by Muir, T. F.
‘What’s in there? The Crown jewels?’ Tosh quipped, clicking in his seatbelt.
‘You’re a laugh a minute these days,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Practising for stand-up?’
‘Not like you, eh?’ Tosh caught Nance’s snapped glance, but it did little to stop him. ‘So how was Kelly’s old dear?’
‘If you’re trying to impress me with your skills of detection, Tosh, forget it.’
‘Not at all. I was thinking maybe you’d given her one. Nice tits on her, like Kelly, had she?’
‘Give it up, Tosh.’ Nance that time.
From the look on Nance’s face, Gilchrist was not alone in his misery. Or maybe she was not getting much sleep around John. But having now gone through Annie’s collection of Kelly’s photographs, Gilchrist saw that Dr Black’s computer image had done little justice to Kelly, more like a wax dummy than a vibrant young woman with the eyes and voice and an inner energy that thrummed with the promise of life yet to be lived. For Tosh to talk of Kelly in those terms he must have found photographs of her, and Gilchrist made another mental note to be more wary of the man.
‘What made your brother snap, Gilchrist? Eh? I bet you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you? High-flying detective all these years and here you are, nothing but a murderer’s brother. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
Nance stabbed the ignition key into the switch and gave a hard twist. The engine revved and the car jerked forward.
‘No comment?’ Tosh said. ‘Is that you getting in some practice for the cameras?’
‘Give it up, Tosh, will you?’ Nance again. ‘You’re giving me a headache.’
Tosh shifted his gaze from Nance to Gilchrist then, as if seeing in Nance’s comments the first glimmer of some other possibility, gave the tiniest nod of understanding. And in that instant, Gilchrist promised, for Nance rather than for himself, that if Tosh even so much as hinted at their past sexual relationship, he would have him.
He stared out the side window as a surge of anger threatened to fire up his muscles. He tightened his grip on his computer case as Nance powered the car down the spiral exit ramp. Kelly’s photographs and letters and old Donnie’s records were in his case, on his lap. He could hand everything over to Greaves, explain his theory, ask him to carry out a DNA analysis on the stamps. But without Johnnie Walker or Lorena Cordoba, what would that prove? That someone other than Kelly licked the stamps? Weak as water did not even come close. He was clutching at straws, maybe even inventing them. He needed more time to fight his corner. He needed to come up with more evidence, something, anything. Without that, Jack would be proven a killer and Gilchrist would be found guilty of withholding evidence to protect his brother’s name, then convicted.
Of that he was certain.
A cold sweat tickled the back of his neck. No matter how he looked at it, he was in serious trouble. He could not let himself be taken to the office in North Street. But seated in the back of a car, with no means of exit other than the front passenger or driver door, what could he do? Even if he did manage to escape, resisting arrest would not profit his case. But what choice did he have? Fight from behind bars? Leave it to his solicitor to—
‘Did Jack tell you what it was like to shag an American?’ Tosh had turned in his seat and was looking at Gilchrist with grim interest. ‘Was that little blonde pussy of hers tattooed with stars and stripes?’
Gilchrist returned Tosh’s stare, thought he caught Nance give a supportive glare.
‘She was murdered,’ Gilchrist snarled. ‘Is this how you talk about all murder victims?’
‘Oh, she was murdered all right.’ Tosh gripped the back of his seat, pulled himself closer to Gilchrist. ‘By your brother. And you removed vital evidence to protect his name, and in doing so, tried to protect your own. The brother of a murderer? When that little lot comes out, I wouldn’t bet tuppence on your career.’
Gilchrist levelled his gaze at Tosh. ‘Johnnie Walker,’ he said.
Tosh frowned, struggling to find the joke.
‘Wee Johnnie Walker,’ Gilchrist repeated. ‘That’s who killed Kelly.’
Tosh shook his head. ‘You’re as slippery as they come, Gilchrist. I told them you would try to pass it on to someone else.’
‘Have you located him? Do you even know where he lives?’
‘The only Johnnie Walker I’m interested in is the stuff that comes in a bottle.’
‘He went out with Lorena Cordoba,’ Gilchrist went on. ‘Lorena’s from Mexico. Same place the postcard came from.’
‘You’re making it up as you go along,’ Tosh snarled.
‘Personal vendettas are not good for business.’
‘Maybe so, Gilchrist. But at the end of the day, you’re the one going to prison. Not me.’
‘All you can prove,’ he argued, ‘is that Jack once went out with Kelly. Unless you have more than a tooth, you’re on a loser.’
‘How about a jacket and a cigarette lighter?’
Gilchrist tightened his lips.
‘And Jack and Kelly argued a lot,’ Tosh said.
A lot? How did Tosh know that? Had he spoken to someone who had known Jack and Kelly all those years ago, someone who would say in court whatever was necessary to support Tosh’s charge? All of a sudden Gilchrist was aware of Jack’s letter to Kelly in his computer case. If he was taken to North Street and charged, they would go through his personal belongings and find it, clear evidence that Jack and Kelly argued – a lot. That’s how the procurator fiscal would present the letter in court. The damage would be done, the seed of doubt planted in the minds of the—
‘He must have really bopped her one to crush the side of her head like that,’ Tosh continued. ‘Did he boot her when she was down? I bet he did, the murdering fucker.’
Gilchrist shifted in his seat. ‘Jack never hit a woman in his life.’
‘Maybe not after Kelly, he didn’t.’
Gilchrist forced a laugh. It sounded faked. ‘The tooth, the jacket, the lighter. All of it’s circumstantial. Nothing direct. Kelly happened to be wearing Jack’s jacket, with his tooth and lighter in it. Of course she did. It’s what lovers do. Please tell me you have something else with which to go to court, before you waste all that taxpayers’ money.’
Tosh shifted in his seat and glared out the window, and Gilchrist caught the corners of Nance’s mouth shift in a smile. But his mind was made up now. If circumstantial evidence was all they had, then the last thing he wanted was for them to read Jack’s letter to Kelly, the single piece in the jigsaw that could arguably meld the individual parts of the case into a cohesive whole.
Gilchrist realized that he could not be taken to North Street. The more he thought about it, the more conceivable it became that he could be locked up for days, maybe weeks, even longer. He could not let that happen. He would need to find some way to escape, or ditch his computer case. Or the letter? Could he do that? Throw the letter away? He heard the echo of his promise to Annie to return everything when his investigation was over. Well, that was that, then.
Again, thoughts of making a run for it flooded his mind.
At the office in North Street, Nance would drive through the arch and park the car in the back. From there, he had one chance before he was taken into custody: the boundary wall. It was six feet high. If he was quick enough, if he took them by surprise, he could pull himself up and over and into someone’s back garden. Risky, for sure. They could follow his progress on CCTV until he got out of St Andrews. As his mind struggled to calculate the risks, he came to see that fleeing was the beginning of the end of his career. And so, too, would being found guilty of attempting to pervert the course of justice.
In the centre of Cupar, the traffic thickened. Nance eased forward in stops and starts.
‘It’s always the fucking same, this place,’ Tosh grumbled. ‘Jam-packed solid. I’ve never understood why.’ He tapped his jacket’s side pockets, then twisted in his seat as his hands worked into his trousers. He tutted, then said, �
��Stop at the first newsagent’s. I’m out of cigarettes.’
‘Can’t you wait?’
‘What’s your bloody problem? You’d think the car was yours.’
Nance shook her head, gripped the wheel.
Fifty yards on, Tosh pointed. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Pull in over there.’
‘In the middle of the road?’
‘Just double-park the fucker. I’ll only be a minute.’
Gilchrist felt his senses come alive. He had not expected any stops en route. Could this be a chance, perhaps his only one? He tightened his grip on his computer case.
Tosh had his seatbelt off and the door open before Nance drew to a halt, and jumped out and slammed the door with a grunt.
Gilchrist watched him cross the street and step into the newsagent’s, heart thudding at the possibility presented to him. If he made a run for it now, there could be no turning back. Resisting arrest was a jailable offence. He would need to find proof of his innocence before he could turn himself in. All of a sudden, the magnitude of what he was about to do reared over him like some physical presence that kept him rooted to his seat.
In front of him, Nance eyed the traffic as if conscious of being double-parked.
Gilchrist looked at the newsagent’s. How long had Tosh been gone?
Or more to the point, how long until he returned?
Then it would be too late.
He had to do it. And do it now.
He depressed the lever on the passenger seat, pushed forward and opened the door in one fluid movement. ‘Give me five minutes,’ he said, and was out of the car before Nance could react.
‘Andy. Don’t—’
He ran, clutching his computer case to his side. He glanced back to see if Nance would chase him. But he had known from her eyes that her heart had not been in it, and the car remained stationary with its hazard lights blinking, Nance at the opened door, staring after him, her mobile already to her ear. And as he ran, he tried to work out how much distance he would have to put between him and Tosh to be safe.
He remembered Tosh being a sprinter, his shorter legs and thicker muscles powering him faster than Gilchrist could ever run. Long legs and slender build made distance running more Gilchrist’s style.
He glimpsed over his shoulder, caught Tosh crossing the street, stripping a cigarette packet, then the hesitation and a hand thumped on the car’s roof, followed by a quick look left, then right, until their eyes locked.
Tosh vaulted over the bonnet of a parked car with an agility that had Gilchrist cursing under his breath. He forced himself to concentrate on just running. Tosh might be a sprinter, but like all sprinters he could not keep it up for long before his muscles burned out. How long would it take? Already Gilchrist’s lungs were burning, and the computer case seemed to be gaining weight with every step.
He turned into a side street, relieved to recognize familiar territory. Two years ago he had been called to a domestic dispute in a house at the end of the row, and had chased the husband across the back gardens, along a little-used communal path.
He raced into the path. But his memory had tricked him.
Ten yards in, the path dead-ended at a brick wall.
He doubled back, veered down another length, cursing at having lost valuable seconds in his race with Tosh, and almost crashed into a higher-than-remembered hedge. With no way to go except forward, he lugged his computer case up and over.
He forced himself through the hedge, caught a glimpse of Tosh skidding into the pathway. Their eyes locked for an instant, then Tosh tucked his head forward and powered towards him in a determined sprint that would have him on Gilchrist in seconds, it seemed.
Gilchrist pulled himself free and hurtled along the communal path. But he knew it was no use. He could not outrun Tosh, and his lungs were not working the way they should. He coughed up phlegm blackened from Betson’s fire. His breath rushed in hard rasps that burned his throat. Tosh would catch him and he would have to give himself up. What else could he do? Assault an officer of the law while resisting arrest?
The communal path rounded a gable end then split into two, one branch leading back to the main road, the other deeper into the back gardens, the hedgerows taller, the bushes thicker. From behind, he heard Tosh fight his way through the overgrown hedge.
Gilchrist saw his chance.
He turned into the longer of the two paths, ducked out of sight, pushed his computer case through the bottom of the hedgerow into a grassed area and shuffled in after it. He only just managed to pull his legs in when Tosh came bursting past, crashing into the hedge where the path split.
‘Fuck,’ he gasped.
Tosh’s legs were no more than two feet from Gilchrist’s face. He watched them turn in one direction, then the other, and from the rushed breathing knew that Tosh was hard-pressed to keep going. His own breath was coming at him hard and fast, and a spasm gripped his body as his lungs convulsed to cough up more phlegm. He clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, forced his body to ignore the overpowering need to cough, then felt all hope leave him as he heard the beeping of numbers being tapped into a mobile phone.
Who was Tosh calling?
Gilchrist could not power down his mobile. Not now. The slightest movement would attract Tosh’s peripheral vision. If Tosh was calling his number, then it really was all over.
At that moment, Tosh chose the deeper path and ran off.
Gilchrist tugged out his mobile, powered it down and coughed up phlegm. He waited until the spasm ceased and he could no longer hear footsteps before pulling himself and his computer case from the bottom of the hedgerow.
He ran back the way he had come.
He had just cleared the hedge, stepped back into the street, when he came face to face with Nance. She stood no more than ten feet away, barely breathing, arms by her side. He might be able to outrun Tosh, but he could never tire Nance.
‘Johnnie Walker,’ he said. ‘He went out with Lorena Cordoba, murdered Kelly and sent the postcard from Mexico. You need to find him.’
‘Too late.’ She shook her head. ‘Stan’s just found out he committed suicide sixteen years ago.’
Nance’s words fired through Gilchrist’s mind with the power of a lightning strike. Without Wee Johnnie, could he prove his case? With all the evidence, circumstantial or not, the procurator fiscal would have no trouble laying Kelly’s murder at Jack’s feet with a damning case. Any competent lawyer could. And as for his own dilemma? He could now see no other way out of it except through a custodial sentence.
He stood there, helpless, waiting for Nance to pull out her handcuffs.
‘I need more time,’ he tried.
‘To do what, Andy? Think about what you’re asking me to do.’
‘Jack’s innocent.’ He held her dark eyes, prayed she knew him well enough to know he had to be telling the truth, that his brother was no murderer.
She glanced along the communal path. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ she said. ‘Just go.’
Gilchrist turned and ran.
His knowledge of the backstreets of Cupar was nowhere near as good as he thought it was and he had to backtrack twice. Once, when he had to cross the main street, he saw Tosh about a hundred yards away, giving instructions to two motorcycle policemen, arm stabbing and waving in the air. Even from that distance, Gilchrist could sense the man’s anger.
He slipped down a narrow lane and continued jogging.
By the time he worked his way to his destination, a tidy bungalow in a quiet neighbourhood, police sirens called from the distance like waning birdsong.
He rang the doorbell and prayed she was in.
CHAPTER 27
The door opened to reveal a slimmer version of the Megs he had last seen twenty years earlier. Her eyes widened with surprise. ‘Well,’ she said, stepping back to invite him in, ‘it’s been a while.’
Gilchrist pushed past her into a narrow hallway.
‘Kitchen’s straight ahead.’
Gilchrist opened a
pine door and entered a room brightened by a conservatory that overlooked a rock garden, the soil turned over for the winter. The sweet smell of pineapple had him searching for fruit going off, and he found a glass bowl on the work surface by the sink filled with chopped pineapple, grapefruit, oranges. A half-skinned mango lay on a chopping board, ready to be added.
‘Tea?’ Megs asked. ‘Or something stronger? You look buggered. What’ve you been up to?’ She pulled out a chair. ‘Here. You’d better sit before you fall down.’
Gilchrist slid his computer case to the floor. ‘Tea’s fine.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Just flew in from the States.’
‘Well that explains it. Jet lag’s pure murder, so it is. I swear it’s a disease. Milk and sugar?’
‘Milk. No sugar.’
‘Would you like a biscuit?’ She removed a tin from a glass-fronted cupboard, tipped an assortment of biscuits on to a plate. ‘Tell you what,’ Megs went on, ‘you look like you could be doing with a bit of filling up. If you were a woman, I’d hate you. All skin and bone. Not like me. Look at this.’ She lifted her skirt, farther than he thought decent. ‘Farmer’s legs are what I have. Fat thighs.’ She slapped her right one. It barely wobbled. ‘Some men like them. Not me. I hate them.’ She lowered her skirt and eyed Gilchrist, as if waiting for comment.
‘You look as if you’ve lost some weight,’ he offered.
She laughed, and Gilchrist regretted having spoken. ‘You still haven’t lost that charm of yours, Andy. And the grey sideburns suit you.’ She plonked a mug on the table, pulled out a chair and sat next to him. Her closeness caused him to pick up his computer case and set it down on his lap. He opened it and removed a photograph.
‘I’d like to show you something,’ he said.
Megs pulled closer, leaned forward to examine the photograph.
Gilchrist was conscious of cleavage swelling by his side, her skirt slipping high on white thighs. ‘Do you recognize him?’
Megs nodded. ‘That’s Wee Johnnie,’ she said, ‘with his dago bimbo.’