by Muir, T. F.
‘Is pathology what he ended up doing?’
‘I think so, but I really don’t know. And don’t know if I want to know.’
‘Was he ever unfaithful?’
‘Unfaithful? That’s a bit much. We only went out together.’
‘Well, then,’ said Gilchrist, ‘did he ever screw around when you were seeing him?’
‘Probably.’
Gilchrist soldiered on. ‘Did you?’
‘Screw around when I was seeing Brian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not much.’
Well, there he had it. Rita shared a flat with Kelly. Why not share her lifestyle as well? ‘So it’s likely that Brian reciprocated,’ he offered.
‘Probably.’
‘Do you think he and Kelly were ever . . . an item?’ he tried.
‘If they were, I never knew.’
‘And you’re sure you don’t know Geoffrey Pennycuick?’
His change of tack almost threw Rita. ‘Positive,’ she said.
‘How about Jeanette?’
‘Who?’
‘Geoffrey’s wife. You would have known her as Jeanette Grant.’
‘The name doesn’t ring a bell. But nowadays, not much of anything rings bells.’ She gave a short laugh, and Gilchrist wondered if she had been drinking.
‘When you went to Wales that Christmas, do you know what Lorena had planned?’
‘No. I didn’t spend much time with her, even less after Megs took over Kelly’s room.’
Megs. Rita mentioned Megs in her letter to Kelly. ‘I thought you didn’t like Megs,’ he said.
‘Who told you that?’
‘I, eh . . .’ His thoughts jumped to Rita’s letter. ‘I must have heard it somewhere.’
‘It was Lorena who didn’t like Megs,’ Rita said, as if not hearing him. ‘Megs was too big and pushy for her. Whenever Megs was around, Lorena wasn’t.’
‘Made herself scarce?’
‘You could say.’
‘Stay over at her boyfriend’s?’
‘No. Once Megs came on to the scene, they split up.’
‘Lorena and her boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you still can’t remember her boyfriend’s name?’
‘No. But I think Megs went out with him for a while.’
‘For a while?’
‘For what it’s worth, my memory of Megs is that she was always either splitting up or making up. I think they split up after about two weeks or something, then it would be back on, then off again. Bit of a bitch, if you ask me. Stealing someone’s boyfriend. But she was always on the lookout.’
‘So, going back to Lorena, you thought their relationship odd?’
‘It seemed that way. He’d come by to see Lorena and the two of them would watch TV without saying a word, and sometimes not even on the same chair. Like strangers. But it takes all kinds, I suppose.’
Gilchrist thanked her for her help, then hung up.
Back in his hotel room, he pulled Donnie’s records from his computer case, flicked through the pages and found it.
Margaret Caulder. Megs to all her friends. Married Dougie Ewart in the early eighties. But not for long. Less than two years, as best as he could recall. And he thought that if he could find out where Megs now lived, and talk to her, she might be able to tell him the name of Lorena’s boyfriend. Her address in Donnie’s records was noted as Cupar, beside it her phone number.
A long shot, he knew, but he punched in the international code and the number.
‘Hello?’ A young woman’s voice.
‘I’m not sure if I’ve got the right number,’ Gilchrist said, ‘but I’m looking for Margaret Caulder.’
‘She’s not here.’
‘Is this her number?’
‘I don’t know anyone called Margaret Caulder. She’s not here.’
Gilchrist was about to hang up when he said, ‘Do you know anyone called Megs Caulder?’
‘Megs?’
‘Yes. It’s an odd name, I know—’
‘That’s my mum’s name.’
‘Can I speak to her?’ he asked.
‘She’s just gone down to the shops for some fags.’
‘I’ll call her back, then.’
The line went dead. So much for telephone etiquette.
He closed his mobile, powered up his laptop and plugged in the Internet connection. A few minutes later, he googled Brian Fletcher and got 1,859,574 hits. He narrowed his search by typing Scotland, then again by typing forensics, and after several further variations managed to narrow it to four hits. He opened the first article, which turned out to be an excerpt of some court hearing and did not help. The next one confirmed that Dr Brian Fletcher was employed at Queen Margaret’s Hospital in London. Did Queen Margaret’s have a pathology department? He continued his search, but after fifteen minutes decided he needed help.
He checked the time, then called Stan.
Stan answered with a curt, ‘Yep?’
‘Can you speak, Stan?’
‘Boss? Where are you? Tosh has got the ear of the ACC on this one. Wants to put out a call to you on the evening news.’
‘What for?’
‘To get you to turn yourself in, of course. What do you mean, what for?’
‘Tosh knows where I am, Stan. He’s not interested in me turning myself in. He’s only interested in furthering his career. He knows I’m in the States—’
‘The States?’ A pause, then, ‘You’re at Kelly Roberts’ place, aren’t you?’
‘Not quite, but close. Listen, Stan, I think I’ve found something, but I need your help.’
‘Hold on, boss. You can get me into trouble.’
‘Not at all, Stan. You’ve used your head, been talking to a number of people listed on old Donnie’s records and come up with a few names. Could get you noticed by the likes of McVicar,’ he added.
Stan paused, as if weighing the scales. ‘I hate that bastard Tosh, so let’s have it.’
‘I need you to track Brian Fletcher down for me.’
‘Who’s he?’
Gilchrist told him.
‘And you think he might have killed Kelly?’
Too early to say, he thought. But all things were possible. ‘He needs to be questioned about his relationship with Kelly,’ he said, then thought of his imminent call to Megs. ‘I might need you to do one more search for me. But let me get back to you on that, Stan.’
‘One other thing,’ Stan said. ‘That Gina Belli bird stuck her head in here yesterday, wanting to know about the fire in Edinburgh.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Told her to read the newspapers.’
‘Did she mention the cigarette lighter?’
‘Not to me, boss.’
If Gina Belli got his message at the St Andrews Bay, she would hold the lighter until he collected it in person. He had no idea of her travel plans, when she was scheduled to return to the States, or if she was planning to stay on in St Andrews. He thought of asking Stan to track her down and retrieve the lighter. But the thought of Tosh triumphing over the return of Jack’s lighter in his absence made him decide against that.
After hanging up, he returned to the photographs and shuffled his way through them with a fresh pair of eyes, setting aside those of Kelly’s friends. But it was a photograph of Lorena that grabbed his attention.
There she stood, with a small, straggly-haired individual by her side, whom Gilchrist realized was her mystery boyfriend. He pulled the image closer.
Was this the photograph of a murderer? Was he looking at Kelly’s killer? Who better to visit Mexico with Lorena and mail a postcard to the States, than her boyfriend? Gilchrist saw for the first time the muscular strength of the man. Shirtsleeves pulled above his elbows revealed forearms striped with muscles like cable. What Gilchrist had taken as a thin face he now saw were the sculpted features of a man carrying a deep-rooted hatred of those around him. Black eyes glared back at the came
ra, as if demanding what right the photographer had to take his picture. Even his grip around his beer mug looked as if it threatened to crush the glass. Gilchrist placed the photograph to the top of the pile.
All he needed was a name.
He picked up his mobile and flipped it open.
CHAPTER 24
‘This is Megs. Who’s calling?’
As soon as he heard her voice, a short backlog of memories swept into his mind. She had accompanied Dougie to a number of police nights out when they were husband and wife: Megs, following a pint with a double Scotch in short order, guffawing at Dougie struggling to keep up; Megs, big and loud and red-faced from the weather or the drink, a real-life farmer’s daughter if ever there was one.
‘Andy Gilchrist,’ he replied.
She gave a short intake of breath. ‘Of Fife Constabulary?’
‘The very same.’
A pause, then, ‘Why are you calling?’
He thought her voice sounded nervous. ‘Just want to ask a few questions.’
‘What about?’
Her answer seemed too quick, almost defensive. ‘Do you remember Kelly Roberts?’ he tried.
‘Who?’
‘When you went to university, you shared a flat with Rita Sanderson and Lorena Cordoba.’
‘Yes . . .’
‘So you remember?’
‘That’s going back a bit.’
Gilchrist thought silence his best response.
‘So, who was Kelly?’ she asked.
‘You took over her room when she left.’
‘Never heard of her.’
Not quite the answer he expected. He was almost certain Megs would have noticed Kelly around town. Few Americans attended St Andrews University back in the sixties, and with Kelly’s blonde looks and American accent, she would have stood out. Maybe Megs had known Kelly by sight, not by name. But that thought, too, seemed flawed. The local news had been full of the skeleton discovery, with Kelly’s computer image being shown on national TV. It seemed unbelievable that Megs would be so clueless.
‘Do you remember Lorena Cordoba?’ he tried.
‘That little dago bitch?’
Her change in mood almost threw him. ‘And her boyfriend?’
‘Why would I know her boyfriend? Come on . . .’
‘Didn’t you go out with him?’
‘Oh. Now I remember. Are you talking about Wee Johnnie?’
Her response seemed too fast, too glib, but he scribbled down the name. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘What’s his surname?’
‘Walker.’
For someone who had denied knowing Lorena’s boyfriend two breaths ago, Megs displayed remarkable recall. ‘Aren’t you getting his name confused with a whisky?’
‘That’s why I remember it. His name was Wee Johnnie Walker. And wee fitted the bill, if you get my meaning.’
‘What did Lorena do when you started going out with Johnnie?’
‘Do?’
‘You’d moved into her flat, stolen her boyfriend—’
‘Is that what she told you? Well you can tell that little tramp that Johnnie wanted a woman, not a Mexican bimbo.’
Megs had never been a mincer of words. He remembered that, too.
‘Did your relationship with Johnnie last long?’
‘Long enough.’
‘For what?’
‘Use your imagination.’
Gilchrist did, but it was not a pleasant image. ‘It sounds to me like it was an acrimonious ending.’
‘Not for me. I was glad to see the back of him.’
Gilchrist wondered if it wasn’t the other way around. ‘How long did you stay in the flat?’ he asked.
‘End of the year. Then I left.’
‘Graduated?’
‘That’d be the day.’
‘You jacked it in?’
‘Couldn’t stand it any more.’
‘Where did you go?’
Megs seemed to give his question some consideration. ‘What’s my leaving uni got to do with Kelly?’ she finally asked.
He thought the first-name familiarity odd. But Megs had already shown how good her memory could be. ‘Just wondering if you ever saw Wee Johnnie again?’
‘Not a chance. Wasn’t interested.’
‘I think you’ve been helpful in answering my questions,’ he said. ‘If I think of anything else, I’ll give you a call.’
He was about to hang up when Megs said, ‘Are you looking for Wee Johnnie?’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Haven’t a clue. But would a photograph help?’
Gilchrist pressed the phone to his ear, intrigued by her sudden enthusiasm. ‘Do you have one?’
‘I’ll have a look-see,’ she said, and gave him her address. ‘If you want to come by and pick it up.’ Before he could tell her to deliver it to the office, she said, ‘See you soon, Andy.’
Gilchrist hung up to what sounded like laughter. He picked up the photograph of Lorena with her boyfriend. Was that Wee Johnnie Walker? Maybe Megs’ photograph would confirm that.
Somehow, the thought of visiting Megs for an ID did not appeal to him, but if doing so could clear Jack’s name, then what choice did he have? A face-to-face with her might reveal some more of the past, but having Stan do more legwork for him could give him a heads-up for the visit. He flipped open his mobile.
‘Long time,’ joked Stan.
‘As well as Brian Fletcher,’ Gilchrist began, ‘I need you to track down Johnnie Walker.’
‘Any clues?’
Gilchrist gave Stan what little he had, and surprised himself by not mentioning Megs. But a thought had struck him during his call to Stan, that if Megs could identify the person standing next to Lorena, could she identify those Gilchrist did not know in the other photographs? A visit to Megs was fast becoming a must.
He placed Lorena and Wee Johnnie to the side, and spent the next three hours going through every photograph, numbering them lightly in pencil on the back, making notes against each, cataloguing them in order of names he knew and those he did not. By the time he finished, it was almost five o’clock. The thought of a beer and a bite almost had him wrapping the lot up and heading to Professor Moriarty’s. Instead, he called Kelly’s mother, told her he was flying back to Scotland the following afternoon and asked if she would be interested in accompanying him to the Wishing Well.
‘That would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been back since Tom died. Why don’t I make a reservation? It sometimes gets busy.’
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I’d like to return your photographs. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow a few.’
‘Of course, dear.’
‘And you mentioned letters you and Tom received from Kelly. I think you may have forgotten to let me see the last one you received.’
‘Did I? I’ll look it out and bring it along.’
The bar at the Wishing Well was unavoidable. Patrons had to walk past it to enter the restaurant beyond. Gilchrist escorted Annie by the arm, and she surprised him by saying, ‘Do you mind if we have a cocktail at the bar?’
‘Not at all.’ Gilchrist pulled out a stool and helped Annie to sit.
‘Thank you,’ she said, as he pulled his stool beside hers. ‘Tom and I always had a cocktail before we ate. Sometimes we never even made it to the restaurant. We would just start talking and before we knew it we were on our third cocktail and ready to go home.’ She shook her head with a sad smile. ‘I miss Tom.’
Gilchrist surprised himself by squeezing her hand.
‘I miss Kelly, too,’ she said.
Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. The thought that he had held Kelly’s skull in his own hands only two days earlier, had watched Dr Black build virtual skin and tissue around it, while this woman seated beside him had longed for some sight of her daughter for over thirty years, had him not trusting his own voice.
Annie forced a smile at the bartender. ‘I’d like a vodka martini, Gray Goose,
and go light on the martini. With extra olives.’
‘Certainly, ma’am. And you, sir?’
‘Sam Adams.’
The bartender placed two coasters on the bar and removed a frosted glass from the fridge. As Annie leaned closer, Gilchrist thought she looked troubled.
‘I was so sorry to hear about Jack,’ she said to him. ‘Tom and I met him once, that Christmas we visited. Such a nice young man. So handsome, too.’ She looked at him then, her eyes a cold blue. ‘Can you tell me what happened, Andy?’
So Gilchrist did, eking out details in a level monotone, as if the person he was talking about was someone he did not know. He did not mention that Jack was fast becoming the prime suspect in Kelly’s murder, or that his hit-and-run driver was now being sought for a recent arson attack, and more. When he finished, Annie gripped both his hands in hers.
‘Such a tragic story,’ she said. ‘Two young lives lost. With so much to live for.’
Gilchrist nodded, not trusting his voice.
‘You still miss him,’ she said.
‘I do.’ It was all he could manage to say.
Annie pulled back and smiled. ‘I think Kelly and Jack would have kept in contact after she left Scotland. And I think Jack would have visited her in the States. Who knows?’ she added with a wink. ‘He might even have emigrated.’
‘Why do you think that?’
She delved into her handbag and removed an envelope. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Kelly’s last letter. This might help you understand how she felt.’
Gilchrist took it, resisting the urge to read it there and then.
‘When you’re done with your investigation, I would like you to send it back to me. It’s all I have left of her.’
‘Of course,’ he said, and slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket.
Their drinks arrived, and Annie lifted her glass and forced a smile. She chinked her martini against Gilchrist’s frosted beer and said, ‘To the memory of Kelly and Jack,’ and took a sip that made her face crinkle with pleasure. She replaced her glass on the bar and licked her lips. ‘That tastes wonderful. I can’t tell you the last time I had a vodka martini. Tom usually had Scotch. They used to keep a bottle of Glenfiddich in the gantry, just for him. That was before the previous owner passed away.’
Gilchrist waited for some more history, but Annie seemed content to stir her olives. He felt hesitant to press on with the morbid subject, but after a few beats said, ‘What are your memories of Kelly?’