by Muir, T. F.
‘The usual?’ he asked her.
She glanced at her watch, shook her head. ‘Soda water and lemon.’
‘Driving?’
‘To Oban for a couple of days.’
Gilchrist had forgotten Nance had applied for two days’ leave, which he’d not had the heart to refuse. Seated at a table in the back, away from the main entrance, they went through Nance’s notes together. With the skeleton now having a computer-generated image and a name, he redirected her efforts to having a copy placed on the evening news before she left, and further copies distributed around town. But all the while she seemed distant, as if she was only killing time with him.
She lifted her drink, took a sip, glanced at her watch again.
‘Got an appointment?’ he asked.
‘Can we talk?’
‘We are talking.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Gilchrist tried a smile, but he sensed what was coming. No Gina Belli to interrupt this time.
‘You know about me and John,’ she began.
‘Nice guy. Bit of a wandering eye, I have to tell you.’
‘Well, it’s wandered my way.’
‘I’ve noticed.’ He took a sip of beer. ‘Serious, is it?’
‘You could say.’ She gripped her glass with both hands, as if ready to squeeze the lemon through. ‘Look, Andy, I’ve enjoyed our time together, I really have. You’ve been nothing but a gentleman. And I wouldn’t want to hurt you in any way. But—’
‘I’m too old for you?’
‘I don’t see it that way.’
Her answer surprised him. ‘What way do you see it, then?’
She shook her black mane of loose curls, then fixed her gaze on him, her brown eyes pulling up memories of intimate moments. ‘I know this sounds crazy,’ she said, ‘but I’ve fallen for John.’
‘He’s handsome, all right. I’ll give him that.’
‘It’s more than looks.’
Gilchrist didn’t like the sound of that. Ending their relationship he could understand, but laying it on thick was not how he imagined Nance would have done it.
‘He’s asked me to marry him.’
Gilchrist waited a polite three seconds to let her think her words were taking time to be processed. But this was John’s modus operandi. As best as he could remember, it would be his fourth engagement. ‘How long have you known him? Two weeks?’
‘It’s not like that, Andy. This is different.’
’Sounds like a sprint, not a romance.’
Nance lowered her eyes.
He had not intended to be mean to her, and wanted to apologize. But how could he when she was intending to marry the office lech? He tilted his glass, chinked it against hers. ‘Here’s to you and John,’ he said. ‘’Til death do you part.’
She returned his smile, but he could tell it was an effort. When she looked over his left shoulder and her eyes lit up, he knew without having to turn his head that the man of the moment had arrived.
A hand clasped his shoulder. ‘Andy.’
John’s voice was deep, strong and gentle at the same time, with a timbre trained to ease the knickers down a woman’s thighs at the first hello. Gilchrist had always thought it affected. He tilted his drink. ‘I hear congratulations are in order.’
John smiled at Nance as if Gilchrist had not spoken.
‘Going to join us?’ Gilchrist asked, but Nance was already pushing herself to her feet with a determination that told him she could not wait to be out of his sight. She hesitated for a moment, as if remembering something, then slipped her hand into her jacket and removed a folded note.
‘Here,’ she said.
Gilchrist shoved the note into his pocket.
‘We’re heading off,’ John announced. ‘Got a couple of days accrued.’
‘Hope the rain stays off,’ Gilchrist said. Not that it mattered, he supposed. He could not imagine John doing much sightseeing when he had Nance’s body to explore, all fresh and new to him. As Nance slid past, Gilchrist took hold of her arm. She looked down at him, but did not pull away. He leaned up to her. ‘Take care,’ he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.
He watched them in the mirror, Nance with her head tilted to John’s shoulder, John with his arm already around her, protecting her from dirty old men like Gilchrist. As they walked into the rain, he hoped she would not confess their relationship. That could be trouble.
Thinking about trouble, he called Jack, but it rang out.
He tried Maureen, and she surprised him by picking up.
‘Hello?’
He could tell from the heaviness in her tone that she had just risen, or was drunk. ‘How are you, princess?’ he tried.
‘Hello? Who’s this?’
‘Mo. It’s me. Is everything all right?’
‘Dad? Is that you?’
‘Mo. Where are you, honey? Are you at home?’
‘In bed.’
‘Are you sick?’
‘Why’re you calling?’
He thought he heard someone speak in the background, a man’s voice, but he could not be sure. ‘I was thinking of coming—’
‘I’ll call back later, Dad.’
‘Mo—’
The line died.
He dialled her number again, then slapped his mobile shut before it connected.
Maureen worried him. She was still far from well. But drink was not the cure. He downed his pint with an angry rush and was about to pay for his meal when his mobile rang.
‘Got Rita Sanderson’s address and phone number for you, boss.’
‘Be with you in a minute, Stan.’
The American accent still grated, but something in the tone of Gina Belli’s voice had Gilchrist pressing the phone hard to his ear. ‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘Be careful, Andy. That’s what I’m saying. I saw flames, fire—’
‘Sounds more like a nightmare than a—’
‘Don’t minimize me.’
Stan entered the room and caught his eye. ‘Look, Gina, I appreciate your concerns,’ Gilchrist said, ‘but I’m caught up in the middle of something.’
‘Sure you are,’ she quipped. ‘But just remember. It’s what you do with what I tell you that makes the difference.’ And with that, she hung up.
Gilchrist slapped his mobile shut.
‘Problems, boss?’
Gilchrist snatched Stan’s note from him.
‘She’s now Mrs Thomas, boss. Living in Chatham, Kent.’
Gilchrist walked along the corridor into the first interview room. He switched on the recorder, introduced himself and Stan and dialled Rita’s number.
As a youngster, he had met Rita when Jack first showed him around his new flat. Gilchrist had been struck by her height, an inch or so short of six foot, and by how long and slender her hands and fingers were. She had told him that was why she was an excellent pianist, but Gilchrist had never been sure if she was joking or not. Not long after, his own growth spurt had kicked in, and by the time he turned fourteen he stood at his final height of six-one, all skin and bone and pimple-faced.
‘Rita Thomas, formerly Rita Sanderson?’ he asked, just to be sure.
‘Yes? Who’s this?’
Even from those few words, her voice sounded just as he remembered, its Welsh lilt melodic to his ears. He formally introduced himself and Stan, gave the address of the office in North Street and advised her that the call was being recorded.
Once she placed Gilchrist’s name to her memories of Jack and St Andrews, she said, ‘Well, I never. After all these years. It’s lovely to hear from you. And you’re now with the police?’
‘For better or for worse.’
She chuckled. ‘You sound so Scottish.’
‘Some things will never change.’
‘Thank God for that. So, what brings you crawling?’
Gilchrist smiled. Some things really will never change. Rita used to tease him about the way he hung around when he was with Jac
k, never one to be in the forefront. ‘It’s a case I’m working on,’ he said. ‘I’d like to scratch your memory, ask a few questions. Are you up for it?’
‘What’s it about?’
‘A missing woman.’
‘And you think I might be able to help?’
‘Do you remember Kelly Roberts?’
‘How could I ever forget her? I could never understand why she left in such a hurry for the States. I remember Jack was devastated.’
Having turned twelve a few months earlier, Gilchrist had never fully understood the emotional change in Jack in the weeks before he was killed. Only now, with the realization of Kelly’s sudden disappearance, was he beginning to piece it together.
‘After she left,’ he pressed on, ‘did you ever hear from her?’
‘Not a squeak.’
‘Did she ever mention Mexico?’
‘Mexico? Not that I remember,’ she said, as her voice rose. ‘Hold on, Andy. Is Kelly this missing woman you’re looking for?’
An electronic hiss filled the line.
Her voice came back at him in a whisper. ‘Oh, my God. She never went back to the States. Did she?’ She paused, waiting for his answer, then said, ‘I caught something on the national news. About the remains of a young woman being found. I didn’t pay much attention. Is she . . . ?’
Gilchrist let her question hang unanswered. ‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘I drove down to Wales for my birthday. When I came back, Kelly had left.’ Her voice sounded flat, as if the life had been sucked from it. ‘Which was what she had planned, of course. To return home. But she surprised us all by leaving early. Well, at least, that’s what we thought at the time.’
‘Can you remember the last time you saw her?’
‘It was just before I left for my birthday. A couple of days, I think, which would put it around the eighteenth or nineteenth of February. We went out for breakfast together, just the two of us. She promised to keep in touch. I just thought . . .’
Promised to keep in touch. ‘Did you write to her?’
‘Twice. But I never heard a word. Now I know why. Andy, is it really her?’
‘We think so,’ he said at last.
‘Oh, my God,’ she gasped.
He held on to the phone, waiting for her to continue.
‘I can’t believe it. When she talked about leaving, I always thought we would meet up again. Kelly would visit Wales. I would visit the States. But when she never replied, I just thought she wanted nothing more to do with me. I thought it was something to do with Jack. I just never would have thought. What happened to her?’
Again, he ignored her question. ‘After breakfast, then what?’
She sniffed, then said, ‘I drove to Wales.’
‘Long drive.’
‘Old car. When I think back on it, I shudder.’
‘When you last saw Kelly, did anything strike you as odd?’
‘Not a thing. She was excited, looking forward to going home. She gave me a present. Made me promise not to open it until my birthday. I felt really bad about it because I never got the chance to buy her anything.’
‘What did she give you?’
‘A pen,’ she said, and tried to laugh. But it sounded tired. ‘I was going to be a romance novelist. Kelly was going to write a book. The dreams of youth . . .’
Indeed. He had dreams of his own to be Chief Superintendent one day. ‘When you came back from Wales, did you notice anything odd?’
‘Odd?’ A pause, then, ‘Yes. I did. Her bed was stripped.’
Gilchrist let that comment filter through his mind, but came up with nothing. ‘Why was that odd?’
‘They were my sheets. I bought them. Pissed me off at the time, let me tell you. Fitted, they were. And only a couple of months old.’
‘Why would you buy sheets for Kelly’s bed?’ Gilchrist had to ask.
‘Guilt.’
Now he really was lost. He waited, his silence urging her to go on.
‘One of my boyfriends. God, I can’t even remember his name. How sad is that? Anyway, whoever he was threw up all over Kelly’s bed.’
Still, Gilchrist felt lost. ‘What was your boyfriend doing in Kelly’s bed?’
‘He wasn’t. He was trying to make it to the bathroom, opened the wrong door and projectile-vomited on to Kelly’s bed.’
Gilchrist let that image settle. ‘And where was Kelly?’
‘Out with Jack, best I recall. Which was just as well.’ She seemed to force a giggle. ‘I can laugh about it now, but at the time I was furious.’
The thought of someone bursting into Kelly’s bedroom and vomiting all over her had Gilchrist gritting his teeth. He forced that thought away, and said, ‘And you promptly washed the sheets—’
‘– and scrubbed the bed. But money was always tight back then, and buying a new mattress was out of the question. I offered, of course, but Kelly just laughed it off and helped me turn the mattress over.’
Kelly just laughed it off. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear her. It was one of the things he had liked about her. Her ready smile. Her joie de vivre. Nothing seemed to trouble her. Whenever Jack brought her home, the entire household seemed to liven. With her blue eyes, blonde hair and sparkling smile, she was like a splash of American colour on a grey Scottish canvas. And she always parted by blowing Jack’s wee brother a kiss.
‘God, how we lived back then,’ Rita continued. ‘I sometimes wonder. And come to think about it, do you know what else I thought was strange? Her room was spotless. Not like she’d just cleared it out, but like she’d scrubbed it clean.’
Gilchrist felt a shiver tingle his spine. Had Rita unknowingly glanced upon a murder scene? Had Kelly been murdered in her room? Had her killer known Rita as well, known she was in Wales for her birthday? And if so, would her killer also have known of Kelly’s intention to return to the States? And with that thought, Gilchrist saw that the killer might have known his brother Jack, too.
But he was still missing something.
‘How long did you remain in the flat?’ he asked.
‘Until the end of my course. Then that was that. Back to Wales to find a job and get back together with my old boyfriend.’
‘Thomas?’
‘God, no. I never met Rhys, God rest his soul, until I was well into my thirties. I’m afraid the impulsiveness of youth and looking at the world through beer goggles sent most of them packing.’
‘What about Kelly’s mail?’ he asked. ‘Bank statements, bills, the usual stuff. What did you do with them?’
‘Ripped them up, mostly.’
‘Did you not forward any to her address in the States?’
‘Now that you mention it,’ she said, ‘I do remember sending something back. Just the once. A cheque, I think.’
‘Who from?’
‘How would I know? I didn’t open it.’
‘Was there no return address?’
‘If there was, I never noticed. And if I noticed, I can’t remember.’
Gilchrist made a note to check the boxes in Mrs Roberts’ attic. ‘If anything else comes to mind,’ he said, ‘please give me a call.’ He waited while she rummaged for a pen, then he recited his mobile number and hung up.
Back at his desk, he read through his scribbled notes on Rita, trying to find something that might jump-start his mind, then flicked through those on Kelly’s mother. One word leaped from the page.
Mexico, circled in black pen.
Why Mexico?
In the late sixties, Mexico was not the tourist haven it is now. Back then, it would have been barely ruined by greed-driven developers; a sun-scorched land from which simple people eked out a meagre living, with crystal-clear seas from which fishermen fed their families. Like Spain’s Costa del Sol in the fifties, perhaps.
So, why Mexico?
In the short time Jack had known Kelly, Gilchrist could not once recall him uttering a single word about Mexico. All of Jack’s en
thusiasm had been directed towards the States.
Once I get a job, Andy, you can come and visit us. I’ll fly you over. We’ll have picnics on the beach, barbecued steaks as big as your arm and shrimp as big as lobsters. We’ll watch the sun go down on a warm sea, smoke cigarettes and drink beer. You’ll get a tan, and grow muscles. I’ll get you fit. Every morning we’ll run along the beach to a rising sun in a clear blue sky.
Which was what Jack and Kelly used to do – run along the West Sands, sans sun. No matter how he tried, Gilchrist could not conjure up an image of Jack and Kelly jogging on the beaches in Mexico.
But Kelly’s parents had received a postcard from Mexico.
Which Kelly had not sent. Of that, Gilchrist was certain.
So who had?
If he could answer that question, Gilchrist knew he had found her killer.
CHAPTER 15
Memories came back at him as he stepped into the living room, like family portraits being unveiled one at a time. The fireplace was still there, although the mantelpiece had since been removed. In its place, a wooden shelf with scalloped edges buckled from the weight of books and ornaments that threatened to slip from its surface. A series of black-and-white photographs covered woodchip walls that he recalled being as bare as the West Sands.
He crossed the floor to a rear window that overlooked the back garden. The boundary walls seemed higher than he remembered. The gabled outline of a building that once stood in the corner marked its stonework like a martyr’s memorial. A concrete slab that used to be the floor of an old wash-house lay like a flattened headstone beneath him. Weeds threatened the base of the boundary walls and crept through the early winter grass.
‘When did you say you lived here?’
Gilchrist turned from the window to face Donnie, the owner, an aged gentleman with flyaway hair as wild as Einstein’s, and a strip of a moustache that perched above his lip.
‘I didn’t,’ Gilchrist said. ‘My brother did, in the late sixties.’
Donnie nodded. ‘What did you say the name was?’
‘Jack Gilchrist. He shared the flat with Rita Sanderson and an American girl called Kelly.’