by T F Muir
‘You’ve seen it, the body?’
‘No rest for the wicked.’ She pressed on, as if determined to work up a sweat.
It was working. His breath rushed in his lungs, mouth dry, and he made a promise to get back into jogging now the worst of the winter was over. He went for another sip of coffee, but at that pace he was spilling more than he was drinking.
‘I have to tell you, Andy, when you didn’t answer your phone I was starting to think the worst. I mean Sammie Bell’s murdered right on your doorstep? So I drove over, started knocking on your door. No answer. So I’m thinking you must be at the scene. But no one had heard a squeak, so I came back to batter the door down if I had to.’
‘Glad you didn’t have to.’
‘It was a close call, let me tell you.’
‘How was Bell killed?’ he said, trying to shift the subject from his tardiness.
‘Brutally,’ she said. ‘Face is . . . ’she sucked in, ‘unrecognisable . . .’
‘Positive ID?’
‘Not yet. But I’m sure it’s him all right. This way,’ she said, and turned on to a grass-covered path that ran between the gable ends of two houses.
Gilchrist stopped.
Jessie had taken half a dozen steps before she turned to face him.
‘Is it down here?’ he said.
‘About a hundred yards along the beach. Why?’
He eyed the path, then the road behind him, one of the branches of Nethergate, the memory of three running youths flickering through his mind. ‘They could’ve run down here,’ he heard his voice say.
‘Who could’ve run down here?’
‘My mobile,’ he said. ‘I dropped it. Three youths jumped me, then ran away.’ He pointed, just to be sure of it himself. ‘This way.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Close to eleven, or thereabouts.’
‘We’re putting Bell’s murder at some time in the early hours. After two. Before five.’
Standing there, he took the opportunity to have another sip of coffee.
‘Could you give a description of the youths?’ she asked him.
‘Didn’t really clock any of them. But I know someone who might have.’ He nodded to her mobile. ‘Get the number for the Golf Hotel up the road,’ he said, then set off again.
Within twenty seconds, they were walking along the beach together.
‘Got it,’ she said, and handed Gilchrist her mobile. ‘It’s ringing.’
Surprisingly, the call was answered. He asked to speak to Danny, only to be told he wouldn’t be in until later in the morning. He killed the connection. ‘Give Danny a call at midday,’ he said, and stared off along the beach.
About forty yards in the distance, an area had been sealed off with crime-scene tape, fifteen feet or so back from the high-tide mark. An Incitent was already erected, and a group of SOCOs in white forensic coveralls huddled in conversation.
Several onlookers stood off to the side in silence.
Gilchrist felt a shudder of surprise when one of the coveralled group glanced his way – Cooper. She caught his eye, but he saw no happiness there, only a look of grim resignation. She said something, and the others glanced his way. Then she peeled her coveralls from her head, shook her mane of strawberry-blonde hair, more to loosen it than to rouse his attention.
He gave her a smile as he neared, but she ignored him and walked off in the direction of her Range Rover parked at the end of Nethergate South.
‘You two not speaking?’ Jessie said.
‘Something like that.’
He gritted his teeth and strode towards the Incitent, conscious of others watching as he neared. He recognised the tall figure of the lead SOCO, Colin, who nodded a silent good morning to him, and said, ‘Coveralls are over there.’
Gilchrist placed his coffee mug on the sand, and pulled on the coveralls. ‘Thoughts on the body?’ he asked, and glanced at Cooper over Colin’s shoulder. She had stripped off her coveralls and had the door of her Range Rover open, about to drive away.
‘Death by blunt trauma to the head.’ Colin raised an eyebrow, shook his head.
‘Any other injuries?’ Gilchrist asked, tucking his hair in.
Colin scrubbed the back of his hand across his designer stubble. ‘That’s it.’
‘Weapon?’
‘Hammer. Lying beside the body.’
‘Right. Let’s have a look.’
‘It’s all yours.’
Gilchrist pulled back the tent flap, and stepped inside to a jaundiced silence. His first thoughts were of camping in the woods as a pre-teen with his brother, Jack. His second, that never before had he seen anyone beaten up so badly.
The body lay on its back, completely naked, spread-eagled as if its hands and feet had been pinned to the rocks. Ink-dipped arms. Red dragon and iridescent python wound around and up its legs, locked in perpetuity, as if caught in the act of trying to bite a penis that looked significantly deflated since he’d last seen it. The mess before him was Bell. If not for the tattoos, he would not have been able to identify him.
No one could.
He pressed a hand to his nose, all of a sudden caught by the smell of death, the hard metallic aftertaste of blood mixed with a guff of raw meat and . . . something else . . . battered brains. He fought back the overpowering urge to vomit, to step from the tent and breathe in clean sea air, and forced himself to study the scene of the crime.
He leaned closer, looking for injuries on Bell’s legs, body, arms, but finding none. Even allowing for the layering of tattoo ink, Bell didn’t appear to be bruised anywhere else. But where his head should have been, a splattered mass of blood and brains and a sprinkling of shattered teeth for rock salt lay like some Italian pie ready for the oven.
Again, he managed to choke back the bile, force himself to study the crime scene with dispassion, his eyes settling on a claw hammer lying no more than six inches from Bell’s left hand. Nothing particularly interesting about the hammer, an all-in-one metal head and handle that you could buy from any B&Q, its black grip reddened with Bell’s blood. Next to Bell’s shoulder lay a bloodied shirt, the material thickened by being folded over, but ripped and torn and matted with gore, and Gilchrist came to understand that the shirt had been placed over Bell’s face to minimise blood spatter from the hammering.
He eyed the rocks and sand by Bell’s head. Bits of flesh and some indescribable grey stuff had been spattered there from the blows, despite the shirt. He tried to imagine the rage that must have been exhibited for someone to kill in such a fashion, but the feat was beyond him. Rather, it was easier to picture someone hammering Bell’s head with complete and utter lack of compassion, happily counting out the blows – thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three – like Maxwell’s silver hammer.
How many hammer hits would it take to batter a head like that?
Or, more to the point, he found himself asking, why would anyone have gone to the bother? With a hammerhead of approximately one square inch, how many blows would it take to flatten and crush every bone in the face? And he came to see that the act of facial obliteration must have been done for a reason.
Was the dead man not Bell, but someone else with the same tattoos? And, if so, had he worn the same studded earrings? Gilchrist got on to his knees, peered closer, resisting the urge to finger the mess in search of the two diamond studs. Would the killer have removed them before the killing? If not, they must be here. He eyed the mess, his subconscious working in the background, reminding him of Bell’s hairy toes and nails in need of a cut.
He glanced at the body’s toes, felt a flush of disappointment surge through him.
No doubt about it. This was Sammie Bell.
Gilchrist pushed to his feet. He’d seen enough. He stepped from the tent, avoiding eye contact with Colin, and stumbled down the beach to the water’s edge.
A couple of deep lungfuls of sea air helped rid his tongue of the sensual aftertaste of gore, and a long look at the horizon dimi
nished the mental image. He tried to clear his mind of its brutal recollections by forcing himself to think of everyday things – his cottage, his family, Maureen, Jack – but found his thoughts irritatingly being pulled back to Cooper.
A glance at the houses confirmed she had driven away.
He would call her if he’d had a mobile. Or should he wait for her to call him? But he suspected he would have to wait a long time before she would do that. He’d always regarded Cooper’s coldness as self-protection from the brutalities of her job as a forensic pathologist, and from the often heartless comments of her misogynist husband, or soon to be ex-husband, Max. It had never struck Gilchrist until that moment that perhaps the only reason Cooper put up with him as a lover was because she had fallen pregnant with his child.
They say love is blind. Had he been blind to the fact that he was not the type of man she would ever consider marrying; that their relationship could never evolve beyond the most basic of attractions, sex? Had he been blind to the reality that her coldness was not to protect her from the needs of her profession, but was simply a reflection of her true feelings for him?
The echo of Maureen’s voice hit him with renewed force.
Please don’t tell me you’re going to get married, Dad. Not to that bitch.
Had he failed to see that? Had he been truly blinded by love?
As he stripped off his coveralls, and stared out across the North Sea, the memory of Cooper’s parting glance, the ease with which she’d avoided him, stung like a fresh wound. They would talk sometime soon. They would have to as a matter of professional necessity. As a registered sex offender, Bell’s DNA would be in the system, so identification should be a simple matter. But it was not the question of Bell’s ID that was now worming to the front of his thoughts; instead it was the method of Bell’s murder, the fact that the hammer had been left next to the body, along with the bloodied shirt.
Why leave a critical piece of evidence for the police to follow?
He walked back up the beach, and found himself heading towards Jessie as his logic closed in on its conclusion. The hammer had not been left as a clue to assist in their tracking the killer. Not at all. It had been left as a signature mark.
He approached Jessie.
She frowned at him, and said, ‘You look worried.’
‘Phone Jackie and get her to search the PNC for anyone who’s been murdered with a similar MO.’
Jessie gave a silent whistle. ‘So what’re you thinking?’
‘That there could be some other reason for Bell to return to Crail.’
‘Nothing to do with his mother passing?’
‘Her passing was convenient, I’d have to agree. It gave him some place to stay. But I’m thinking that maybe Bell left London not by choice.’
Jessie turned her head to look at the Incitent. ‘And they’ve followed him?’
‘Could have,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We won’t know until we hear back from Jackie.’
‘I haven’t spoken to her yet.’
‘Exactly,’ he said, and strode off.
CHAPTER 12
Gilchrist caught Colin’s eye, and nodded with his chin – they needed to talk.
‘Have you recovered any jewellery from the body?’ Gilchrist asked him.
Colin grimaced, as if trying to work out the trick in the question. ‘He wasn’t wearing any clothes, so what you see is what you get. Not even a watch.’
‘DS Janes and I spoke with Bell yesterday.’ Gilchrist tapped his right ear. ‘He had a pair of diamond studs in one ear.’
Colin’s gaze drifted to the Incitent.
‘Did you find any?’
‘Not yet, sir. But we’ll definitely have a closer look. Diamonds, you say?’
‘Looked like diamonds.’
‘If they were worth anything, maybe his killer took them.’
‘Or maybe not.’
‘But if they were cut glass, they could’ve been smashed to fuck, excuse the French,’ he added, as Jessie joined them.
‘Let me know what you find.’ Gilchrist waited until Colin entered the Incitent, then held out his hand to Jessie. ‘In the absence of my mobile, can I borrow yours?’
She handed it to him. ‘Jackie’s on it.’
‘Good,’ he said, then called Glenrothes HQ and arranged for CCTV footage of High Street, Marketgate, Nethergate, and Crail in general, for evidence of three men suspected of being involved in, or having knowledge of, the murder of Samuel Bell. Their connection to Bell’s murder was a bit of a stretch, he knew, but with a body on the beach, a request worded like that would be treated with urgency. He next assigned DS Baxter to liaise with the Anstruther Office and initiate the investigation into Bell’s murder.
He thought of calling Cooper for confirmation of Bell’s ID, but the memory of her lack of interest, and her apparent need to avoid him that morning, shut down all enthusiasm to hear her voice. He handed Jessie her phone. ‘Call Cooper and tell her to speed up the ID. Bell’s a registered sex offender, so it shouldn’t take her long.’
‘Tell or ask?’
He jerked a look at her. ‘Ask.’
Jessie stepped to the side and stared out to sea, mobile already at her ear.
Gilchrist stuffed his hands into his pockets, feeling naked without a mobile. He could buy a new one, but just the thought of trying to figure out what make, model, whether to buy as you go, or pay monthly, had him thinking he should revert to using an airwave set. But that would be like stepping back in time. He watched Jessie out of earshot, and imagined Cooper talking in that cold tone of hers.
Then Jessie killed the call and walked over to him. ‘Her Highness will do what she can,’ she said.
He ignored her gibe. ‘Where’d you park your car?’
‘Outside the Co-op. I would’ve driven you here, but you looked like you needed to freshen up.’
‘How do I look now?’
‘Pissed off.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
On the walk back, Gilchrist asked for her mobile again.
‘You sure yours is buggered?’
‘Positive.’ He called the Mobile Incident Room at Grange Mansion and got through to Mhairi. ‘Any updates?’
‘Nothing major, sir. Except . . . ’ A pause, then, ‘Has no one been in touch with you this morning?’
‘Only Jessie,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Liam from the Computer Crime Unit left a message, sir. His team’s been working on Bell’s laptop—’
‘Hang on,’ he said, and turned to Jessie. ‘How do I put this on speaker?’
She took it from him, pressed a button, then handed it back.
‘Carry on,’ Gilchrist said, holding the mobile out.
‘Liam says he’s located hidden files on Bell’s laptop, full of images you can download from just about anywhere nowadays, but none ever show any faces. So, we’re going to be hard-pressed to ID that wee girl, or any of the others, sir.’
Gilchrist let his breath out. He’d been hoping for more, but in reality he’d got what he’d expected.
‘And Liam thinks that the list of names and numbers they also found are people Bell was supplying drugs to.’
‘Any way they’re related to Katie’s disappearance?’
‘No, sir. He says he hasn’t found any connection to that at all.’
‘And this list of names? Anyone we know?’
‘I couldn’t tell you, sir. Liam left a message asking you to give him a call.’
Now they were getting somewhere. The list could double as a lead to someone who might know of Bell’s past in London, maybe indirectly lead them to his killer. It might even include the name of the killer himself. Gilchrist felt a surge of excitement. This could break the investigation into Bell’s murder wide open.
But he needed to prioritise and maintain focus on the missing child.
‘If the list has nothing to do with Katie’s abduction,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have DS Baxter talk to L
iam first. In the meantime, I want you to locate Dougal Davis. Jessie and I need to talk to him. We’ll be with you in about half an hour for a briefing on Katie’s case, and you can tell me then.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Gilchrist handed Jessie’s mobile back to her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry. Want a slice of toast?’
‘Already eaten.’
‘Half a slice?’
‘Any strawberry jam?’
‘No.’
‘Good,’ she said, and strode along Nethergate in a hard-paced walk that had Gilchrist struggling to keep up without breaking into a jog.
‘In training?’ he said to her.
‘Promised Robert I’d lose a stone.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
By the time they reached his cottage, Gilchrist’s heart was racing.
‘Bloody hell,’ Jessie gasped. ‘I’m getting fitter, but boy, it’s tough.’
He opened the door, and let Jessie enter first.
‘Never been in your house before,’ she said, ‘and now I’m making a nuisance of myself.’ Without invitation, she entered the kitchen. ‘Where’s that mobile of yours?’
Gilchrist picked it up from the coffee table and handed it to her.
‘The screen’s cracked,’ she said, ‘and the back’s loose. You tried fixing it?’
‘I can do home DIY. But when it comes to mobile phones, forget it.’
But Jessie had the back off, and was too busy fiddling with it to comment.
He slipped two slices of bread into the toaster and removed a pack of cold cut meat from the fridge. For some reason, he felt livened. Maybe it was the hard walk from the beach, or the fresh sea breeze, but whatever it was, it had done him the world of good. His landline rang, and he reached over and lifted the handset.
‘Hello?’
‘The SIM card was disconnected,’ Jessie said to him.
Gilchrist replaced the phone and gave her a tight smile.
She handed him his mobile. ‘Do I get a gold star?’
‘Two,’ he said, ‘and half a slice of toast.’
She shook her head, walked to the back lounge. ‘Mind if I have a gander?’
‘Be my guest,’ he said, as she peered through the rear window.
