Blood Torment

by T F Muir

  Jessie said, ‘So now we’ve got the testosterone issues resolved, maybe you can tell us why you think you were stitched up. You got four years for aggravated assault.’

  Rutherford’s eyes seemed to shrink as he stared at Jessie. Then he clenched both fists and held them up. ‘I’ve never hit anyone with anything other than these,’ he said to her. ‘But some smart-arsed high-flier of a fucking solicitor picked up that I used to box as a junior. A junior, for fuck’s sake. I was only twelve when I stopped boxing.’ Rutherford shook his fists and his face reddened. ‘So he turned these into weapons.’

  ‘So who did you hit?’ Gilchrist said, just to shift the anger away from Jessie.

  ‘A bouncer.’

  ‘Causing trouble were you?’ Jessie again.

  ‘He tried to take my watch off me.’

  ‘The bouncer?’ She seemed surprised.

  ‘It’s what they did back then. A scam. Throw you out and tear your watch off your wrist in the process. When you complain, they say it must have fallen off in the scuffle. I was having none of it. So I let him have it.’

  ‘You hit him?’

  ‘Aye. With these.’ Rutherford sniffed, lowered his fists, pressed the flat of his hands to his thighs. ‘But he’d got contacts. Turned out his old man was a cop. Next thing, I’ve got witnesses popping up all over the place, and before you can say Desperate Dan, I’m locked up and serving four years.’

  ‘Is that why you changed your name?’

  ‘I’d heard he was going to come after me when I got out, the guy I hit. I wanted nothing to do with it, so I changed my name and moved out of Glasgow. Came to Perth. That’s when I met Vera.’ He stared at the grass at Gilchrist’s feet, and when he raised his eyes, the meek and mild-mannered Sandy Rutherford of yesterday stood before them. ‘It all happened years ago. Vera knows all about my past. She forgave me.’

  ‘What about Sammie Bell?’ Jessie asked.

  Rutherford shook his head, but Gilchrist thought his eyes gave it away. ‘Don’t think I know him,’ he said. ‘But these days my memory’s not what it used to be.’

  ‘Samuel Johnson Bell?’ Gilchrist emphasised, just in case he was confused.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stevie Graham?’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘Pete Sweeney? Mac Binnie?’ Gilchrist tried.

  Rutherford frowned. ‘Look, what is this?’

  ‘Is that a No?’ Jessie said.

  ‘It’s a No. I’ve never heard of any of them.’

  ‘How about the flat in Scott Street?’

  Something seemed to dawn on Rutherford then, and he smiled. ‘They must rent from my company. Is that it?’

  Silent, Gilchrist returned his gaze, pleased that Jessie was doing likewise. Sometimes the way to get answers was not to ask questions. And Rutherford obliged.

  ‘You’d need to talk to Shari about that,’ he said. ‘She runs the Perth office. I’ve been semi-retired from the business now for a year or more.’

  ‘We will.’ Gilchrist held out his hand. ‘Thanks for your assistance.’

  Rutherford’s grip crushed it, as if to remind Gilchrist never to mess with him.

  Jessie turned and walked away.

  Gilchrist watched her go, and said, ‘That Range Rover of yours.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Ever take it off-road?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘When was the last time you did that? Take it off-road.’

  Rutherford screwed his face, giving some thought to the question, and Gilchrist knew that the next words out of his mouth would be a lie. ‘Couple of weeks ago, maybe. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Short-term memory gone?’

  ‘That’s what goes first, so they say.’ Rutherford placed a friendly hand on Gilchrist’s shoulder, and started walking towards the front of the house and the driveway where the Fiat sat behind the Bentley.

  ‘You keep the place spotless,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Vera’s a tough taskmaster.’

  ‘I’ll bet she is,’ he said, and gave a short chuckle. ‘The cars are immaculate, too. All done by hand. Not run through the car wash, like I do. You clean them yourself?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  They stepped on to the driveway, and Rutherford’s hand slipped from Gilchrist’s shoulder. Gilchrist lifted his chin to the Bentley. ‘All polished,’ he said. ‘She’s a beauty. Spick and span. Does Vera insist you clean them once a week?’

  ‘At least.’

  Jessie opened her Fiat’s door, and Rutherford took a step back, as if to give her room to reverse.

  ‘You mind if I have a look at the Range Rover?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Why?’ Rutherford said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of trading in the BMW,’ Gilchrist said, and caught Rutherford glancing at the Fiat. ‘It’s in the garage this morning. Four tyres slashed. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

  Rutherford bristled. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘I thought not.’ They stood facing each other, as if waiting to see who would blink first. Then Gilchrist nodded to the garage. ‘Do you mind?’

  Rutherford came to with a jolt. ‘Of course not. It’s unlocked. Help yourself.’

  Gilchrist walked towards the garage, conscious of Rutherford’s eyes on him, Jessie’s too. He leaned down, gripped the handle and twisted. He pulled the door towards him, and it lifted up and over to slide under the ceiling on well-oiled wheels.

  The Range Rover was top of the range and, as Gilchrist suspected, polished to within an inch of its life. To keep up the pretence, he entered the garage, rubbing his hands over the paintwork, finding himself automatically searching for dings and scratches, but finding none. He opened the driver’s door to an immaculate interior, rich with the heady fragrance of new leather. The door closed with a solid click. Round the front to eye the extra fog lamps, then along the passenger side, with a quick dip to run a hand under the wheel arch.

  Not a speck of dirt.

  He eyed the DIY tools that stood on the concrete floor and lined the garage wall. The power-washer sat with its pressure hoses tidily wrapped around it, between a petrol-driven lawnmower – for perfect stripes on the lawn – and some scarifying contraption.

  Then he was outside again, into the fresh air.

  The garage door slid back down with barely a squeak, and a quick twist of the handle secured it. He walked up to Rutherford, watched suspicion flicker over the man’s face. Even though he was a good two inches shorter than Gilchrist’s six-foot-one, they stared at each other eye to eye.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago?’ Gilchrist said.

  Rutherford’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded in puzzlement. ‘About that, aye.’

  ‘You couldn’t be mistaken, could you?’

  Rutherford’s eyes creased with amusement. ‘I could be. But as I said, short-term memory’s shot these days.’

  Gilchrist returned Rutherford’s hard look with one of his own, but it was a bit like trying to light a fire with willpower. The man neither moved nor blinked; just stood there, steady as a rock, jaw set, lips tight. The stalemate lasted all of five seconds, but could have been five minutes, in which Gilchrist had seen into the man’s soul, a heartless pit from which compassion could never surface.

  ‘We spoke with Rachel Novo,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Not interested.’

  ‘You? Or Vera?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Andrea called her yesterday morning.’

  ‘As sisters do.’

  ‘But Andrea lied about it.’

  ‘As women do.’

  ‘Do you not find that strange?’ Gilchrist said. ‘That she spends twenty minutes on the phone with her sister, before calling 999?’

  ‘We all act differently when panic sets in.’

  ‘What do you think they were talking about?’

  ‘I thought you spoke to Rachel.’

  ‘She lies, too.’

 
Rutherford’s eyes creased in amusement. ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  Some movement caught the periphery of Gilchrist’s view, and he shifted his gaze over Rutherford’s shoulder, caught a glimpse through the lounge window of Vera before she slid from sight into the dark interior. ‘Quite the dysfunctional family you have here.’

  Rutherford grinned. ‘There’s nought wrong with this side of the family, Mr Gilchrist. Nought at all. But if you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking in the wrong place. Vera’s well rid of that bastard, Dougal. That’s where you should be looking.’ He eyed the grounds around him – trimmed hedges, manicured lawns, weed-free driveway. ‘We’ve worked hard to turn this into a home,’ he said. ‘And it’s taken years for Vera to get over her nightmare with that bastard.’ He fixed Gilchrist with an ice-cold stare that burned straight through him. ‘So I don’t take kindly to you lot coming into our lives again.’

  Gilchrist resisted the urge to swallow a lump in his throat, and said, ‘There was mud on your Range Rover’s wheels on Monday, and there’s no mud on them today.’

  ‘As you said, I keep the place spotless.’

  ‘You last drove it off-road a couple of weeks ago. Your words.’

  ‘Must have driven through a muddy patch in Perth since then,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe the state of the roads here.’

  Gilchrist shuffled a step closer so that his face was only inches from Rutherford’s. The ripe smell of alcohol and manly sweat swamped his senses. ‘You’re not telling me everything,’ he said. ‘But I’ll find out what it is. I always do.’

  Rutherford jerked his head to the side, hawked up a gob of sputum that stained his spotless driveway. Then he levelled his eyes at Gilchrist. ‘When you do, let me know.’

  Gilchrist nodded, then stepped around Rutherford and slid into the Fiat.

  His parting image of Rutherford was of him standing there, staring at him in that cold-eyed way of his, as Jessie worked a three-point turn and exited through the stone-walled entrance.

  CHAPTER 22

  A short visit to Shari of Rutherford’s property management company turned up nothing of note. The three youths had rented a two-bedroom flat in Scott Street for only six months, but moved out two weeks ago.

  ‘The place had to be redecorated,’ Shari assured them. ‘They lost their deposit. But it didn’t even touch the subbies’ costs.’

  ‘Did they leave any evidence of drugs – needles, empty packages?’ Gilchrist asked her. ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘Does shit in the bath count?’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Jessie said.

  Shari screwed up her face. ‘It’s disgusting what some tenants get up to.’

  On the return journey, neither of them spoke until Jessie was driving across South Street bridge. ‘What was all that with Rutherford?’ she asked. ‘High noon in Perth?’

  Gilchrist stared off over the slow-moving waters of the River Tay, the surface smooth enough to glimmer blue in a mirror to the clouds. ‘Not sure what to make of him,’ he said.

  Jessie snorted. ‘The other day he was wearing an old man’s cardigan, a pipe-and-slippers job. And today he’s an ageing Rambo. What age is he, anyway?’

  ‘Sixty-eight.’

  ‘Whatever diet he’s on, I want it.’ She turned right on to Dundee Road, then let out a short laugh. ‘Just imagining the two of them in bed,’ she said. ‘Compared to Rambo, Vera’s got to be like a granny.’

  ‘I didn’t think she looked too bad.’

  ‘If you cover up the chicken wattle for a neck and put a paper bag over your head. But it makes you wonder what he sees in her.’

  ‘Money?’

  Jessie wobbled her head. ‘Maybe that’s how he got started in his property business. Gets out of prison, moves to Perth, meets Vera. She’s got some money, maybe owns another property, I don’t know. Invests in his company, and he takes it from there. That house must be worth a tidy sum.’ She indicated to overtake, then changed her mind and slipped back in behind an articulated lorry. ‘My hairdryer’s got more power than this thing,’ she grumbled.

  ‘We’re not in any hurry.’

  ‘Coming from Coulthard the Second, that’s saying something.’

  Gilchrist breathed a silent sigh of relief as Jessie let the gap widen between her Fiat and the lorry ahead.

  ‘And why would he move to Perth in the first place?’ Jessie said. ‘He looked like he could take care of himself. Do you believe that story about the fists?’

  ‘If he’d been set up like he said he had, then it was a good move leaving Glasgow. He would only have found himself set up again, and probably after a good beating.’ He glanced at her, gave a quick smile. ‘But I’ll have Jackie check it out.’

  Jessie kept her eyes on the road. ‘But none of this answers why Andrea called Novo that morning? Why not call 999 first? Why speak to her before reporting Katie missing? Her house had been broken into. For all she knew, her own life could have been in danger.’

  Gilchrist ran the logic through his mind. Any mother would have been distraught at the discovery of her child being kidnapped. Yet Andrea Davis had wasted arguably the most important minutes in any investigation, by delaying the 999 call—

  ‘And where is Dougal Davis in all of this?’ Jessie asked. ‘According to Novo, he abused her before she was in her teens, but denies he ever tried anything on with Andrea. You ever wonder why?’

  ‘They’re lying, I’d say. Hiding something. But if Andrea was molested as a child, it could explain why she’s so . . . ’ He nearly said fucked up, but instead chose, ‘confused’.

  ‘Do you think Dougal Davis is at the root of it all? Even Rutherford said we should be looking at him. Or maybe we should arrest Andrea, and take her to the Station and keep her there until she decides to cough up the truth.’

  Gilchrist said nothing. The thought that McVicar was keeping a close eye on the case stifled all thoughts of arresting Andrea. He could try talking to her at home again, but where would that get him? Thrown out a third time? Maybe Jessie was correct. Maybe Dougal was the better bet. But the memory of Simon Copestake in Davis’s office in Edinburgh dampened his enthusiasm. Or had this morning’s face-to-face with Rutherford put him off the idea of further confrontation?

  He spent the remainder of the return journey to St Andrews on his mobile catching up with other members of his team, fighting off that sickening feeling that Katie’s abduction was becoming more permanent with every passing minute, that his investigation was going nowhere, on the verge of stalling.

  Back in his North Street Office, he found a message on his desk from CS Greaves – CALL. Not that Greaves meant Gilchrist to phone him, he thought he understood that much. No, the note was an instruction for Gilchrist to talk to Greaves in person.

  So he set Greaves’s note aside and checked his emails.

  One from Jackie grabbed his interest, which stated that a DCI Brent Travis from the Greater Manchester Police had been the SIO in the investigation of a triple murder two years earlier, with a similar MO to that of Sammie Bell’s. He opened the attachments – excerpt clippings from local newspapers, and a reference number on the PNC – which confirmed that no charges had ever been brought, and that the case was in effect still open.

  He dialled the number hand-printed by Jackie, and his call was picked up on the first ring with, ‘DCI Travis. Make it quick.’

  Although the voice came across as commanding, cross-me-at-your-peril, Gilchrist had the strangest feeling that Travis was trying to project himself as someone more experienced and case-worn than he really was. Gilchrist formally introduced himself and said, ‘We’re investigating a murder that took place yesterday, which you might be able to help us with.’

  ‘Hit me.’

  ‘A local paedo, Sammie Bell, had his face hammered beyond all recognition.’

  ‘One-piece metal hammer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Left close by?’

  ‘Yes.’

&nbs
p; ‘No other weapon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nude?’

  Gilchrist stumbled at that question, then said: ‘It looks like they used his shirt to smother the blood-spatter–’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Figure of speech.’ Gilchrist held on, expecting another snap question, but when the line remained silent, he said, ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘Plenty. But I can’t speak at the moment. Send me what you’ve got. Photos. Reports. Anything and everything. I’ll have someone get back to you within twenty-four hours.’

  The line died, leaving Gilchrist to replace his handset. He responded to Jackie’s email, instructing her to send crime-scene photos to Travis, then dialled Greaves’s extension.

  ‘You asked me to call, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Andy. Where are you?’

  ‘At my desk.’

  Greaves tutted, then growled, ‘Come to my bloody office right now.’

  Gilchrist replaced the phone, accessed his computer, and checked flight and train times to London. He then phoned Lloyd’s and asked for Rachel Novo’s office.

  When the call was answered, he said, ‘Is Ms Novo in any meetings today?’

  ‘Can I tell her who’s calling?’

  ‘No need to disturb her,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me if she’s free this afternoon, or tied up in meetings? I may have to call later and ask her a few questions.’

  ‘Perhaps someone else could help?’

  ‘Just tell Ms Novo that Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist of Fife Constabulary may try to contact her later today.’

  His formal approach worked, for she said, ‘Yes, sir, let me check her diary.’ Some clicking in the background told him she was checking her computer – whatever happened to handwritten diaries? ‘She has a staff meeting at two p.m., sir, which are usually done within an hour; so if you phone, say, between three and six, I would expect her to be available.’

  Gilchrist thanked her and hung up, then left his office.

  He knocked on Greaves’s door and eased it open.

  Greaves eyed him from behind his desk. ‘What is it about right now that you never seem to understand, Andy?’

  ‘Toilet call takes precedence, sir.’