessie. And make sure Mhairi stays hidden, too. You got that? I’ll keep his attention until backup arrives.’

  ‘Jesus, Andy, what the—’

  He killed the call, dropped his mobile into his pocket, then strode out from behind the end of the cottage. Black stood in front of the hut ruins, an axe in one hand, some other tool – a sledgehammer, he thought – in the other.

  Gilchrist stood with his arms by his side. ‘You’re under arrest,’ he shouted.

  Black grinned as he strode towards him. ‘Sure I am.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Gilchrist shouted, ‘Don’t make it worse for yourself, Bobby.’

  Black stopped in his tracks at the sound of his name. ‘She tell you that, Martha? Did she?’

  ‘She told us everything,’ Gilchrist lied. ‘She coughed it all out, Bobby. Told us about Norma and Janice. How you killed both of them to inherit their money.’

  Black cocked his head, as if he’d heard something, which had Gilchrist praying that Jessie and Mhairi were doing as ordered – staying hidden, and out of sight. Then Black faced him again. ‘How did you know I’d come here tonight?’

  ‘As I said, Martha told us everything.’

  ‘Liar’, Black snarled. ‘You’re a fucking liar.’

  Gilchrist tensed, troubled by the change in Black’s tone. He thought he could keep him occupied until help arrived. But he’d missed something, some small detail that had set Black off.

  ‘Why do you say that, Bobby?’ he tried.

  ‘She never knew I was coming here tonight. I never told her that.’

  ‘But this is where the money’s hidden.’

  ‘But she never knew.’

  Gilchrist still didn’t get it. Martha never knew what? About the money? About where it was hidden? About when Black would come back to collect it? ‘She knew enough,’ he said, and hoped he’d hit the mark.

  But Black guffawed at the sky for a surreal moment. Then he lowered his head and stared at Gilchrist. ‘Martha’s a stupid wee cunt.’

  A quick glance down the road into town told Gilchrist that support was still not on its way. Surely the local Office hadn’t got lost, or didn’t know the address. He had no idea what was holding them up. But what he did know was that Black was standing no more than thirty feet from him, armed with a sledgehammer and an axe, and had now turned the full heat of his hatred Gilchrist’s way.

  Without another word, Black walked towards him.

  Gilchrist backed away from the shelter of the cottage, into the dark night and the full force of an Arctic wind that stung his face with specks of ice. ‘Why did you kill Kandy?’ he shouted. ‘You picked her up from the airport and drove her home to kill her and stuff her body under the floor. You didn’t need to kill her. That was careless, Bobby.’

  ‘She was beginning to put two and two together. Said she would see me in jail. Couldn’t let that happen.’

  ‘That’s where you’re going now, Bobby. To jail. But you’ll get a fair trial.’

  ‘That’ll be fucking right.’

  ‘Kandy knew you’d killed Alice,’ Gilchrist said, more statement than question. But he needed answers. ‘How did she find that out?’

  ‘She was friends with Alice,’ Black shouted, as if that explained everything.

  ‘And she kept a backup copy of Alice’s files,’ Gilchrist said, as the pieces slotted into place. ‘Which you found when you refurbished her bathroom.’

  Black stared at him, as if seeing Gilchrist in a different light.

  ‘You didn’t need to kill Alice,’ Gilchrist said. ‘You could’ve moved away and set up home someplace else. You could’ve taken up a new identity, just like you’d done in the past.’

  ‘But Alice knew. She knew too much.’

  ‘She was a freelance journalist, always after a good story. And you were her story. Is that it?’

  ‘She was nothing but a money-grubbing leech. She wanted to write a best-selling book about me. Can you believe that?’

  ‘But isn’t that what you are, Bobby? A money-grubber? At least Alice didn’t kill anyone to earn her money.’

  But Black didn’t rise to the bait. He just kept walking, his steps slow and deliberate, his intention clear from the posture of his body. ‘Alice was another stupid wee cunt. I told her she’d got it wrong. I told her I wasn’t who she thought I was.’

  ‘But she didn’t believe you, did she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And she wasn’t wrong either, was she?’

  ‘No,’ he said, confessing for the first time to his murderous past.

  ‘So how did she find you?’

  ‘Her and Janice kept in contact. Skyped themselves stupid.’

  ‘And you overheard Janice saying something about you?’

  ‘I did, aye. That was the end of it right there,’ Black said, ‘when Janice said she was frightened of me.’ He stopped at that, as if to question the stupidity of that remark – why would my wife be frightened of me?

  Gilchrist stopped, too. ‘Well, she had good cause to be frightened of you, Bobby.’ He tried to gauge the distance between them – fifteen feet, less? – and work out how to keep him at bay if backup didn’t arrive within thirty seconds. But the problem didn’t compute, at least to an answer that gave any hope of survival. He now wished they’d brought baton guns along with them, or better still, a Taser.

  Without either, his only hope was to keep talking, keep the clock ticking.

  And keep his distance.

  But a few more backward steps would put him up against the boundary fence, and he felt his heart move to his mouth as the gap continued to narrow. ‘After all, you murdered Norma, and—’

  ‘Nobody can prove a thing,’ Black sneered.

  ‘But Martha can. Martha was there. She saw it all.’

  Black seemed to fr
eeze, then chanced a quick look behind him.

  Gilchrist peered into the darkness beyond Black, to the wreck of a hut and the steep slope to the woods above, relieved to see that Jessie and Mhairi were still out of sight. ‘She was there the night you killed Norma,’ he said. ‘She covered for you on her police statement. What do you say to that?’

  ‘She’s still a stupid wee cunt.’

  ‘Maybe so, but Martha’s now in custody spilling her heart out.’

  Black shook his head. ‘No, she’s no. She’s no spilling anything out. She knows better than that.’

  ‘She knows not to cross you, Bobby, is that what you’re saying?’

  Black lowered the sledgehammer to the ground, balancing it upright on its head. Then he hefted the axe from his left hand to his right, and widened his stance.

  Gilchrist could not fail to catch the change in attitude, as if Black had realised that time was running out and he had to take action before it was too late. Even if help arrived now, it would be too late for Gilchrist. Another glance along the road had him wondering what the delay was. All he could do was continue to try to confuse Black, as bits of the puzzle slotted into place.

  ‘You’re not worried about what Martha will say,’ he tried, ‘because once you’ve taken the money from the hut, you’ve no need of her any more. Do you?’

  Black tightened his grip on the axe.

  ‘That’s what she did,’ Gilchrist said. ‘That’s why she lived here. She was your safe bet, your keeper, someone you trusted enough to keep an eye on your hidden stash. But what did she get out of it, Bobby? Living out here, in a run-down cottage, wearing rags for clothes, as if she didn’t have two coins to rub together, while she’s looking after your nest-egg?’

  ‘As I said, she’s a stupid wee cunt.’

  ‘So now she’s outlasted her usefulness, what are you going to do?’

  Black picked up the sledgehammer with his free hand, and moved closer.

  Gilchrist sensed an urgency in his actions now, no longer hesitant, but deliberate and purposeful. ‘That’s far enough,’ he shouted.