Blood Torment

by T F Muir

  He pushed through, and entered the kitchen.

  WPC Jenny Carlton sat at a kitchen table large enough to accommodate a party of ten, talking to a straggle-haired woman – presumably Andrea Davis – who sat with her back to Gilchrist, hands clasped to a tea mug. They both wore forensic coveralls.

  The kitchen was redolent of coffee and burned toast, the air thick with the warmth of a homely Scottish welcome. A cast-iron range cooker nestled in an arched alcove that could have been constructed in the nineteenth century. A German shepherd lay on the floor in the cooker’s heat, and gave Gilchrist an uninterested sniff before nestling its head on to its paws and closing its eyes. Through the window, the dark grey line of the boundary wall edged the property at the end of an overgrown lawn. A search team on hands and knees were working their way through the uncut grass in an almost perfect line.

  WPC Carlton caught Gilchrist’s eye, and rose to her feet.

  ‘No need to stand,’ he said, as he walked across the floor. At the hearth, he paused and scratched the dog behind its ears, estimating its age to be greater than ten – getting on in dog years.

  ‘What’s its name?’ he asked the woman.

  ‘Chivas,’ Davis said.

  ‘As in Regal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, and turned away from Chivas. ‘I have a soft spot with animals.’

  ‘You have a dog?’ Davis asked.

  He was about to say he used to, when his children were young, but stopped himself in time. Instead, he shook his head. ‘Only an injured cat at the moment that turns up looking for food from time to time.’ He held out his warrant card. ‘DCI Andy Gilchrist, St Andrews CID.’

  She nodded. ‘Andrea Davis.’

  Gilchrist took the chair next to WPC Carlton and faced Davis. ‘Do you mind if I call you Andrea?’

  ‘If you like.’

  He gave a short smile, then assured her that he would use all resources available to him in the search for her missing daughter, that it was crucial he learned as much as he could about events leading up to and after she noticed her disappearance.

  ‘Your daughter’s name,’ he then said. ‘Katie, is it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Short for Katherine?’

  ‘Katarina.’ Although the name had been announced with authority, her voice sounded brittle, wounded. But Katarina intrigued him. Not your usual Scottish name, although it had been shortened to one.

  ‘Any middle names?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Just Katarina Davis?’

  He thought it odd how, at the mention of the surname, she crossed her arms over her chest, as if chilled from a rush of cold air. ‘It’s an unusual name,’ he said. ‘Katarina. Sounds East European, even Russian.’ He threw in that comment, just to gauge a reaction.

  But Andrea said nothing, and gave an almost unnoticeable shake of her head.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve been through this before,’ he said, and waited until her gaze settled on his. ‘But I’d like you to tell me what happened.’

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘I woke up just after six,’ Andrea said.

  ‘Why?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Light sleeper.’

  ‘Nothing woke you, I mean.’

  ‘No. Most mornings I’m awake early.’

  Gilchrist let his silence work for him.

  ‘I didn’t get out of bed, though,’ she went on. ‘Just read for a bit.’

  ‘The newspaper?’

  ‘Biography of Dickens. Been meaning to read it for ages.’

  ‘So when did you get up?’

  ‘Six thirty-eight.’

  ‘Exactly?’

  She nodded. ‘I looked at the clock. That’s why I knew the exact time.’

  Gilchrist cocked his head at the sound of footsteps from the hallway. The others heard them, too. Together they turned as Jessie entered.

  ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’

  Gilchrist said to Andrea, ‘Do you mind if DS Janes joins us?’

  ‘Would it make any difference if I did?’

  Rather than answer, he nodded for Jessie to take a seat, but she chose to stand at the end of the table. He turned back to Andrea. ‘So you got out of bed at exactly six thirty-eight,’ he said, bringing Jessie up to speed. ‘Did something make you look at the clock?’

  He thought it odd the way her fingers tightened around her mug, how she took a quick sip of tea, then set the mug down. ‘It was the silence,’ she said. ‘It felt different.’

  ‘Felt different?’

  ‘Nothing tactile in the correct definition of the word, rather that the silence was not as silent as it usually is, if you get my meaning.’ Then she frowned. ‘You’re staring at me.’

  ‘I don’t mean to. Sorry,’ he said, and continued to focus on her eyes.

  She cleared her throat, looked down at her hands. ‘I could hear birdsong,’ she said. ‘I can’t normally hear that from my bedroom. And my bedroom felt colder, too. So I got up, and before doing so, I looked at the time.’

  ‘Go on,’ Gilchrist encouraged.

  ‘I put on my dressing gown and walked along the hallway to Katie’s room.’

  ‘Were you wearing slippers?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You didn’t say you put on slippers. Do you sleep with your door open?’

  ‘Partly. Why?’

  ‘You didn’t say you opened the door.’

  Andrea looked at Gilchrist, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Does it matter if I opened the door wider, or put on my slippers?’ She took another sip, fingers shivering with a tremor that threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

  ‘It’s important that you tell me everything,’ he said. ‘No matter how small. It’ll give us a clearer picture.’ He waited until she replaced her mug. ‘Take your time.’

  She took a deep breath, then exhaled. ‘I reached Katie’s bedroom door. It was open. It always is. And I just knew she was gone. Even before I looked inside, I knew she was gone.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It was cold. The window was open.’

  ‘From the hallway, could you see the window was open?’

  ‘No. Not there. I felt it. The coldness. And when I saw her cot empty, I realised the window was open.’ She pressed her hands to her face, gagged a gasp.

  Gilchrist waited several beats before saying, ‘Did you notice anything else?’

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything missing?’

  She shook her head. ‘Her blankets. He must have wrapped her up in her blankets.’

  Gilchrist noted the reference to he, but it was the natural assumption – strength to climb over the boundary wall, break into the bedroom, remove the child, make off with her in his arms, carry her across a field, if he had to.

  Instead, he said, ‘Anything else missing? Toys? Dolls? That sort of thing?’

  She shook her head as if lost for a moment, then livened. ‘Yes. Her woollen Chivas. She always slept with it. Her bed’s empty, so it’s gone, too.’

  He frowned. ‘Her woollen Chivas?’

  ‘It’s a knitted toy dog. The same colour as Chivas.’

  Gilchrist glanced at movement to the side, as Chivas raised his head at the repeated mention of his name, then returned to his slumber.

  ‘My mother bought it for Katie.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’ he said. ‘We can make a point of searching for it. Maybe it dropped from the bedclothes as they crossed the lawn, or climbed the wall. It could help us track the kidnapper’s movements. Even help us ID Katie, if she still has it.’

  ‘I think I have another one. Not the same colour, but the same style. Do you want me to get it now?’

  ‘Later,’ he said. ‘So where was the real-life Chivas when this was going on?’

  ‘Asleep.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Chivas have barked if he’d heard anything?’

  ‘Chivas suffers from canine
narcolepsy. He spends most of his time sleeping.’

  Gilchrist felt his gaze drawn to Chivas by the range cooker. Head on paws, eyes closed, which he supposed gave new meaning to the phrase dog tired. He turned back to Andrea. ‘When you realised Katie wasn’t in her cot, what did you do?’

  ‘I called the police and reported her missing.’

  ‘You called on your mobile?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have it with you when you left your room and walked to Katie’s in your slippers?’

  ‘No. I keep it on my bedside table.’

  ‘So you went back for it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gilchrist nodded to Jessie, who walked around the end of the table to face Andrea.

  ‘Your 999 call to the Force Control Centre at Glenrothes was logged in at 07.07 this morning,’ she said, ‘and a priority alert was put out on all channels at 07.14.’

  Andrea looked at Gilchrist, then Jessie, then back to Gilchrist. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do we,’ Jessie said.

  Gilchrist returned Andrea’s puzzled expression. ‘Six thirty-eight,’ he said to her.

  ‘I . . . maybe I was mistaken.’

  ‘You sounded so certain.’

  ‘I . . . ’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t explain it.’

  Gilchrist tried another angle. ‘Was anyone with you last night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you speak to anyone on the phone last night?’

  ‘My mother called.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘We’ll be checking your phone records—’

  ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘We need to satisfy ourselves about the discrepancy in your story versus the time of your calls. We need to have a clear understanding of what—’

  ‘Story?’ she snapped. ‘Is that what you think this is? Some sordid little story that you can all have a laugh at back at the police station?’ She rose to her feet. ‘My daughter’s been kidnapped and taken to God knows where. I don’t even know if she’s come to any harm, and you’re talking to me as if I’m making up some kind of story.’ Her lips whitened, then she shouted, ‘Get out.’

  Gilchrist nodded to Jessie, then stood. ‘WPC Carlton will stay with you—’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to stay with me. I just want Katie back. I want her back. Can’t you understand?’

  Gilchrist squeezed Carlton’s shoulder. ‘Call, if you need me.’ Then he and Jessie walked from the kitchen, leaving Andrea sobbing opposite Carlton, shoulders heaving, and strangely, or so Gilchrist thought, not a tear in sight.

  Outside, he puffed away a shiver. ‘First thoughts?’

  ‘She’s not right in the head, is what I’m thinking. What the hell was that all about?’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘How long would it take to walk from her bedroom to Katie’s and back, then call in a report? Best guess, three minutes max.’

  ‘So we’re looking at 06.40 until 07.07,’ he said. ‘Giving her the benefit of every doubt, plus or minus a minute or two either way, we’re missing, what, twenty minutes?’

  ‘Want me to take her to task on that?’

  Gilchrist shook his head. ‘She’s hiding something. She was emphatic about the time, but it doesn’t mean she’s involved in Katie’s disappearance, or not devastated as her mother. Let’s give her the benefit of that doubt.’ He looked off to the horizon. The skies had cleared, the morning greyness replaced by a blue sky that shuffled clouds as thin as cards. He caught the shimmer of the North Sea, a scattering of broken glass on a grey field.

  Despite the cold, it could be a good day after all.

  ‘So what did she do in these missing twenty minutes?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘If I was a betting man, I’d say she was on the phone. So check her phone records.’

  ‘Maybe she had a lover staying over,’ Jessie said. ‘Giving her a morning shag—’

  ‘So why check the time?’

  ‘To see how long he lasted?’ Jessie let out a guffaw, then said, ‘I’ve just shot down my own argument. We’re looking for twenty minutes, not twenty seconds.’

  ‘But he’d need to get dressed and leave, which would take time.’

  Jessie scowled. ‘Are you winding me up?’

  Gilchrist unzipped his coveralls. ‘Let’s go and see Jackie.’

  He waited until Jessie started up her Fiat, before he went looking for Tosh.

  He found him at the side of the barn, on his mobile, staring out across the fields.

  Tosh turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, and slapped his mobile shut with a snarl when he recognised Gilchrist.

  ‘I’m the SIO on this investigation,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Normally, I’d ask the Incident Officer to remain as a valued member of my team, but I don’t believe you’re up to it. So you’re being kicked out of it.’

  Tosh grunted a smirk.

  ‘I want all statements and files obtained under your watch on my desk by midday.’

  ‘Still playing the big-shot, I see.’ Tosh’s tight eyes danced for a few seconds, then he sidestepped Gilchrist and tried to push past him.

  But Gilchrist grabbed him by the shoulder, only to have Tosh swipe at his hand, turn, and step in close enough for him to smell the man’s bacon breath.

  ‘Touch me once more, you smarmy bastard, and I’ll fucking have you.’

  ‘My desk,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Midday. Then you’re out of it.’

  ‘You know your problem, Gilchrist?’ Tosh’s eyes flared with an unhealthy wildness. ‘You fancy yourself. You think shit doesn’t stick to your shoes. But you’re a loose cannon. You’re reckless. If it wasn’t for you, Stan the man would still be around.’

  Gilchrist hit him, a straight-fingered jab to the solar plexus, which had Tosh gawping for breath like a landed fish, face turning a deeper shade as the ability to breathe failed him. A quick glance left and right confirmed that no one had seen the blow. He gave Tosh a friendly pat on the back, and waited for that first merciful intake of air to fill his lungs.

  ‘Something catch in your throat?’

  Tosh flailed his arms and broke free. ‘Fuck you, Gilchrist.’ His pinpoint eyes blazed. A vein pulsed at his temple, and his neck threatened to burst his shirt collar. ‘I’m your worst fucking nightmare. You’d better believe it. I’ll get you, I fucking promise. But you won’t know when it’s coming, or where. Just that it will be fucking coming. And it’ll be lights out. Period.’

  ‘Finished?’

  Tosh stepped back, and tried a smile, but some part of his brain failed to compute as ordered, and he jerked a grimace instead. ‘Sleep tight in that tidy little Fisherman’s Cottage of yours, Gilchrist. And remember what I told you. Night-night. And lights out.’

  ‘Midday,’ Gilchrist said, and turned away.

  From behind, he heard Tosh’s forced laughter, the guttural coughing up of phlegm as he spat out his anger. He tried to downplay the incident in his mind, as if it was not worth the worry. But he’d crossed Tosh before, years earlier, only to be kicked unconscious by a pair of thugs a week later while walking home from the pub. No one was found, no one was charged, and the incident faded into history.

  But Gilchrist had known his beating had been instigated by Tosh.

  You crossed Tosh, you took your chance.

  He cursed under his breath and walked to his car, the ghost of Tosh’s threat sweeping after him like an ice-cold backdraught that chilled the length of his spine.

  CHAPTER 5

  By the time Gilchrist drove through the pend and parked at the back of the North Street Office, he had organised a search of Andrea Davis’s bank accounts, standing orders, direct debits, credit and debit cards, to help him understand why she could afford to live in a mansion – albeit a dilapidated one – alone with her daughter and a dog-tired Chivas. Maybe she had money of her own; a trust fund perhaps – good enough reason to
initiate a ransom demand – but he needed that confirmed. If she thought she could brush him off with some fudged excuse about twenty missing minutes, she was sorely mistaken.

  Once in his office, he accessed his computer and checked his messages – nothing urgent or relevant to the current case – and was about to head to Jackie’s office, when his mobile rang – ID Becky.

  ‘The weather’s forecast to pick up later today,’ she said, without introduction, ‘so I thought you might like to unpack my new barbecue and set it up for me. And I’ve found a new recipe for a Caribbean marinade, which I’m eager to try out on you. But I suppose I should first ask if you’re free this evening.’

  ‘Good morning to you, too, Becky.’

  She chuckled. ‘Polite to a fault, Andy. Your most endearing and irritating trait.’

  Their relationship was coming up for four months old and, despite her being pregnant, he felt as if he still didn’t know her. They needed to spend more time together, but not that evening. ‘Just been hit with a new case,’ he said.

  ‘Hopefully not the kidnapped girl.’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘It’s on all the news channels. The granddaughter of that vile ex-politician Dougal Davis. God, I hate the man and all he stands for. And so full of himself. You should hear him talk. He’s already made a statement to the kidnappers—’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘BBC Scotland. About fifteen minutes ago—’

  ‘Let me get back to you.’

  He hung up, and strode to Jackie’s office – Jackie Canning, first-class researcher, who suffered from cerebral palsy and scurried around on crutches with surprising agility, but had a stutter so bad she had almost given up speaking.

  Jessie was standing next to her, staring at her monitor.

  ‘Log on to BBC Scotland,’ he said to Jackie, ‘and pull up a replay of Dougal Davis’s speech.’

  Jackie worked the mouse and keyboard like the expert she was. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but her stutter stumped her every time.

  ‘It was on about fifteen minutes ago,’ he told her.

  Jackie’s rust-coloured mop of hair bobbed as if sprung. ‘Twe . . . twe . . . ’ she tried.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, and almost knocked her crutches to the floor in his eagerness to see the monitor. He moved them out of the way, stood them in the corner. ‘Turn up the volume.’