by T F Muir
As his memory peeled back the previous night’s events layer by misted layer, he remembered dropping Maureen off at her flat – he escorted her upstairs, made sure she got inside safe and sound – then driving back to Crail rather than abandoning the Merc and taking a taxi.
But it had not ended there.
Once home, he tried to make sense of what they had achieved so far and made a list for the following days. But like the fool alcohol often made of him, he opened a bottle of The Balvenie and poured himself a double Doublewood, or maybe a treble, and maybe even more than one.
Then came the recollection of calling Cooper, which had him groaning at the memory.
‘I said I would call you back.’
‘I know, but I thought you might like to—’
She hung up, and that should have been that. But, on impulse, he dialled her number again, only for it to be answered by a man’s voice telling him it was late and to stop calling his wife. Gilchrist did not hang up. Instead, he held on to the call in silence. The stalemate lasted all of ten seconds, after which Gilchrist took drunken pleasure from the fact that Mr Cooper ended the call first.
Christ, just the memory of it brought a hot flush to his face.
He dragged himself from bed and just about managed to make it to the bathroom without throwing up. A scalding shave and a shower long enough to flood the bath did little to ease the headache, but he was able to keep down a mug of tea and a half-slice of unbuttered toast, followed by four Panadols that dulled the edge of the pain.
On the stroll to the Merc, it felt more like mid-winter than early March. An icy wind cold enough to bite the fingers off you, blasted in from the sea as if in advance of a hurricane. Or, as the Scottish meteorologists tended to say, gusty winds and scattered showers. They could be broadcasting hurricane alerts around the globe with winds as strong as these, but in Scotland it was business as usual.
He waited until he drove through Kingsbarns before calling Jessie.
She answered with, ‘Are you never late?’
‘We’ve a meeting in Glenrothes this morning, remember?’
‘I know, Andy. You reminded me fifty million times last night. Talking of which, how’s your head? When I left, you looked as if you’d settled in for the night.’
‘My head’s fine,’ he lied. ‘But I’d feel a lot better if Jackie had been able to find an MO that at least bore some resemblance to the . . . the . . .’ He let the words die.
‘Do you ever think’, she said, ‘that we might have got it wrong? That it doesn’t necessarily have to be a serial killer?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Or that we don’t know we’re dealing with a serial killer until the MO shows up at least another two times.’
‘So you’re saying this might be a first?’
‘Serial killers have to start somewhere,’ she said. ‘If there was an identical MO out there, Jackie would have found it. So, if we don’t have anything similar from any other case in the country, then, yes, it probably is a first.’
The first of a serial killer’s victims? It was a plausible theory, but why did he not believe it? This killer had killed before. He was sure of it. But with nothing more than gut instinct, he knew he had little chance of convincing others.
He stared at the road ahead. In all his thirty-odd years with Fife Constabulary, he had never witnessed such a brutal crime scene. He had seen some horrific deaths in his time, but an image of the bloodied bathroom floor hit him with such clarity that he almost had to pull over. He tugged the steering wheel as a gust of wind buffeted the car. Away to his right, windswept surf painted strips of white on a blackened sea. The horizon flickered grey and blue, dangling the promise of a calmer day before his hurting eyes. For all anyone knew in Scotland, it could be warm enough to barbecue that evening.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘It’s too . . .’ He struggled for the words, then found them. ‘It’s too thorough. Too targeted. Too precise.’
‘The girls, you mean?’
‘Yes. Not a hair out of place. All tucked up like he’s put them to bed.’
‘They were in bed.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he said, irritated by the speed of Jessie’s tongue. ‘He’s telling us that we’re looking for a man with a hatred of’ – he was going to say women, but that was wrong – ‘one particular woman. Amy McCulloch.’
‘So it’s a revenge killing. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Could be.’
‘But revenge for what?’
‘Therein lies the problem,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Listen, you’re keeping me back. I need to put my face on.’
‘I’ll be with you in ten—’
‘Make it fifteen, unless you want a scare.’
‘Could you go a Starbucks?’
‘Now you’re talking.’
‘Latte in fifteen?’
‘And no sugar.’
With that, she hung up.
It was closer to twenty-five minutes by the time Gilchrist pulled into the kerb outside Jessie’s semi-detached in Canongate. Her little Fiat, brand new and hardly used, sat parked by the back door. For the first two months after joining Fife Constabulary and moving to St Andrews from Glasgow, Jessie and her son Robert had lodged with a friend of hers, Angie, in Forgan Place. Their move to a home of their own three weeks ago seemed to have done wonders for Jessie’s spirits. Or maybe it was Robert’s imminent cochlear implant operation, and the promise that her boy would finally hear, after being deaf from birth, that had pulled her out of the doldrums. Confirmation that the operation would be covered by the NHS had been the icing on the top.
No sooner had Gilchrist shifted into neutral than the back door opened and Jessie scarpered down the drive, hand at her neck, head tucked into her chest, hiding from the wind.
The door opened, followed by a rush of ice-cold air and Jessie saying, ‘Fuck.’
‘Good morning to you, too.’ He slipped into gear. ‘Coffee’s in the holder.’
She removed it, peeled back the lid, and said, ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘A morning kiss?’
‘Just drive, will you?’
He waited until he turned left at the West Port roundabout and was accelerating along Argyle Street before asking, ‘How’s the coffee?’
‘Wet and hot. How’s the head? You look like shite.’
‘Surprised you noticed.’
‘With dog’s balls for eyes? Who wouldn’t?’
‘I’m getting too old for it all now.’
‘Men never learn.’
Gilchrist could not fail to catch the venom in the word men. He kept his speed at a steady thirty as he eased on to Strathkinness Low Road. He thought he knew the reason for Jessie’s change of mood and edged into it with, ‘So, Lachie called?’
‘Fat prick.’
‘Maybe he should go on a diet.’
‘Maybe he should jump in the Clyde.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘How about we talk about Veronica Lake instead?’
‘I don’t think Rebecca looks remotely like Veronica Lake—’
‘No, Veronica Lake’s dead. With Jabba on the hunt, I could be so lucky.’
Gilchrist thought silence was the best option, so he took a sip of latte. It was still warm, and did wonders for the turmoil in his stomach. His hangover was diminishing, and pangs of hunger nibbled at his innards. Beyond the junction to Strathkinness, he depressed the pedal and nudged the speed to sixty, then seventy, and held it there.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ he said.
‘You can have them for free if you promise to take Jabba for the day.’
‘Ah,’ Gilchrist said. ‘So he’s going to spend the day in sunny St Andrews?’
‘Not just the day. The whole bloody weekend, so he tells me. Jesus, Andy, what the hell is it with men?’
Once again, he chose silence. Chief Superintendent Lachlan McKellar of Strathclyde Police – or Jab
ba the Hutt, as Jessie preferred to call him – had a thing for Jessie. As far as Gilchrist knew, they’d had a brief fling, which Jessie immediately regretted, ending their affair before it started. But Lachie did not know the meaning of the word no and pestered Jessie until she finally transferred to Fife, which did little to dampen Lachie’s ardour. His recent threats to leave his wife had finished it for Jessie, and now she wanted nothing more to do with the man. End of.
Five minutes later, Gilchrist tried again. ‘Has he left his wife, then?’
‘She flung him out, more like.’
‘So, he’s up for grabs?’
‘Grab-hooks, I hope. Then over the side with the fat blob.’
‘What does Robert think about all of this?’
‘What is it with you this morning? Robert’s off limits. You know that. I don’t go asking about your family, so don’t go asking about mine. Why don’t you just stick to driving the car and getting over your hangover?’
‘I’m feeling better, I have to tell you.’
‘Well, it must be contagious. I feel like shite now.’
‘You’ll perk up once you get your teeth into Chief Super Whyte.’
She chuckled and shook her head, which had Gilchrist frowning at her, wondering what the joke was. Chief Superintendent Billy Whyte was the SIO in the Thomas Magner rape investigation. He worked out of Glenrothes HQ, and was scheduled to meet Gilchrist and Jessie at 10 a.m.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ she said. ‘Well, actually, I remembered last night, but I didn’t want to spoil your evening.’ She tried to tease him with silence for five long seconds, but he refused to bite. ‘Chief Super Whyte asked me if the meeting was really necessary.’
‘Why would he say that?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘Billy and I go back years.’
‘That’s what he said.’
Maybe he was still hung over, his brain too befuddled from its recent dose of alcohol to work out the obvious, but he could not think of any reason why Billy Whyte would not want to meet him. ‘You’ve lost me,’ he said.
‘Does the name Logan mean anything to you?’
Gilchrist shot a glance at Jessie.
‘Well, that brought the colour back to your cheeks,’ she said.
‘Don’t tell me . . .’
‘Afraid so.’
Gilchrist gritted his teeth as he waited for Jessie to confirm his fears.
‘DI Carol Logan’, she said, ‘is assisting Chief Super William Whyte in the Thomas Magner case.’
‘Ah, shit,’ Gilchrist said, tightening his grip on the wheel.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Jessie said. ‘A fucked-up weekend for both of us.’
CHAPTER 10
Gilchrist drove on in silence, the memory of that evening flickering back to life.
Lafferty’s on South Street, and deep into a Saturday night. It had seemed such an innocent comment for him to make: ‘Are you coming on to me?’ Well, Logan had bumped into him and caused him to spill his drink, and he had meant the question as nothing more than a bit of banter between colleagues. But the flash of anger on her face warned him she had missed the point.
So, he apologised. Mistake number one.
‘I seen what you done.’
The voice from behind surprised him, from a woman he had never seen before.
‘You touched her up. I seen you.’
‘I’m not that desperate,’ Gilchrist said, regretting the quip the instant it spilled from his mouth. Mistake number two.
He retreated to the corner of the bar with his pint, and tried to catch Logan’s eye when she and her friends left for the evening. But she was having none of it. And that should have been the end of that.
But it wasn’t.
Logan had witnesses – four women who swore they had overheard Gilchrist’s sexual innuendo and seen him brush his hand over her breasts. Gilchrist was interviewed – more like interrogated – by Complaints and Discipline for over two hours, and it took the intervention of Chief Superintendent McKay from HQ, and the promise of a recommendation for promotion to DI, to persuade Logan to drop her complaint.
Since then, Gilchrist had not set eyes on her.
He pulled the Merc into the car park at Glenrothes HQ at 9.50, in plenty of time for their ten o’clock appointment.
Chief Super Whyte welcomed Gilchrist like a long-lost friend. A tall man with white hair cut as short as bristle, Whyte looked all of his fifty-plus years. Folds of flesh as loose as chicken wattles were tucked into the neck of his shirt, evidence of the five stone he had lost over the past two years.
Once introduced to Jessie, Whyte said, ‘DI Logan has been warned but, as she pointed out, she is involved in an investigation of her own.’
Gilchrist gave a smile of reassurance. ‘The past is the past.’
Whyte raised his eyebrows, then said, ‘Right. This way.’
Gilchrist and Jessie followed Whyte into an office that overlooked the car park. Two detectives were seated at a centre table – Logan and a man Gilchrist did not recognise.
Whyte announced Gilchrist and Jessie by their titles, then introduced his team as ‘DI Carol Logan and DI Mac Smith, assisting in the investigation of Mr Thomas Magner.’
Gilchrist reached forward, shook Logan’s meaty hand, then Smith’s. Jessie did likewise. Then they all took their seats.
‘Right,’ Whyte said to Gilchrist. ‘You asked for this meeting.’
Gilchrist placed both hands flat on the table, then eyed Whyte, Smith and Logan, one by one, his gaze lingering on Logan a tad longer than the others. But if he was searching for any sign of discomfort or forgiveness, they were nowhere to be seen.
‘Yesterday,’ Gilchrist began, ‘as you are no doubt aware, we found the bodies of the McCulloch family. The father, Brian, was the business partner of Thomas Magner. We know that the mother, Amy, and her daughters, Eilish and Siobhan, were murdered. But the jury is still out on Brian. His death may or may not have been suicide.’
Gilchrist went on to explain the history and business relationship between Magner and McCulloch, the fact that Stratheden had an unusually high number of contentious billings, and his assumption that the company was in financial difficulty. He talked of the deepening rift between the two directors, the fallout with staff and the threat of dismissal, but chose not to mention Magner’s alleged sexual relationship with Amy McCulloch’s sister, Janice. In conclusion, he gave details of their interview with Magner, and of his seemingly watertight alibi.
‘Got a transcript?’ Logan asked.
Gilchrist knew that Logan did not want or need the transcript, only for Gilchrist to spin his wheels. ‘I do.’
‘Let’s have it.’
‘It’ll be uploaded on to the Command and Control STORM system soon.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘What’s wrong with this morning?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with this morning. But it’ll be available this afternoon.’ He waited until Logan slumped back into her chair, then held Chief Super Whyte’s enquiring gaze. ‘The reason why we’re here is to ask if, in the course of your investigation, you’ve come across anything that could conceivably be a motive for Magner to murder Amy and her—’
‘Sounds like you’re looking for straws to clutch,’ Logan said.
‘Exploring all avenues is how I’d prefer to put it.’
‘All avenues? What are you now? Traffic Division?’
‘From the look of things,’ Jessie cut in, ‘we wouldn’t catch you speeding.’
‘That cuts both ways, Slim.’
Whyte raised a hand like a referee.
Logan sat back, tried a smile, but the fire in her eyes gave away her true feelings.
Whyte said, ‘The short answer to your question, Andy, is: no, we haven’t.’ He eyed Smith, who shook his head. Then he gave Logan a warning glance. ‘You’re welcome to have a look through our files, of course, but we’re still building our case and I’d ask you not to use anything
relating to it without checking with me first. Does that work for you?’
In front of Logan and Smith, Whyte was playing it by the book. But if Gilchrist came across anything critical to his investigation, he knew that Whyte would assist him in any way he could.
‘That works perfectly.’
DI Smith cleared his throat. ‘Do you mind if I ask a few questions, sir?’
Gilchrist was aware that Smith was putting the request to Chief Super Whyte, not himself, so he waited for Whyte’s nod of approval before answering, ‘Sure.’
‘Do you have anything concrete that leads you to suspect Magner?’ Smith asked.
‘No. But until we identify a prime suspect, we’re suspicious of everyone.’
‘From what you’ve said so far, it seems highly unlikely that Magner would have had the means to commit the crime, in terms of time and place, sir.’
Gilchrist found it hard to disagree. Jessie’s journey to Stirling yesterday afternoon to check the Highland Hotel’s CCTV records had confirmed Magner’s story. He had arrived at the conference a few minutes after seven and taken an aisle seat – verified by Gilchrist during a short five minute review of the tapes, with Magner powering down his mobile before entering the conference hall. The room number also checked out with Magner’s car registration, and his account had been settled with an RBS debit card in his name. The bank confirmed that the number and account did indeed belong to Magner.
‘We’re not ruling out that Magner could have hired someone to carry out the killings for him.’
‘Get real.’ Logan again. ‘Brian McCulloch did in his family, then topped himself. Plain and simple. It’s an open and shut case. You’re barking up the wrong tree again. It’s not Magner’s style. He’s innocent . . . at least of murdering his business partner’s family.’
Gilchrist could sense Jessie stiffening next to him, so he lifted a hand off the table, just a touch, to signal that she should keep quiet. It pleased him that they had kept the brutal details of the murder out of the public domain, and from those in the constabulary not directly involved in the investigation. The tidiness of McCulloch’s clothes, and the absence of blood on his body and in his car, strongly suggested that he was not the murderer. But few people were privy to those facts.