by T F Muir
Gilchrist noted the use of Jabba’s formal title. Not like Dainty to show uncalled-for deference. ‘If it was only personal harassment,’ Gilchrist said, ‘I wouldn’t trouble you at all. I’ve been working with Jessie long enough to know she could handle that. But he’s threatening to resurrect some . . . for want of a better term . . . past mistakes, if she doesn’t come across with the goods.’
‘Fuck sake,’ Dainty repeated. ‘Jessie’s a good cop. But with the baggage she’s got with that fucking family of hers, the last thing she needs is to be hounded by some borderline-psycho cop.’
Gilchrist felt his eyebrows lift. Borderline psycho?
‘So, what’s he threatening?’ Dainty asked, his voice all business once more.
‘Remember the resetting charge that reared up last Christmas?’
‘We took care of that,’ Dainty said.
‘McKellar’s threatening to resurrect it.’
‘How?’
‘I think the question is: why?’
‘I know why. I want to know how he’s going to do it. Has he got anything new on her? I buried the reports, remember? There are no witnesses. McKellar would need to find some, or come up with some new charges, and I don’t see either of them happening.’
‘Could he fabricate something?’
‘He could fabricate what the fuck he likes, but with no witnesses, or no one to come forward and talk against Jessie, he’s on a loser.’
An image of Jessie facing McKellar on Market Street lurched into Gilchrist’s mind, and he wondered if he had overestimated the fat man’s confidence. ‘Let me get back to you,’ he said, and ended the call.
Back in the Office, Gilchrist’s mobile rang – a number he did not recognise.
He made the connection.
‘DI Smith here, sir. Sorry to trouble you again, but I thought you should know that they’re dropping like flies.’
Gilchrist understood immediately. ‘Who is it this time?’
‘Abbott, Warren and Williamson. All by phone again.’
‘Reasons?’
‘More or less the same. Jenna Abbott said she didn’t want to go to court, or even give her testimony anonymously.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘Change of heart.’
‘So she’s not saying the incident never happened?’
‘But it’s the same result.’
‘Go on.’
‘Kristie Warren withdrew her complaint citing personal reasons. When challenged, she denied ever knowing Magner or being in his company.’
Gilchrist exhaled. Someone was getting to them. ‘Has anyone spoken to them face to face?’
‘We’re doing that right now, sir.’
‘You gave me three names.’
‘Meredith Williamson. She called about an hour ago, in tears, to say she couldn’t go through with it. Said she made a mistake.’
‘In her statement?’
‘Said she made it all up. When she was advised that she could be charged with wasting police time, she said we should go ahead and charge her, then hung up.’
‘Christ,’ Gilchrist said. ‘So that’s five now. How about the others?’
‘Chief Super Whyte has already dispatched uniforms to interview them.’
‘Three live in England.’
‘They do, sir, yes. The Chief has contacted the local stations for assistance.’
Gilchrist gritted his teeth. Whyte’s case against Magner was crumbling. How long would it take for the others to fold? He thought back to Vicky Kelvin’s flat – the domestic disarray, the poverty, the hardship, life in general just grinding her down. It would not take much to persuade her to drop her complaint – a thousand pounds would go a long way to clearing up the mess in her life. Gilchrist thanked Smith and ended the call.
Sitting at his desk, he fired up the computer and checked his emails. Only when he read the last of them did he realise he had not heard back from Cooper. He checked his phone for missed calls – none – then dialled her mobile number.
After five rings he was expecting voicemail to kick in when a man’s voice said, ‘You need to stop calling my wife.’
‘You need to stop answering her phone.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of a multiple murder investigation,’ Gilchrist snapped. ‘And if you don’t put me through to Dr Rebecca Cooper immediately, I will have you charged with obstructing the course of justice.’
The connection died.
Gilchrist dialled the number again. This time the phone was answered on the first ring.
‘Andy, this is not a good time—’
‘I haven’t received any toxicology results yet,’ he said.
‘I thought we . . . oh,’ Cooper said. ‘Okay. Let me get them over to you.’
‘What can I expect?’ he said. ‘In terms of the results, I mean.’
But Cooper was in no mood for jokes, and answered with, ‘Brian McCulloch had high levels of alcohol and benzodiazepine in his blood.’
‘Sufficient to kill him?’
‘No, but enough to induce a state of unconsciousness.’
‘So he was not expected to drive home.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Any other way?’
‘Suicide?’
Gilchrist grimaced. An image of the bloodied bathroom, the stripped meat that had once been Amy McCulloch, contradicted his image of her killer – McCulloch’s pristine shirt collar, laundered suit, trim fingernails, neat haircut. He would have needed steamcleaning before taking his life. And the SOCOs had found no towels or body parts in the Jag’s boot. If McCulloch had not murdered his family, why would he have committed suicide?
Which brought Gilchrist full circle.
‘Get those reports to me as soon as you can,’ he said, and ended the call.
Forcing Cooper from his mind, he returned his attention to the computer screen and opened the first email from Jackie. It contained several pdf attachments. He clicked on one to reveal a copy of a Prudential life insurance policy for £250,000, with the beneficiary named as Thomas Magner in the event of the death of his wife, Sheila. Next a copy of a cheque for £250,000 made out to Thomas Magner and dated 26 April 1986 – ample start-up capital to launch Stratheden Enterprises, and to entice Brian McCulloch to join the company.
The next attachment was an RBS bank statement in the name of Anne Magner. Gilchrist frowned as his gaze rested on the £250,000 deposit for 26 April 1986, highlighted by Jackie. Magner must have transferred his first wife’s insurance payout into his second wife’s bank account the instant he received it. A quick flip through the following pages confirmed that a total of £265,433.47 was then withdrawn from Anne Magner’s account over two weeks, to pay various vendors. A closer study revealed £47,405.83 paid to the Clydesdale Bank, and £125,000 – the largest debit – to Property Management Ltd, a well-known mortgage broker in Fife at the time. One other debit stood out – £50,000 – not only because it was such a round sum, but because it was a cash withdrawal.
The statements showed Magner to be not only a wealthy businessman but a shifter of money, a facilitator of funds, someone who paid by cash, robbing his left hand to pay his right – including laundering dirty money? That thought conjured up an image of Jerry McGovern, and it struck him that he never asked Stan the value of Amy McCulloch’s stolen jewellery.
He emailed Jackie, instructing her to find out what she could about the payments to Clydesdale Bank and Property Management. Then he opened her next email, and felt a frisson of excitement. Magner’s second wife, Anne, was still alive, and living in Greenock on the south bank of the Clyde, west of Glasgow. He took a note of the address and slipped it into his pocket as his mobile rang. He looked at the screen – Greaves.
‘Yes, sir,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the Office.’
‘Stay there. I’ll be with you
in five minutes.’
Gilchrist disconnected as his mind powered into overdrive.
He had seen Greaves on the hunt before, as mad as a bull.
Maybe Maxwell Cooper had a greater reach than Gilchrist had given him credit for.
CHAPTER 17
Gilchrist’s mobile rang again, and an unfamiliar number flashed up.
He made the connection with, ‘Gilchrist.’
‘Billy Whyte here. Did Mac speak to you?’
For a moment, the first name threw Gilchrist, then he placed it – DI Smith. ‘He did.’
‘Then you’ll be pleased to know we’ve found a link. With the shit getting flushed down the toilet, we sent uniforms to the remaining six addresses and got a hit.’
Gilchrist jerked alert. ‘Who is it?’
‘Charlotte Renwick.’
‘The woman who insisted on anonymity?’
‘Yes. Well, Amy Charlotte Renwick was Amy McCulloch’s full maiden name.’
Something cold and hard hit Gilchrist’s chest. ‘Jesus . . .’
‘Indeed,’ Whyte said. ‘When she filed her complaint she said she had too much to lose for her past to come out. Part of her attempt to maintain anonymity was to give her sister’s address in Perth. Her sister – Siobhan Renwick – never married, so Renwick was on the Council Tax records, and the phone number was registered under that name—’
‘Which helps explain why no one picked up on it during investigation of the complaint.’
‘Exactly,’ Whyte said. ‘Although I’ll be looking into that. It’s not good enough.’
‘So did Amy/Charlotte claim she was sexually abused by Magner?’
‘She did.’
‘Details?’
‘Forcible rape, like all the others.’
‘And she kept this from her husband?’
‘She must have, I’d say.’
‘What about the others?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘Are they still pressing forward?’
‘You tell me.’
Gilchrist was puzzled by Whyte’s comment, and did not miss the chill in his voice. He did not have to wait long for an answer.
‘You visited Vicky Kelvin,’ Whyte said. ‘Didn’t you read her statement?’
‘Curiosity got the better of me, Billy. But before we get into a personal battle, as Amy was murdered, and the others are dropping like flies, have you given consideration to providing protection—’
‘What the fuck d’you think we’ve been doing?’
‘I’m thinking of Vicky. She was the first to come forward, the instigator—’
‘Listen, Andy, I’ve been more than fair with you, but don’t go working behind my back. We’re meant to be on the same side here.’
Gilchrist pushed back his chair, and closed the door. Then he turned to the window and almost cursed as he saw Greaves reversing his Hyundai into his reserved space in the Office car park below.
‘How many sisters did Amy McCulloch have?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Two. Why?’
‘Siobhan Renwick and Janice Meechan.’
‘Yes.’
‘Any brothers?’
‘No,’ Whyte said.
Outside, Greaves slammed his car door hard enough for the sound to reach Gilchrist. He turned from the window. ‘I haven’t had this confirmed yet,’ he said, ‘but rumour has it that Meechan and Magner have been having an affair since late last year.’
Whyte remained silent for several seconds, as if thinking through the possibilities. ‘That could be significant,’ he said at length. ‘The timing I mean. Vicky Kelvin filed her complaint against Magner in January, but she’d been digging around for months beforehand.’
Gilchrist smiled at Whyte’s logic, and cocked his head at the sound of a door slamming on the floor below, its hard echo reverberating along the empty corridor.
‘Have you interviewed Janice Meechan yet?’ Whyte asked him.
‘Not personally. But DI Davidson did.’
‘What’s his take?’
‘She denied it at first, but caved in the end.’
‘Did Magner ever assault her?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘I’d like to talk to DI Davidson.’
Gilchrist’s door burst open, and Greaves pointed at him. ‘You. My office. Now.’
Gilchrist cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and nodded.
‘I said now.’
Gilchrist turned to the window. ‘Can Stan reach you at this number?’ he asked.
‘Yep. Sounds like you’ve got company,’ Whyte said.
‘Regrettably. Let me know how you get on,’ Gilchrist said, as the echo of another door slamming reverberated along the corridor.
Gilchrist killed the call. For one tempting moment, he contemplated just walking from the building, letting Greaves stew in his office. But the dragon would have to be faced at some point, so why not now?
He knocked on Greaves’s door and pushed it open. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
Greaves stopped pacing behind his desk and stared at Gilchrist as if his question were a personal insult. ‘Close the door.’
Gilchrist stepped into the office, the door shutting behind him with a firm click.
‘I don’t intend to beat about the bush,’ Greaves said. ‘Have you been screwing Maxwell Cooper’s wife behind his back?’
Gilchrist raised his eyebrows. ‘I wouldn’t put it that way, sir. I’d say I’ve been seeing Dr Cooper and, yes, we’ve been sleeping together. But certainly not behind Maxwell Cooper’s back. He’s been out of the country for the last several months.’
‘For God’s sake, man. Don’t twist my words. Do you know who he is?’
‘Dr Cooper’s husband.’
Something seemed to settle behind Greaves’s eyes at that moment – the realisation that a less senior officer was making a fool of him. His lips quivered, as if undecided whether to scream or say nothing. They seemed to choose the latter, for he looked down at his desk, pulled out his chair, and sat down.
Then he glared at Gilchrist. ‘Sit.’
Gilchrist obliged, taking one of the two chairs in front of the desk. For some strange reason, he almost felt sorry for Greaves, although prudence warned him to listen rather than offer sympathy. Greaves watched him with tight eyes that must surely hurt, and for a moment Gilchrist wondered if the man was just hungover.
‘How long’s it been going on?’ Greaves said.
‘What did Cooper say?’
‘That you’ve been screwing his wife since Christmas.’
‘His exact words?’
‘But with more venom.’
‘Which year?’
Greaves froze, except for his eyes, which danced in their sockets. ‘I’m in no mood for any of your lip, Andy. This is bloody serious.’
‘Why?’
Greaves glared, as if stunned. ‘Why?’
‘Yes, Tom, why is my personal life anyone’s concern—’
‘You’re the SIO in the biggest murder investigation to hit Fife since the Stabber, for crying out loud. Jesus Christ, Andy, we can’t afford to have the press picking up on the fact that you’re fucking around on the side, instead of working your bloody arse off.’
‘Fact?’ Gilchrist pressed his hands on the desk. ‘The only people who know any facts about my relationship with Rebecca Cooper are the two of us.’ He sat back. ‘And that includes her husband.’
Greaves stared hard. ‘He’s had you followed.’
‘So he says.’
‘You don’t believe him?’
‘Do you?’
Greaves seemed about to explode.
Gilchrist tried to lower the temperature by saying, ‘I don’t give a toss about Maxwell Cooper. And I couldn’t care less about the papers. They print what they like anyway.’
‘Quite.’
‘And rest assured, Tom, that my personal life is just that. Personal. I don’t go around kissing in public.’
‘Holding hands, then?’
�
�Too old for that,’ Gilchrist said, but a flurry of anxiety fluttered through him.
When Cooper and he first became involved, showing affection in public had been of no concern. Mr Cooper had fled the matrimonial home, while Becky was toying with the idea of divorce. Then, as if in some silent joint New Year’s resolution, they made a subconscious decision to refrain from affection in the open, for professional appearances. It now worried Gilchrist that if Cooper had known of his wife’s affair since Christmas, then it was indeed possible that evidence of the pair of them cuddling up to each other did exist.
‘You’ve been seen together in public,’ Greaves told him.
‘We work together in public.’
‘In restaurants?’
‘We have to eat,’ Gilchrist said.
Greaves pursed his lips.
‘And I can assure you, Tom, that we’ve never ripped off the tablecloth and gone for it,’ he added, although it did trouble him that in the early days of their affair, they used to have the occasional grope under the table. He tried to reassure himself that they had always been discreet, but with alcohol involved you could never be sure.
‘Do you intend to continue?’ Greaves asked, one gentleman enquiring of infidelities of the other.
‘Whatever I decide to do will not affect the investigation in any way, sir. Unless you plan to suspend me again.’
Greaves flinched at the emphasis, then gave a tiny shake of his head.
Gilchrist had the best investigation record in the country. And ACC McVicar liked to make others aware that his blue-eyed boy was second to none. Greaves would not dare suspend him from such a high-profile case over something like this. He was just flexing his muscles, reminding Gilchrist who was boss.
So Gilchrist pressed on. ‘The investigation is making significant progress, with or without me screwing Cooper’s wife on the side.’
Greaves seemed to welcome the invitation to change the topic, if only for a moment. ‘So there’s some good news?’
‘It’s early days.’
Greaves nodded, temper on hold for the moment. ‘How the hell do we keep this out of the papers, Andy?’
‘Don’t tell them.’
‘Do come along. You know better than that. They’ll find out everything. They always do.’
Gilchrist waited several seconds, then said, ‘You’ve never told me, Tom, how you heard about Rebecca and me.’