by T F Muir
He read Jackie’s notes.
Alexander Rutherford is sole owner of a property management company based in Perth – A. J. Rutherford Properties Ltd – which he started after serving two years of a four-year sentence in HMP Shotts for aggravated assault. He was charged and imprisoned under his christened name, Alex Rumford, which he changed by deed poll prior to registering his company . . .
Well, well, well, Gilchrist thought. Out of nothing comes something.
First Rumford changes his name, then Novokoff.
He read on, flipping through the pages, until he found a list of properties managed by A. J. Rutherford Properties Ltd, as at the end of last year. He scanned the addresses, looking for one in particular, and caught his breath when he found it – Scott Street in Perth city centre; a four-storey sandstone tenement block, with shops rented out at street level, three storeys of residential flats above, every single unit managed by Rutherford’s company.
Gilchrist checked the address against that given to him by Baxter.
He read it again, checking flat number and floor level, just to be sure.
But he was not mistaken. The ex-con Sandy – Alex Rumford – Rutherford’s limited company managed the property rented to the three youths, one of whom had been found floating in Cellardyke harbour. Was that just coincidence?
But Gilchrist did not believe in coincidence.
He picked up his mobile and called Jessie.
CHAPTER 20
A stiffening wind, cold enough to have blown in from the wrong season, had Gilchrist puffing into his hands. He tugged up his collar and strode up Rose Wynd, the breeze at his back giving some respite from the cold. He entered Castle Street, beeped his remote fob, then stopped dead.
He eyed the length of the street, but the culprits were long gone.
He slipped his mobile from his pocket and called Jessie.
‘Two calls in fifteen minutes?’ she said. ‘What is it? My birthday?’
‘Your turn to drive.’
‘What, you’re over the limit all of a sudden?’
He walked towards his BMW, eyeing the damage. ‘Four flat tyres,’ he said, bending down to inspect the front nearside tyre. The sidewall grinned at him. ‘Looks like someone’s taken a knife to this one.’ He glanced at the rear tyre. ‘To all of them.’
‘You need to be parking these flashy cars of yours overnight in a garage.’
‘Easier said than done.’ He breathed in an iced wind. ‘How soon can you get here?’
‘I’ve not got my face on yet.’
‘I’ll wait for you.’ He killed the call, then walked the length of his car, examining the paintwork for any scratches, signs of damage. But, as far as he could see, they – whoever they were – had limited the damage to the tyres only.
Gilchrist had purchased his cottage on Rose Wynd after his divorce, moving from St Andrews to the fishing village of Crail. Over the years, he had modernised his home – central heating, double glazing, skylights, new kitchen – but its location in a cobbled street restricted to pedestrian traffic obliged him to park whichever car he owned in Castle Street. Every now and then he suffered the occasional act of vandalism – snapped windscreen wiper, fish supper spilled over bonnet, that sort of thing – but four tyres slashed beyond repair was a first.
He kneeled and, with his mobile phone, photographed the cut – a slice in the sidewall, about three to four inches long. It would take a sharp knife and a vicious blow to cut through a modern-day tyre. Each of the valves had been torn off by the culprit, presumably to deflate the tyres before slashing them, to avoid injury from an explosive release of air.
He checked the time – 06.23 – and pushed himself upright.
No shops were open that early. So, rather than return home, he walked down Castle Street towards the harbour, and chanced an early morning phone call.
Cooper answered on the fifth ring with a tired, ‘What time is it?’
‘Before seven.’
A pause, then, ‘You’ll have my report mid-morning.’
‘That’s not why I’m calling,’ he said. ‘I missed a number of late calls from you the other night, and I wanted to explain what—’
‘You don’t have to explain anything, Andy. It doesn’t really matter.’
He found himself trying to read into the tone of her voice, then said, ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’
She exhaled, not quite a full yawn, and he imagined her stretching in that cat-like way of hers, shovelling her hair over her shoulders, shampoo fresh, breathing it in as it brushed over his face—
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I’m getting up.’
For a moment, Gilchrist felt confused, thought he had misheard, then realised with a stab of hurt that she was talking to someone else. ‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’ he said, and listened to her rush of breath as she walked from the bedroom – or whatever room she . . . or they, were in – then closed a door with a hard clatter.
‘I have a friend staying over,’ she said. ‘It’s no one you know.’
Was that supposed to make him feel better?
He stepped into Shoregate, faced the wind, its chilled breath squeezing tears from his eyes. He’d never understood the power of jealousy, knew only that it could turn warriors into weaklings, sane men into lunatics. Reason and rationale could be unreachable dreams—
‘Don’t go quiet on me,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
‘There’s another body on its way to you,’ he replied. ‘A young man found floating in Cellardyke harbour in the early hours of the morning. We think he’s associated with Bell in some way. But we need cause of death soonest. We suspect drug overdose—’
‘We?’
‘Fife Constabulary.’
‘Ah,’ she said, dragging the word out. ‘That we.’
‘DS Baxter’s leading the investigation—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
Gilchrist stopped, stared the length of the wall-lined street. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Don’t tell me you’re in the bloody huff, Andy. I don’t need this. Not now.’
‘What do you need, then?’ He hated himself for snapping, but she was pressing his buttons.
‘Some space.’
Well, there he had it. He thought of acting the fool, asking just how much space she needed, but he feared her answer – lots of it, maybe even the other side of the planet. He let out his breath, tilted his head. Clouds blustered across an ice-blue sky. In the distance, gulls shrieked. From the direction of the harbour, he thought he heard the clanking of chains, the bustling and bumping of moored boats.
‘I need time by myself, Andy.’
He thought of pointing out that a friend staying over did not exactly meet the terms of ‘by myself’, but instead said, ‘Take all the time you need, Becky. I’m here if you need me.’
He waited for her to say something, but after several seconds of silence, he hung up.
He took a deep breath, held it in puffed cheeks, then let it out. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood there, in the middle of the street. He looked left, right, then turned around, like a slow-spinning top undecided whether to keep turning or give up and fall.
Then he lowered his head and set off for home.
He had gone only twenty yards when his mobile rang – ID Jessie.
‘On my way,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’ll be at home. Calling garages and insurance companies.’
‘Put on the kettle. Mine’s a coffee, with lots of milk.’
‘Door’ll be unlocked. I’ll be in the kitchen.’
He slipped his phone into his pocket, annoyed now at having called Cooper. I have a friend staying over. It’s no one you know. He cursed under his breath, and pressed on, his heart heavy with hurt. He saw Cooper differently now, as if with professional detachment. Cold, heartless, calculating were words that slithered into his mind. Untrustworthy another. Two-timing bitch brought an, ‘Ah, fuck it,’ to his li
ps, and sent him trudging up the road, eyes to the ground.
Jessie knocked on his door at 07.11 and let herself in.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said, when she walked into the kitchen. ‘Did somebody die?’
Gilchrist poured her a mug of coffee, topping it up with a good helping of milk. ‘Bit of a frustrating start to the day, you might say,’ he said, and handed it to her.
Jessie cupped the mug in her hands and took a sip. ‘Just what I needed.’ She nodded to his paperwork scattered over the table. ‘Trying to contact your insurance company?’
‘Trying being the operative word.’
‘Last time I phoned my insurance company before ten o’clock, it was a waste of time. I don’t think the wankers get out of their beds before midday. Talking of which, it’ll be midday by the time we drive to Perth in that Batmobile of mine. So, what have you got?’
Gilchrist explained his thoughts, then handed her Jackie’s printout, the address in Scott Street highlighted. ‘Coincidence?’ he asked.
She scanned the documents, her mouth forming an O for a whistle. ‘Does that old git own all of these?’
‘Manages most of them. The asterisked ones he owns – or, I should say, his limited company owns.’
‘Must be worth a few bob. And then some.’
Gilchrist’s mind pulled up an image of a gleaming Bentley parked on a weed-free driveway, and the glint of a Range Rover in the garage. For some reason, his mind held on to that image, as if it was having difficulty computing the cost of running two vehicles like that.
He shook the image free.
‘I’ve made some toast,’ he said, and removed two slices from the toaster. ‘Gone a bit cold and crispy, sorry. Want me to put in another couple?’
‘Nah. Butter’ll melt if they’re hot.’
‘In the fridge. Help yourself.’
‘You sure?’
‘When were you ever shy?’
Jessie opened the fridge and scowled at it. ‘What is it with men and fridges? It’s like they’re afraid to put anything in them.’ She removed a tub of butter and a jar of marmalade, then nudged the fridge door closed with a swing of her hips. ‘Fridges preserve food. You’re supposed to fill them up.’
He handed her a knife. ‘Bread board’s by the wall.’
‘Got it.’ She laid the board on the tiled surface. ‘So we drive to Perth today, and ask this Rutherford-Rumford punter if he knows this harbour floater whatsisname—’
‘Stevie Graham.’
‘Stevie. That’s it. And he either says he does or he doesn’t?’ She took a bite of toast. ‘This marmalade’s good. Home-made, is it?’
‘Granny McPherson’s.’
‘And?’
‘And she lives two doors down.’
‘And?’
He frowned at her for a moment, then said, ‘And I’ll ask her for an extra jar for you.’
‘Well done.’ She closed her eyes. ‘This is really good. Can you make it two jars?’
‘If you insist.’
‘I do,’ she said, and picked up the second slice of toast. ‘But what’s troubling me is that the media’s crawling all over us, and we’re no closer to finding Katie than we were on Monday morning. The CS is foaming at the mouth, not to mention the Chief. And we’re going to ask this Rutherford-Rumford punter what . . .? How much he’s getting for rent?’
‘Not quite,’ Gilchrist said, although Jessie’s words were hitting home. But he never could explain his gut instinct, that sixth sense of his that poked and prodded away in the depths of his mind, until all he was capable of doing was following it.
‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ he said. ‘So I’m thinking, why does Rutherford just happen to rent property to someone who’s turned up dead? And we now have one murder, one suspicious death, and one missing child.’
‘It’s a stretch.’
‘I didn’t say it wasn’t.’ He nodded to her toast. ‘You look as if you could eat another couple of slices.’
‘Skipped breakfast.’
‘Isn’t that what you’re having?’
She stopped mid-crunch, then gawked at him. ‘You called at oh-dark-hundred in a tizzy, so I held on to my knickers and dropped everything else, and drove like a nutter all the way to Crail, to find you sitting with your feet up. Better weather and you’d’ve been out the back on a sun lounger.’
‘Finished?’
‘Nearly.’ She took another bite that left not much more than the crust.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, and gathered Jackie’s report. ‘I need to drop off the car keys at the local garage.’
‘Four tyres, you say?’
‘All of them.’
‘At least you’re covered by insurance. If you ever get through to them. What? What’s that look for?’
‘You know how much the excess is?’
‘A lot less than four tyres.’
He grimaced as he followed her along the hallway, and stepped into a wind that felt as if it had picked up ice from the Arctic. As he pulled his front door shut, and turned the key, his gaze slid left and right, checking out the length of the Wynd.
Even though the street was deserted, he could not rid himself of the feeling that someone was watching.
CHAPTER 21
They arrived in Perth at 9.14 a.m., their journey delayed by a toilet stop for Jessie – Don’t know what it is about coffee. Goes straight through me. Should just pour it down the toilet and cut out the middle bit. Another stop for petrol, with Jessie’s credit card not being accepted – Remember when we used to use notes, or in your case pounds and shillings? It ended up with Gilchrist having to use his debit card, and cursing at the machine for being out of order, and not printing a receipt – Cheer up. I’ll buy you a pint later.
Jessie pulled her Fiat through the stone gateway, on to the paved driveway, and parked behind the Bentley, which looked as if it had not moved an inch since their last visit. Gilchrist stepped out, surprised to feel the air warmer, the wind died, and warmth spreading over his face from a sun that was already high in a cloudless sky.
He was about to ring the doorbell when a man’s voice said, ‘Can I help you?’
They turned together, like some choreographed act, and faced Sandy Rutherford.
The first thing that struck Gilchrist was how tanned Rutherford looked, stripped to the waist, denim shorts, and bare feet, as if he’d been sunbathing out the back. The second was his muscled physique and scowl on his face. He could have just interrupted two burglars and be working out how to go about tearing them apart, limb from limb. The third was how he would have to reassess first impressions, now seeing the strength in a body used to physical work, the words ‘ex-SAS’ springing to mind.
Gilchrist held out his warrant card. ‘We spoke on Monday.’
Sweat dotted Rutherford’s brow like raindrops. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’
Gilchrist was fascinated by Rutherford’s eyes, a cold white-blue that reflected the sky, and returned his gaze in a hard, unforgiving stare. As he walked towards him, he caught the telltale pink line of a scar high up on his chest, three inches or so above his left nipple, the pectoral muscle tightening and relaxing, as if shivering with anticipation.
Jessie said, ‘You never told us.’
Rutherford turned his laser-gaze on her. ‘Told you what?’
‘That you’d spent time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
‘Thought you were looking for our missing granddaughter,’ he said. ‘Didn’t think you needed to know anything about me.’
‘That was why we came,’ Gilchrist said. ‘To ask questions, and find out—’
‘Find out what?’ he snarled. ‘Stuff from the past? Anything you could lay your hands on and try to pin on me? I’ve seen how you lot work. I’ve been at the wrong end of the stick before with you lot. Fucking stitched me up last time, so I’ll be fucking sure you don’t stitch me up this time.’
Spittle frothed at the corner of his lips; when he blinked, G
ilchrist thought he understood the problem, or at least part of it. He’d been drinking. Not yet ten in the morning, and he was already flying high, maybe shooting for the sun.
‘We’re not here to talk about Katie,’ Gilchrist said, and puzzled at the sudden change in Rutherford, as if some lever had been pulled and the electricity rushing through his system in a raging current was powered down in an instant to a mere trickle.
Rutherford smiled, as if in relief. ‘I’m working out the back,’ he said. ‘Vera’s still in bed.’ Then he turned, leaving Gilchrist and Jessie to trail after him.
The back garden appeared to exaggerate the size of the residential structure. Its stone walls reared two storeys high to the side of them, with four small windows, and a large one, six foot high, as best Gilchrist could tell, with stained-glass panels, which from memory was at the half-landing. A threepenny-shaped conservatory nestled in the corner of the building, giving the impression of pinching it to the side and the rear.
In the corner, the grass was covered in wood chips. Gilchrist followed Rutherford across a lawn as smooth and level as a bowling green, and drew to a halt when he leaned down and retrieved an axe from the stump of a tree almost flush with the grass.
‘Been meaning to uproot this bloody thing for years,’ Rutherford said, and nodded to the lawn at his side. ‘Roots are still growing. Buggering up the lawn.’
Gilchrist eyed the grass, its surface perfect as best he could tell.
All of a sudden, Rutherford lifted the axe, swung it in one smooth movement up and over his head, like an extension to his arm, and thudded it into the middle of the stump. Then he rubbed his hands, his shoulders and biceps flexing. ‘So what did you want to ask me?’
Once again, Gilchrist was struck by the change in the man. The display with the axe was a show, he was sure of that, like some warning that, if they wanted to take him on, they’d better be ready for a fight.
‘Is it wise to be wielding an axe like that when you’ve had a few?’ Gilchrist said.
Rutherford wiped his lips, glanced at the conservatory, as if to make sure Vera was still asleep, or out of earshot. ‘It’s a good way to start the day, get the old engine going.’
