by Muir, T. F.
Linda’s fingers gripped her wheelchair, worked the rims of the wheels, wriggled it around until she faced Gilchrist head on. ‘I didn’t know he’d run over someone—’
‘I thought you’d—’
‘Let me finish.’
Gilchrist waited while her fingers relaxed their grip. He waited while her eyes welled and tears blinked free.
‘I’ve thought about that night for years,’ she began. ‘The older you get the more aware you become of your own mortality. And here I am, glued to this chair, waiting to die.’
Gilchrist struggled to contain his anger. ‘Jack would have been fifty-four next year,’ he growled.
Like a wind uncurling a folded rag, her face shifted. ‘Jack? You knew him?’
‘He was my brother.’
She held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away, defeated. ‘I never knew,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry. So sorry.’
‘Tell me what you remember.’
‘Jim told me he’d hit a dog.’
‘What kind of dog?’
‘What difference did it make? A dog’s a dog. He said it was OK, that it just got up and ran away.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? I never saw what happened.’
‘A right hard thump, you said.’
‘I just thought it was a dog. A big dog.’
‘He looked scared, you said. After hitting a dog?’
‘But only for a wee while. That’s what Jim was like.’
‘But you found out later.’ A statement, not a question.
She gripped the wheel rims and tugged. ‘I heard about the accident on the telly the following week. But I never saw Jim again.’
‘Didn’t you speak to him about it?’
‘No.’ She stared through the window again. Clouds curled across a sky as grey as a roadside gutter, and he caught another glimpse of his brother’s face. ‘I knew something was up,’ she whispered. ‘All night he’d been talking about doing it. That’s all he wanted. He couldn’t have given a toss if I was legless or unconscious. All he wanted was a shag.’ She backed her wheelchair away from him, as if to distance herself from the memory. ‘But he said nothing after the accident, just drove me home and dropped me off without so much as a goodnight grope.’ She worked the wheels of her chair so that she faced the window full on. ‘But he did say one final thing.’
Gilchrist stared at her. If she lied, he would know it.
‘He said, if anyone ever asks, tell them it was a dog.’
A dog. Records had shown that Jack had died from loss of blood. The force of the hit had broken his knee and shattered his thigh, causing a bone fragment to slice his femoral artery. He could have been unconscious in a minute, dead in two. And James Matthew Fairclough had compared Jack’s life to nothing more than that of a dog.
‘Look,’ she said, and spun her chair away from the window, so that her back was to him. ‘I’ve told you all I know. Please, Mr Gilchrist, will you leave it at that?’
‘Any problems?’
Gilchrist turned at the sound of Rabbie’s growl and, from the glaring eyes and tight lips, caught a glimpse of the wild beast that could be a drunken Rabbie.
‘Mr Gilchrist is just leaving, Rabbie. Aren’t you, Mr Gilchrist?’
‘I would like an answer to one final question,’ he said.
‘Can you no hear the woman?’ Rabbie brushed past and stood between Gilchrist and his sister.
Gilchrist waited while Linda shuffled her wheelchair around to face him. Tears stained her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Gilchrist. I should have done something about it before now. But I didn’t. And that is my regret.’
‘Can I ask why?’
Rabbie stiffened. ‘Is that your final question?’
‘It could be.’
Linda dabbed a shaking hand to her eyes. ‘Jim frightened me. It was as simple as that, Mr Gilchrist.’
Gilchrist needed to press for one more answer. ‘Would you be prepared to go to court and give evidence?’
Rabbie stepped forward. ‘You’ve had your final question.’
‘It’s all right, Rabbie, it’s all right.’
Rabbie retreated to the side of the wheelchair, placed a hand on her shoulder.
Linda almost smiled. ‘I don’t have long to live,’ she said to Gilchrist, ‘so what have I got to be afraid of any more?’
Gilchrist let himself out.
He tried to give Tam a farewell chuck behind the ears, but Tam returned the gesture with a growl, leaving Gilchrist with the feeling that he had upset everyone that morning.
CHAPTER 12
It took Stan less than two hours to come back to Gilchrist with a current address for James Matthew Fairclough – Livingston, on the western outskirts of Edinburgh.
On the drive through, Gilchrist called Jack.
‘How do you feel this morning?’ he asked.
‘Andy? Hey, man. How’s it going?’ He gave out a hard cough that sounded like gravel turning in a cement mixer. ‘What time is it, anyway?’
‘You sound a bit rough.’
‘Just hungover.’
Hungover? ‘Jack,’ Gilchrist said, and felt his fingers tighten their grip. ‘I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to tell me the truth.’
‘I’m not taking drugs, Andy. I’ve told you that before. Did Kara say that to you?’
The speed with which Jack had jumped to his conclusion surprised Gilchrist. Maybe his son possessed his own sixth sense. ‘Why don’t I believe you?’ he said.
‘I smoked some marijuana not so long ago,’ Jack confessed, as if realizing the futility of arguing against a detective parent.
‘Define some.’
‘Not a lot.’
‘You’ll need to do better than that.’
Another cough, less phlegm-laden. ‘I was struggling with the flu,’ Jack said. ‘I’d taken some stuff to keep my temperature down. We went out for a beer. I had a shandy, of all things. Don’t laugh. It was Kara’s suggestion. But we met up with an old friend, and one thing led to another. We ended up at some party in the west end, and I crashed out.’
‘Crashed out?’
‘Fainted, then. Is that better?’
‘What did you take?’
‘Mostly alcohol.’
‘And?’
‘And some marijuana. Just a couple of spliffs.’
‘Nothing hard?’
‘No. I swear.’
‘How many other times?’ The silence grew, along with Gilchrist’s doubts. Jack was lying. He could sense it.
‘There were no other times—’
‘Come off it, Jack. You don’t crash out on alcohol and marijuana. You’re talking as if my head zips up the back.’
‘I’m telling you, Andy. That’s it. The only time. With Kara, at least.’
There. He had it. Jack’s confession that he had taken drugs before Kara.
‘What I mean is,’ Jack continued, ‘the only time like that. I was really sick, man. I had to go to the hospital. Kara insisted they pump my stomach, keep me overnight. I told them I had the flu, that’s all. But no one would listen. They thought I was on cocaine or something. But the alcohol must have reacted with the prescription medication—’
‘Prescription?’
‘Yeah. I went to the doctor. I was feeling lousy.’
Gilchrist felt a spurt of hope. Jack would have seen a doctor only as a last resort. As a child he’d hated the doctor’s surgery, with its dismal waiting room and morbid silence. But a doctor kept records. ‘Which doctor?’ he asked.
‘Look, Andy. I’ve just about had it with you on this. I’ve told you. I don’t. Take. Drugs. OK?’
‘I hear you.’ But the line was already dead.
Gilchrist slapped his mobile shut and threw it on to the passenger seat. He knew his son. Jack had always been weaker than Maureen. Well, weaker was not the correct word. Less strong, perhaps. More telling, he thought, was that wh
enever Jack lied, he would fight it out to the bitter end, argue black was white if he had to. But caught in an argument over the truth, he would clam shut, just walk away. Or hang up. Which told Gilchrist that Jack was not on drugs. He’d taken them in the past. That was an indisputable fact.
But not now.
He found the housing estate just before midday and eased his Mercedes into it.
Detached homes lined both sides of a quiet road that branched left on to an elliptical cul-de-sac. Trimmed hedgerows bordered tidy lawns. Glistening paintwork edged sparkling windows. All picture-perfect, except for one home that stood out like an old caravan at a car auction.
The rusting body of an old MGB GT that sat on the side lawn beside the tarpaulin-covered hulk of another vehicle had Gilchrist’s heart pounding. For a moment he thought it could be the same car Gina Belli identified, but the registration plate dated it in the seventies, years after the hit-and-run. Both cars had not been moved for some time. Grass sprouted around tyres and under the chassis like desert scrub. A dilapidated Ford Sierra huddled half on, half off the pavement, in front of a battered Transit van with taped cardboard where the side window should have been. The only vehicle that looked as if it had moved in the last year was a long-bodied Ford van with the telescopic arm of a cherry picker folded along its roof. Fairclough Engineering stood out on its grimy side panels.
Gilchrist parked his Merc four houses away.
When he returned, he lifted the corner of the tarpaulin on the car next to the MGB, just enough to identify the badge of an ancient and dilapidated Ford Anglia. No luck there.
Fairclough’s home was no better. The door had not felt the welcome bristles of a paintbrush for at least ten years, maybe twenty. Square lawns either side of a cracked path looked as if the grass had been torn, not cut. Curtains hung askew in the front window. The door split from the frame with a sticky crack on Gilchrist’s third pressing of the doorbell.
A pot-bellied man in a grimy T-shirt and baggy sweatpants stood barefoot in the hall. Hair like white wire sprouted either side of a bald head. Swollen bags under bloodshot eyes folded into fat cheeks. The stench of sour milk drifted with him as he stepped forward.
‘James Fairclough?’
‘Whatever you’re selling,’ he growled, ‘I’m not interested.’
‘James Matthew Fairclough?’ Gilchrist fingered his warrant card.
‘So?’
‘Can I have a word?’
‘What about?’
‘Inside?’
Fairclough coughed, a hard bark that brought phlegm to his mouth. He pulled a filthy cloth from his pocket, spat into it, then slipped it back into his sweatpants. Maybe outside was better.
‘You used to own an MGB GT,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Still do.’ Fairclough nodded to the rusting hulk. ‘Want to buy it? I’ll give you a good deal.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ Gilchrist said. ‘But you had one before that?’
‘I’ve owned a ton of cars. So?’
‘A late-sixties model. G reg.’
‘Could have.’
‘Blaze ring a bell?’
‘Don’t hear a thing.’
Gilchrist waited. Stan had given him the registration number he downloaded from DVLA’s records in Swansea, but Gilchrist did not want to give that out to Fairclough. Not just yet. DVLA had no record of Fairclough’s MGB after ’76, the last owner’s address being somewhere in Stirling, which had him thinking the car had been scrapped.
‘Alsatian, was it?’
‘What?’
‘The dog you hit.’
A tic flickered in Fairclough’s right eyelid. ‘What dog?’ he tried.
‘St Andrews.’
‘Not been there for yonks.’ Fairclough stepped closer, almost filling the doorway with his clatty bulk. ‘What’s this about, anyways? Dog? What fuckin’ dog?’
‘MSN 318G?’ Gilchrist caught the flicker of recognition at the registration number.
‘What?’
‘The registration number of your blaze-coloured MGB GT.’
‘If you know the number, what the fuck’re you asking me for?’
‘Because you killed someone in St Andrews while driving that car. You were drunk at the time, so I have to assume it was an accident. But you didn’t report it. That was your mistake—’
‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,’ said Fairclough. ‘I’m going to go inside and have myself a nice cup of tea. Then I’m going to call my solicitor and tell him that some skinny prick in a leather jacket has been slandering my name about, and how much do you think I should sue him for?’ Fairclough tried to smile, but his mouth failed to work the way it should.
‘You do that,’ said Gilchrist. ‘And when you’re at it, tell him my name. Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist.’ He tried to take some pleasure from watching Fairclough’s face pale, but inside he struggled against the almost overpowering urge to pull him from his house and handcuff him face-down on the front lawn. He had no doubts now about Gina Belli’s psychic abilities. However she had done it, here was the man who had left his brother dying in the rain-soaked streets of St Andrews, who had driven off without offering help, or calling for an ambulance. How could he now prove Fairclough had done it? Which left him puzzling over his decision to confront him. What had he expected Fairclough to do? Confess?
Gilchrist moved closer. Inches separated them. The stench of bad gums had him holding his breath. ‘Gilchrist,’ he repeated. ‘You know the name because you’ve never forgotten. I can see it in your eyes.’
Fairclough’s throat bobbed. ‘What the fuck’re you on about?’
‘Jack Gilchrist was the name of the man you killed. He was almost eighteen when you ran him over, and drove off to leave him dying in the gutter.’
‘Why don’t you go play on the railway?’ Fairclough stepped back to close the door.
‘I’ve spoken to Linda.’
Fairclough’s eyes flared for a moment, then disappeared as the door slammed shut.
Gilchrist stood on the step for a full minute, his breath fogging the cold air. For one absurd moment he toyed with the idea of kicking the door down and dragging Fairclough to the local police station in handcuffs. Instead, he stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and retraced his steps to his Merc. He made a point of not looking back, even though he knew Fairclough would be following his retreat from behind dirt-laden windows. By the time he switched on the ignition, an idea had come to him. He caught Stan on his mobile, and from the background chatter guessed he was having a pint.
‘Let me guess,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The Central?’
‘Le Provençal.’
It was on College Street, almost next door to the Central, a basement restaurant that Stan often used to obtain information from less honest locals.
‘Anyone I know?’ Stan’s rushing breath told Gilchrist that he was bustling from the restaurant for some privacy.
‘Wee Jimmy,’ Stan said at length.
Wee Jimmy Carslaw. Five-foot nothing and fingers as quick as a snake strike. In and out of your pocket with a touch as light as the wind. Many an innocent tourist had lost more than a few bob to Jimmy’s fingers. ‘What’s he been up to?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Just helping out, boss. Keeping him honest.’
Gilchrist accelerated on to the M8. The Merc eased into fast-flowing traffic with barely a murmur. ‘I need you to chase something down for me, Stan.’
‘Shoot, boss.’
‘That MGB we talked about earlier,’ he said. ‘Can you get Nance to pay the last-known owner a visit as soon as she can?’
‘What’s the rush?’ Stan asked.
What could he tell him? That he had an idea, a passing thought? That this is the car that killed my brother, and I was wondering, if it hadn’t been scrapped, was any of his DNA still on it? As he played it through his mind, he realized he was not only clawing at straws, he was making them up.
‘It’s a long shot, Stan. I don�
�t even know if the car’s still around.’
‘Leave it with me, boss.’
Gilchrist was about to hang up when Stan said, ‘Got a facial on the skeleton.’
True to her word, Dr Heather Black had given Gilchrist’s request top priority.
‘Any matches?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. It’s just come in. We’re working on it. But I’ll tell you what, boss. Someone must know her.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘She’s a beauty. Can’t imagine her not having a string of boyfriends.’
Gilchrist pondered Stan’s words. Maybe that had been the girl’s downfall. Maybe one of her boyfriends suspected she was playing the field, and jealousy took hold. Maybe she had tried to break up their relationship and a violent argument followed. Or maybe she had been sexually assaulted and was murdered trying to defend herself.
He mulled those thoughts in his mind, trying to work a different angle. But no matter how he worked it, he knew the key to identifying the young woman was to put the computer image on the national news. Someone might recognize her.
If so, that could break the case wide open.
‘Get it over to Conway at the Beeb,’ he ordered, ‘and ask her to put it out on all news channels this afternoon.’
CHAPTER 13
Gilchrist felt his breath catch.
Stan had been correct. The murdered woman had indeed been beautiful.
He gripped the back of the chair, held on tight, tried to still the thick pounding in his chest as he stared hard at the screen.
Dr Heather Black had created a remarkable likeness, but the eyes were not quite right. Gilchrist remembered them being larger, and a darker shade of blue than the sky blue Dr Black had coloured them. Her hair, too, was wrong. Where Dr Black had it long and straight and blonde, the popular style in the sixties, Kelly had worn hers short. He also remembered her teeth being perfect, the whitest he had ever seen. American dentistry could do that. And the tiniest of scars on her chin was not there, although in all fairness to Dr Black, she could never have known.