by Muir, T. F.
CHAPTER 2
By the time Gilchrist left the cemetery the day was dying, clear skies turning a murky grey. A chilling dampness in the air hinted of rain to follow. The woman’s remains had been removed and bagged, as had the soil from the grave. Other than the rotting remnants of some clothing and the cigarette lighter, nothing of any real significance had been found. Somehow, just thinking about that lighter gave Gilchrist an urge to feel the hot hit of a cigarette. To change his thoughts, he called Nance, but ended up leaving a message.
He stopped by Lafferty’s. Six thirty, and night had already begun.
Fast Eddy winked as he caught his eye. ‘Usual, Andy?’
‘You talked me into it.’ Gilchrist rested his elbow on the counter and eyed the pint of Eighty-Shilling as its creamy head filled the glass and threatened to foam over the top.
‘First of the day?’
‘And gasping for it.’
Fast Eddy machine-gunned a laugh. ‘All that sunshine works up a right thirst,’ he said. ‘Enjoy it while you can. It’s supposed to be pissing by the weekend.’ He eased the pint from under the tap. ‘I’ll never understand why you don’t put on any weight. You stopped eating or something?’
‘Stopped smoking.’
‘I had a cousin who gave up smoking. Put on three stone in three months. That’s a ton of beef, let me tell you. Three stone? He’d love to know your secret. What are you now? Ten? Ten and a half?’
‘Almost twelve last time I looked.’
‘Get out of here.’ Fast Eddy mouthed a silent whistle and glanced at a blonde who had risen from the bench seat that backed on to the street window. ‘With you in a sec, love,’ he said, giving her a smile and a wink. He slid Gilchrist’s pint over. ‘Here you go, Andy. This one’s on me.’
Gilchrist raised his eyebrow. ‘What’s the occasion, Eddy? My birthday’s not until the end of the year.’
‘I think I’m about to get lucky, if you know what I mean.’
Gilchrist lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Thought you were settling down with Amy.’
‘A man would be a fool to fight nature, Andy. Shagging to a man is as natural as breathing. It’s his instincts, is what it is.’ He winked, then lowered his voice. ‘Now what would a man do with that, I ask myself.’
Gilchrist thought the blonde looked over-tanned. With her mobile phone to her ear, and navy-blue jacket and trousers, she looked every bit the businesswoman. She caught his eye at that moment, and he gave a quick smile, then returned his attention to his Eighty-Shilling. The beer tasted cold and creamy, and he had just opened the sports page of the Daily Record when he sensed someone beside him.
‘I was told I might find you here.’ Her jacket heaved with sunburned cleavage. She thrust out her hand. ‘Hi,’ she said, her lips twisting in a crooked smile that warned Gilchrist to be careful. ‘I’m Gina.’
He caught her American accent, placed her somewhere in the New York area. Her grip felt businesslike, firm and brisk.
‘Andy,’ he said.
‘And I’m Eddy. Nice to meet you, Gina,’ he offered, giving one of his best Irish smiles.
She kept her eyes on Gilchrist. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Andrew James Gilchrist,’ she continued, ‘of the St Andrews Division of Fife Constabulary’s Crime Management Department, to be precise.’
‘Quite a mouthful,’ said Gilchrist.
‘Quite a title.’
Gilchrist ran his fingers over his lips. ‘Well, Gina, you have me at a disadvantage.’
‘Which doesn’t happen often, I hear.’
‘You seem to know more about me than I do about you.’
‘We could change that.’ She turned to Fast Eddy. ‘I’ll have a double Tanqueray and tonic. Ten, if you’ve got it. And plenty of ice.’
‘No Ten, I’m afraid. Just regular.’
‘You need to get Ten in.’ Then back to Gilchrist. ‘Pint of Eighty-Shilling, is it?’
‘I’ve just got one.’
‘And another Eighty-Shilling for Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist.’
‘Must be my birthday,’ he said. ‘That makes two.’
‘Your birthday’s not for another two months.’
Gilchrist paused mid-sip.
‘Born December thirty-first, nineteen fifty-six, to Jack and May Gilchrist. Lived in St Andrews most of your life. Married Gail Jamieson from Glasgow at the age of twenty. Have two children, Jack and Maureen, both now living in Glasgow. Divorced your wife eight years ago for adultery.’
Gilchrist clapped his pint on the counter.
Fast Eddy stopped slicing his lemon.
‘My name is Gina Belli,’ she said, ‘and before you let me have it, I’m not prying.’
‘Define prying.’
‘I’m an author. And a psychic. I write true crime stories for a living. You may have heard of me.’
‘The Gina Belli,’ chirped Fast Eddy, placing her gin and tonic in front of her.
She raised one eyebrow. ‘What was the title of my last book?’
‘Slipped my mind. But I’ll be buying a copy if you promise to sign it.’
She chuckled, raised her gin and tonic to Gilchrist. ‘To my next case study.’ Her dark eyes twinkled as she eyed him over the rim of her glass. ‘DCI Andy Gilchrist.’
‘I always told him he would be famous one day,’ Fast Eddy said. ‘Didn’t I tell you that, Andy? And let me tell you something, Gina, my darling. Never has there been a finer detective chief inspector to cross my threshold. Write that down in your book, darling. There you go, Andy.’
Another frothy pint of Eighty slid across the counter, but Gilchrist only stared at it.
‘You don’t look pleased,’ she said. ‘Which is not uncommon. You’re suffering mixed emotions. Anger at what you consider to be the violation of your private life, although as a prominent member of Fife Constabulary that seems pretentious. Flattered at my interest in writing you into my next book. And curious as to why.’
‘I can assure you I’m neither angry nor flattered, although I am a little curious. But I’m also not interested.’
She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m going ahead whether you’re interested or not, with or without your approval. Of course,’ she added, and slid closer so that her chest pressed against his upper arm, ‘I always find it more gratifying working with someone who approves of what I’m doing.’
She looked older, close up. Her powdered skin hid tiny acne scars that punctured her cheeks. He saw, too, how her eyebrows were black, thinned and powdered to lighten them. Her blonde hair seemed clear of dark roots, so he assumed she’d been at the salon in the last day or so. Gina Belli, it seemed, was not from old money, but gave the impression of having clawed her way to the peak of whatever pile she thought she now stood on top of.
Gilchrist shifted his stance, freed his arm from the pressure of her chest.
She breathed him in. ‘Is that Aramis?’
‘No.’
‘Must be Dunhill, then.’
Gilchrist thought he kept his surprise hidden.
She laughed, stepped back, finished her gin with a flourish. ‘Give me another,’ she ordered, then lowered her head and eyed Gilchrist over the top of imaginary glasses. ‘I could get to like you, Andy.’
He finished off his beer and surprised himself by lifting the second pint. ‘Well, Ms Belli,’ he said, ‘before I leave, I’d like to ask a question.’
‘Gina. Please.’
‘Why me?’
‘You’re famous.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since you solved the Stabber case.’
‘I was only one of an entire investigation team—’
‘Who was suspended and battled on alone.’
‘It took the entire Force to—’
‘Modest, too. I like that,’ she said, and before Gilchrist could complain, added, ‘And photogenic. I’ve seen some press coverage. We can do better than that. But most important of all, people will pay to read about your un
canny ability to solve difficult cases.’
Gilchrist almost laughed. ‘I really don’t think so.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Detective Chief Inspector. I’m good at what I do. One of the best. And so are you. You’re a bestseller just waiting to be sold, and you don’t even know it.’
Gilchrist took one long sip then pushed his half-finished pint away. ‘Listen, Ms Belli. I’m flattered. Truly I am. But I’m not interested. It was nice meeting you.’ He turned from the bar. ‘Catch you later, Eddy.’
‘Gotcha, Andy.’
‘Before you go.’
Gilchrist stopped, but knew he should have kept walking.
‘Grant me exclusive permission to write about you and your cases, and you get a percentage of the royalties. And we’re not talking paltry sums here.’ She shook her head. Her face seemed to harden. ‘No permission, no percentage.’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘Sorry, but that’s the way it is.’
Gilchrist made to push past.
‘Wait.’ She slipped her hand into her bag and took out a business card. When she realized he was not going to take it she pushed it into his shirt pocket. ‘My mobile’s on twenty-four seven.’
Outside, the temperature had dropped close to freezing. Stars glittered in a cloudless sky, giving prelude to a bitter night. Gilchrist removed Gina Belli’s card from his shirt pocket, was about to rip it up, when something stopped him.
Instead, he slipped it into his wallet and kept walking.
She caught up with him as he stepped into Market Street, and surprised him by slipping her arm through his.
‘Do you mind?’ she asked. ‘It’s cold.’
He resisted pulling free, and said, ‘Well, in that case . . .’
He said nothing as they strolled across the cobbled street.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.
‘Nowhere.’
‘Never been there.’
As they neared PM’s, the vinegary smell of fish and chips helped lift the misery of his day and reminded him he had missed lunch. ‘How about a fish supper?’ he asked her.
‘What about my figure?’
‘It looks fine to me.’
‘You should see it naked.’ She chuckled, her voice rasping like a smoker’s cough. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ she went on, tightening her grip. ‘Skip the fish and chips and take me to a favourite pub of yours, and I’ll buy the rounds.’
It sounded more like a command than a request, but Gilchrist, to his surprise, heard himself say, ‘Just the one, then.’
‘The one what?’ she asked, eyes glinting with mischief. Then she tugged at his arm as if in reprimand. ‘I see I’m going to have to watch what I say to you. You take everything so literally.’
‘A fault of mine,’ he said.
‘One of many, I’m sure.’
Like a long-standing couple, they entered Union Street arm in arm. The air felt cold and damp on his throat, and he adjusted his scarf. Her fragrance, a perfume he knew he had smelled before, but could not place, teased with his senses. Her grip felt firm, not too tight, as if she feared that giving him any slack would let him flee. Their breath puffed hard in the night air, and they fell into easy step with each other, her thigh bumping against his.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ she asked.
What could he tell her? That he had let Maureen and Jack down by not attending the wake? That he should have called to explain? That he regretted the bitter end to his marriage with Gail? That the last time he visited her, they had argued? He shrugged. ‘Thought you were a psychic.’
She tugged his arm as if in annoyance, then carried on in silence.
They reached the Dunvegan Hotel as light rain started to fall. Gina brushed a bejewelled hand through her hair as she stepped into the bar. If Gilchrist had not known better, he would have sworn the room stilled for an instant. Gina looked in her element, like a star in the limelight toying with the cameras. She slipped off her coat, then her jacket, to reveal a matching waistcoat – no blouse – that exposed lean arms and tight muscle tone.
‘I’m going to have a Glenfiddich,’ she said. ‘On the rocks. Want one?’
‘It’s Glenfiddich with an ick, not an itch.’
‘There’s that perfectionism again. So you’ll join me?’
Gilchrist seldom drank whisky, but said, ‘Why not?’
‘Two double Glenfiddichs,’ she said to the barman. ‘On the rocks.’
While Gina studied the gantry, Gilchrist studied the lounge. He recognized a number of regulars, nodding to them when they glanced his way.
‘You’re a popular kind of a guy,’ she said.
‘It’s a small town.’
‘And you’re the small-town hero.’ She handed Gilchrist his whisky. ‘I tell you, it makes you almost irresistible.’ She raised her glass. ‘What do they say in Scotland? Up your kilt?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Up your kilt, Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist.’ She chinked her glass against his, then took more than a fair mouthful.
‘I’m off duty,’ he said. ‘Andy’s fine.’
She grinned, white teeth against tanned skin. ‘I didn’t want to sound too intimate in a crowded bar.’
‘Do you always do this with your subjects?’ he said. ‘Act the vixen?’
Something flashed behind her eyes. Anger, irritation, he could not say. She seemed like a crackerjack filled with emotions, as if she could burst into laughter one second then attack him with clawed fingernails the next. But the moment passed.
‘My latest book was about the case of Frankie Hannerstone,’ she said.
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Her.’
‘Still drawing a blank.’
‘Frankie went to work one morning, four years ago, and never arrived. Her husband reported her missing later that night. By the time I was called in, she’d been missing for two years in the Carolinas. The FBI suspected her husband had killed her, but he had a rock-solid alibi. Plus, no body. He claimed she’d been threatening for years to leave him. So he supposed that’s what she’d done.’
‘You were called in?’
‘Huh?’
‘You said you were called in. Why?’
‘As well as writing, I’m a psychic-detective. I assist law-enforcement officers throughout the States in solving cold cases. Three out of every four I’m involved in get closed, or are progressed significantly.’
‘That’s an impressive record.’
She eased closer, as if to confide in him. ‘It all depends on how my sightings are received, and what the police do with them. Whether they take them seriously enough to consider throwing resources at it, or not.’
‘Sightings? As in, I see dead people?’
‘Yes.’ She took a sip. ‘Does that scare you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Just hard to believe.’
‘I’m used to disbelievers.’
‘Do you see any dead people now?’
She nodded to a group of four ruddy-faced caddies at the corner of the bar. ‘The guy at the end,’ she said, ‘has just lost a family member.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Female.’
‘You can see her?’
‘It’s not as simple as that. But, yes, I see her.’
Gilchrist studied the caddies. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, not exactly mourning the loss of a family member. Somehow, just looking at them caused the hair on the nape of his neck to rise. He returned to the safety of his drink. The whisky warmed his throat, the ice chilled it.
‘So, this Frankie Hannerstone,’ he said, ‘did you find her?’
‘In a storage locker on the outskirts of Vegas. Her body had been chopped up and kept in a deep freezer.’
‘How did you discover it?’
‘I didn’t. I gave the police clues from her personal effects.’
‘You rub your thumbs over a photo or two, then tell them where to find the body?’
‘Buy my book. Check it out. Call up the Sheriff’s Office. They’ll confirm it.’ She paused, as if trying to read the disbelief on Gilchrist’s face. ‘And what about your cold cases?’ she asked him.
An image of the skeleton burst into his mind. ‘What about them?’
‘It,’ she said.
‘Now you’ve lost me.’
‘That’s the author in me.’
Maybe it was the effects of the whisky, or the cosiness of the bar, or the look in her eyes, but Gilchrist surprised himself by saying, ‘Which case would you like to discuss?’
‘Tell me about your brother Jack,’ she said, without missing a beat.
Something shifted in Gilchrist’s chest. ‘That’s out of bounds,’ he grunted.
‘You were only twelve when it happened. Surely—’
‘Look,’ he said, struggling to keep his tone even, ‘I’m happy to have a drink with you, but if you don’t want my company, keep this up.’
Her gaze danced over his, as if searching for the strength of his conviction in one or other of his eyes. Then she glared at him. ‘You’re serious.’
‘I’m glad we agree on something.’
‘Come on, Andy. I can help you.’
‘You’re surprising me.’
‘In what way?’
‘You’re not as smart as I first thought.’
Her look changed at that moment, and she set her whisky on the bar with a force that should have cracked the glass. She pulled on her jacket, threw her coat over her arm. ‘It’s such a pity,’ she snarled. ‘I was getting to like you.’
When she left, he ordered a pint of Eighty. But it did little to cheer him. Somehow, Gina’s departure felt like a replay of all his past relationships, as if reaffirming how he would spend the rest of his life; standing alone in a bar, with his pint. He took no more than a sip before he shoved the glass away.
As he stood to leave, he caught the hotel owner’s eye. ‘Sheena,’ he said. ‘These four at the end of the bar. Anyone in mourning?’
‘Danny,’ she replied. ‘His sister was killed in a car accident last weekend.’
Gilchrist pulled his scarf around his neck. He thought he caught a look of mourning in Danny’s eyes as he pushed through the crowd.
CHAPTER 3