by T F Muir
‘Red sky at night, and all that,’ Jessie said.
‘I always check it out in the morning,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I’m going to have a pint in the Golf Hotel, see if I can find out a bit more about Sammie Bell.’
‘You don’t still think he’s involved in Katie’s disappearance, do you?’
Gilchrist clenched his jaw. Right up to his drug-addled brain, he wanted to say. But if Bell was involved, Gilchrist and the rest of his team were missing the connection. He played it safe with, ‘I’d like to interview him right now. But first we need to find him.’
Jessie beeped her remote, and the Fiat’s lights flashed. ‘I’d better head back home,’ she said. ‘Robert’ll be wondering if he’s still got a mum.’ She opened her car door, and slipped inside.
By the time Gilchrist reached his BMW, Jessie had driven off. He slid in behind the wheel. Before firing the ignition, he called Cooper, only to be shunted into voicemail.
He left a message saying he was heading home, and if she wanted to call he would love to have a chat with her. ‘If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call before I hit the hay, if it’s not too late. Love you,’ he added, then killed the connection.
At the entrance gate, he tried to keep his face deadpan as he drove through flashing cameras. Something thudded the roof of his car, and he forced himself to take no notice, just drive on. The last thing Greaves needed was one of his SIOs involved in a needless fracas with local journalists. He turned on to Grange Road, depressed the accelerator and powered from the scene.
In Crail, he parked off Rose Wynd and locked his car for the night.
On the short walk to the Golf Hotel, he phoned Maureen. ‘Hi, princess,’ he said. ‘How’s your day been?’
‘Better than yours by the look of you on TV. You need a haircut.’
He chuckled. ‘Been a busy day,’ he said. ‘But I talked to Jack earlier, and we’re going to meet in the Doll’s House on Friday. Are you free?’
‘Let me check with my secretary and get back to you.’ A pause, then, ‘Of course I’m free, Dad. What do you think I get up to at the weekends?’
He sent another chuckle down the line, just to let her know he found her response amusing. ‘Thought you might be studying,’ he said.
‘Nope. All done. So, what’s the occasion?’
‘Friday. And the end of the week from hell.’
‘Do you mind if I bring a friend along?’
He almost stopped. He could not remember the last time Maureen had gone out with anyone. In the past few years, it seemed as if she had lost all ability to develop relationships with her peers, male or female. ‘Anyone I know?’ he tried.
‘Tom. He’s a friend. A student at the university. We met in the library.’
‘And does Tom have a second name?’
‘Sorry. Yeah. Tom Wright. He’s a local. Lives out by the Botanic Gardens. His dad’s a lecturer. English, in case you’re interested.’
Interested that Tom was a student? Or that his father was a lecturer? Again, he could never be sure, so he trod with care. ‘I’m thinking of booking a table for the three of us for six-thirty, so maybe we could—’
‘So you’re saying No, is what you’re—’
‘No, Mo, I was going to suggest we meet Tom after—’
‘What’s wrong with inviting Tom to join us? I’ll pay for him.’
Gilchrist eyed the length of High Street, and struggled to keep his tone level. ‘I’m not asking you to pay for Tom, Mo. You know that. I’m more than happy to invite him along. But I’ve something I need to tell you and Jack in person, and I’d prefer if it was just the three of us.’
The line hummed with silence, long enough for him to think she had hung up. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re going to get married, Dad. Not to that bitch.’
He caught his breath, stunned by the venom in her voice. ‘Why say that?’
‘She’s so not good for you, Dad. You just don’t see it.’
‘Who are we talking about?’
‘God, I hate it when you speak to me like that. Don’t treat me like a child—’
‘Then don’t act like one.’ He regretted his comment the instant it snapped from his mouth, and he held his breath, waiting for the click of a lost connection.
Instead, she said, ‘I just . . . it’s . . . I’m sorry, Dad, but it’s so unfair.’
He caught the hint of a tremor in her voice, felt his heart stutter with an aching pain at the knowledge of what she was saying. Eighteen months had passed since her mother’s death, but Mo was still hurting. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice, whenever Gail was mentioned, or her memory threatened. He wished he could fill the void her death had left, but he’d barely been around for his children, and he could not shift the irrational thought that this was payback from Gail; that he deserved parenthood not to be easy.
‘I’ll reserve a table for four,’ he said. ‘Bring Tom along.’
‘No, Dad, I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s okay, Mo. Tom means a lot to you.’ He listened to her silence, thought he caught a sniffle. ‘And you don’t have to worry. I’m not getting married.’
‘So why didn’t you just say that?’
‘You didn’t give me a chance. Remember?’ He waited for her response. But the line had already died.
He closed his mobile.
His relationship with Maureen had never been smooth. Even as a child, she seemed to be able to work her way around him with a petted lip, or tearful wail. Of his two children, Mo was the one most like Gail – which had its downsides, he had to confess. But on the upside, her spirited nature could be taken as a sign that she was at last on the mend.
With that thought he smiled, slipped his mobile into his pocket, and entered the hotel’s public bar.
CHAPTER 10
Although he’d missed lunch, Gilchrist hadn’t felt hungry until the warm smell of food and the noisy clatter of a busy bar had his taste buds watering. With only five minutes until the kitchen closed for the evening, he ordered a Belhaven and eyed the menu. He thought of having only a starter, then surprised himself by ordering the home-made steak pie, with baked beans instead of veg.
By habit, 9 p.m. was too late for him to eat, but by the time his food came up, he was already on his second pint, the beer slipping down a treat. The gravy tasted meaty and salty, and when the waitress removed his empty plate, he found himself ordering one more pint – last one for the road, he promised. He chose to drink standing at the bar, so he could better engage the staff in casual conversation.
‘What can you tell me about Sammie Bell?’ he asked the barman, a white-haired man who looked to be in his seventies, with the friendly face and talkative charm of a Scotsman always looking to earn a wee dram for a tip.
‘You need to do better than that, son.’
‘Six foot? Shaved head? Two diamond studs pierced in his right ear?’
‘You could be describing half the folks in Scotland nowadays, son. And don’t even think about throwing in a tattoo. Don’t know what they’re thinking of. It used to be anchors and love hearts on your arm, and if you kept your shirt sleeves rolled up, that was your lot.’
Gilchrist sipped his beer, then said, ‘He was in here last night and had a few beers. Fancies himself as a bit of a mathematician, working out equations and puzzles.’
The barman scratched the top of his head with his pinkie. ‘Anybody working out equations here, they’d be calculating the odds on the horses.’ He shook his head. ‘Try asking Danny. He might know.’
At the mention of his name, a young barman pulling an Eighty Shilling looked over at Gilchrist, ‘With you in a sec, pal,’ and levered the pint until it filled to the brim with a creamy body. Then he let the pint settle, rubbed his hands on his jeans, and came over to Gilchrist with an upward nod with his chin.
‘Bald head,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Pierced right ear, six foot tall, Samuel Bell?’
‘That’d be mad Sammie,’ Danny said. �
�Hasn’t been in here tonight. If you’re trying to reach him, you might ask these guys in the corner. They were with him the other night.’
Gilchrist glanced at a table by the window, its surface glistening as wet as a puddle. He caught the eye of one of three youths who looked like they were spilling more beer than they were drinking. Then back to Danny. ‘Last night?’ he asked.
‘No. Night afore, I think.’
‘Why mad Sammie?’
Danny shrugged. ‘Rhymes with bad?’
‘Trouble, is he?’
‘We don’t have trouble in this bar. We don’t stand for it.’
Gilchrist took another sip, duly chastised, then glanced at the corner table.
Three half-finished pints stood abandoned by empty seats.
He pushed his Belhaven away and strode from the bar.
Outside, a stream of cars eased along High Street, headlights sweeping deserted pavements. Ahead, the road ran out of town. To his right, Marketgate lay quiet. Back inside and heading to the Gents, down the stairs and through the door to a toilet with an opened window that drew in a cold breeze. No one there, and no way out. Back upstairs, a tight turn up and into the upper lounge, where the fire escape door at the far end stood open to a darkened car park. He reached the door, peered into the evening gloom, and fancied he heard the distant patter of feet running down Tolbooth Wynd – no chance of catching them.
He caught Danny at the bar again. ‘These three who just left. You know them?’
Danny shook his head. ‘They’re not regulars. Just seen them with mad Sammie a few times. That’s all.’
Gilchrist thanked him, finished his pint, then set off for the walk home.
Outside, he turned up his collar, wishing he’d brought his scarf. Summer solstice might be only two months away, but it was still cold enough to have teeth chattering. Although his cottage was no more than a few minutes’ walk from the Golf Hotel, he chose to take the long way home, so he walked along the front of the hotel, then down Tolbooth Wynd.
The beginning of the Wynd was bounded on either side by stone walls that threatened to hem him in, then opened up on the right to the hotel car park. Ahead, the road seemed to shift with dull shadows cast by the light from two lampposts. Dimmer light spilled from adjacent buildings. The Wynd lay clear all the way to its expansive junction with Nethergate.
Whatever running feet he might have heard were long gone.
He slipped out his mobile, phoned Cooper.
She picked up on the third ring with a throaty, ‘Hello.’
He thought she sounded tired. ‘I’m sorry, have I woken you up?’
‘No, I was dozing.’
‘I’m on my way home. Did you catch the news on TV?’
‘No.’
He tried to engage her by saying, ‘So how was your day?’
‘Bad.’
From her monosyllabic response and tone of voice he thought that Mr Cooper had perhaps returned to the marital home and was within earshot. ‘Would you like me to call back?’ he said. ‘Or tomorrow?’
‘I’ve just returned from the hospital, Andy.’
He slowed down. ‘What’s . . .?’
‘I was trying to move your damn barbecue, and I tripped.’
Ice chilled his blood. He stopped, pressed his mobile to his ear. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’ve had a miscarriage.’
He felt his breath leave him in a rush as he lifted his head to the sky, and watched the moon spin as he turned at the sound of running footsteps—
A blow to the side of his head sent him reeling.
He couldn’t hold on to his mobile as he hit the ground and heard it clatter as a foot to the stomach booted his breath from him. Another kick scuffed the side of his face – proper contact would have loosened teeth. On his knees, struggling to his feet, while three wraithlike shadows rounded the corner and disappeared into Nethergate.
If he’d been twenty years younger, he might have had a chance of catching them. But even if he did, three against one was not good odds, cop or not.
He coughed, cleared his throat, picked up his mobile.
But the connection was dead.
He tried dialling Cooper’s number again, but his mobile was shot. He cursed himself for taking the long road home, then gritted his teeth and settled into a steady jog.
He ran into Nethergate where it widened and branched into two separate roads.
The youths were nowhere to be seen. They could have run along either one of the branches, or more likely nipped down the side of an adjacent house to the beach. He jogged on, keeping to the centre of the road, senses alert for any shadows turning into men. But after fifty paces, all he heard was his own steady breathing and his blood pulsing in his ears.
Minutes later, he fumbled with his house key, and pushed his way inside.
In the kitchen, he lifted his phone from the handset and called Becky again, only to get the disconnected tone. He thought of trying her landline, but her imminent divorce from Mr Cooper had never been made clear to him, and he worried that Mr Cooper might pick up.
So he replaced the handset, resigned to calling her in the morning.
He slumped into a chair at the kitchen table.
The effects of the food and the beer were working up an exhaustion that swept over him like a wave. He was tempted just to lay his head on the table and let sleep take him. But he had a case to work on in the morning, and he forced himself to his feet. He slipped off his jacket and shoes, and managed to make it to his bedroom before falling on to the bed.
Sleep swamped him in seconds, the echo of Becky’s voice reverberating through his mind in a wordless cry for help. But he could not help. He was being held down by three men who laughed and punched and spat in his face then ran off. The more he struggled, the more leaden his body became, until all he could do was let himself be pulled beneath the warm waves, little fingers clawing at his clothes, a child’s voice whispering in his ears . . .
Help me . . . please . . . help me . . .
CHAPTER 11
Morning arrived to the sound of thunderclap.
Another clatter jerked Gilchrist awake.
He opened his eyes, wondered why his bedroom was so bright.
A noise like a tuneless racket thudded in the distance like some demonic echo. He pulled back the sheets, swung his feet to the floor, surprised to see he was fully clothed. He blinked at the window, confused by its brightness. Beyond, the sky shone a brilliant blue.
The thudding rattled again, coming from his hallway.
He groaned, pushed himself upright, and had to steady himself for a spinning moment with a hand slapped against the wall. He stumbled from the bedroom into the hallway, where the thudding became a sharper clatter, metal on metal, which rattled with all the consideration of a fire alarm.
He reached the door and pulled it open.
‘Bloody hell,’ Jessie said, ‘I was just about to call for the big key.’ She frowned as she eyed his crumpled shirt, ruffled hair, grazed face, then glanced past him as if expecting to see trouble at the end of the hallway. ‘You all right?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. Late night.’ He stood aside as she squeezed past him.
She entered the living room. ‘So this is chez Gilchrist.’
He closed the door, followed her inside.
He faced her, raked his hand through his hair. ‘What time’s it?’
‘Almost eight.’
When had he last slept past six? He worked spittle into his mouth, ran his tongue over dry lips, conscious of not having brushed his teeth, or washed his face; not to mention he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
‘You need to switch your mobile on. I can’t get through.’
‘It’s . . . ’ He shook his head, recalling falling to the ground, footsteps rushing past. He pressed his fingers to his cheek, felt the graze. ‘I dropped it last night,’ he said.
Jessie scanned the room. ‘Don’t you have a landline?’
‘Does it work?’
‘It should.’
‘Don’t you answer it?’
‘Only when I hear it.’
She faced him then, her eyes alert, serious. ‘I hate to tell you, but we’ve got work to do. I’ve been calling you for the past hour and a half. We’ve got a body.’
Gilchrist’s chest shuddered. They must have found Katie. ‘Was she—’
‘It’s a he. And he’s a mess.’
His mind spun, his waking brain struggling to push its sleeping counterpart to the side. ‘Who?’ was all he could think to ask.
‘Not formally ID’d yet, but I’m guessing Sammie Bell.’
It all came flooding back to him.
Baxter had not been able to find Bell. No reply at his house. Slipped surveillance. Had Bell been dead by that time? If so, why? And who had killed him? Was his death unrelated to Katie’s disappearance? Or not?
Too many questions sank a headache into the back of his eyes like a hot needle. ‘Kettle’s in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Mine’s a coffee. Strong. And give me ten minutes.’
The air hinted at the promise of a warm summer, although ‘warm summer’ could be an oxymoron in Scotland. Gilchrist walked down Rose Wynd, Jessie by his side. ‘We’ll walk,’ she had told him. ‘It’ll sort you out.’ He braved his face to the wind, relishing the brush of the sea breeze, the faint smell of kelp, the distant shriek of seagulls fighting over food. He’d brought a mug of coffee with him. It looked mud-brown, tasted bitter.
‘What did you put in this?’ he asked.
‘You said strong, so I made it strong.’
‘Did you empty the jar?’
‘I left a spoonful.’
‘Right.’ Another sip, and he started firing questions.
‘The body was found on the beach this morning,’ she said. ‘The call came in at 05:50. A Ms Jennie Crichton, out for her morning jog, said she almost tripped over it. She’s in a bit of a state. Can’t blame her.’
