by T F Muir
Greaves let out a heavy sigh. ‘Come in, for goodness’ sake.’
Gilchrist closed the door. He had always thought Greaves would have been a terrific headmaster – not terrific in the sense of greatness, rather in the sense of terrifying. His tight eyes, fearsome growl, and a mouth that turned down at the corners in a perpetual scowl would have been frightening to any child.
Greaves pressed both hands flat on the table. ‘I’ve heard from the Chief Constable,’ he said. ‘He’s had a verbal complaint from Hughes Copestake Solicitors on behalf of Dougal Davis. Does that surprise you?’
Gilchrist thought silence his best option.
‘No, I thought not,’ Greaves said. ‘A written complaint is expected shortly about the disrespectful manner in which you allegedly conducted an impromptu visit to his offices in Edinburgh yesterday.’ He lowered his head, glared at Gilchrist. ‘Are you going to deny it?’
‘That I was there? Or that it was impromptu? Or that I was disrespectful?’
Greaves exhaled in silence. ‘What is it about authority that riles you, Andy?’
‘I didn’t know it did.’
‘Apparently you also spoke to Dougal Davis’s other daughter, a Ms Rachel Novo, by phone.’ Greaves’s eyes shrank.
Gilchrist tried to hide his surprise, but didn’t think he pulled it off. Had Novo been in contact with her father? From what little he knew of her, he thought there would be more chance of the Pope changing religion than Novo doing that. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s involved.’
Greaves pushed back in his chair and stared in disbelief. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’
‘I said that Dougal Davis’s other daughter, Ms Rachel Novo, is involved somehow in Katie’s abduction.’ And as he said the names out loud, another thought flickered alive . . .
Katie instead of Katarina. Novo shortened from Novokoff.
Russian father? Russian name for his daughter?
Had Dimitri and Andrea had an affair?
Now that might be good enough cause for Novo to divorce—
‘Somehow?’ Greaves spluttered. ‘Is that it? She’s somehow involved?’ He gripped the edge of his desk as if toying with the idea of throwing it across the room. ‘Please tell me you have more evidence than just another one of your hunches.’
Gilchrist cocked his head. ‘I might like to interview Dougal Davis again,’ he said. ‘He needs to be careful in his answers.’
Greaves stilled, as if the air around him had locked him in place and time. Then the frame rebooted, and he said, ‘I don’t think you’ve been listening, Andy. Dougal Davis is off limits. How much clearer can I make it? His first wife went to school with the Chief, who has already expressed his deepest concern to me that your investigation is dying. Foaming at the mouth, might be an appropriate description of how the Chief is feeling at the moment. So if anyone needs to be careful in his answers, Andy, I would point the finger at you.’ His lips tightened to a white scar. ‘Do you understand?’
‘I do, sir. But I don’t agree.’
Gilchrist thought it sad the way Greaves’s face shifted from determination, through puzzlement, then on to anger. They’d once had a strong professional relationship, which had soured to the point of enmity after Greaves came to realise that Chief Superintendent was as far up the police tree as he was ever going to make it. His application to fill McVicar’s ACC shoes after his recent promotion to Chief Constable never made it off the launch pad, or so the rumours went.
‘If I could explain, sir.’
‘Yes. Please do.’ Greaves sat back, fingertips pressed together, held to his lips.
‘Rachel Novo has confessed to having been molested by her father at a young age—’
‘About which she’s done nothing.’
Greaves’s snap response told Gilchrist that Greaves must have known about Dougal Davis’s sexual advances on his daughter. But more troubling was the inference that he’d been told by none other than Chief Constable McVicar. Rather than tackle Greaves on his source, Gilchrist said, ‘We’re looking into the likelihood that Andrea Davis was molested, too.’
‘Conjecture, or fact?’
‘At the moment, conjecture, sir.’
‘Leave it at that.’
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t dig any deeper. That’s an order. You’re primary remit is to find the missing granddaughter first and foremost. Not to air dirty laundry.’ Greaves lowered his head, as if eyeing Gilchrist over imaginary specs. ‘Do. You. Under. Stand?’
He thought it revealing that Greaves had used the phrase missing granddaughter, not daughter, which told him that his investigation was being manipulated by Dougal Davis, or at least its progress monitored in deference to his presence. But just how close was McVicar to the patriarch of the Davis family? Maybe it was time to find out . . .
‘I’m waiting,’ Greaves said.
‘Yes, sir, I hear you.’
‘I’m not asking if you hear me or not. I’m asking if you understand.’
‘I understand, yes, sir. Anything else?’
Greaves’s eyes almost hinted of a smile. ‘Just the one,’ he said, then scanned his desk, as if searching for something on which to write. ‘How do I put this?’
‘Any way you like, sir.’
Greaves’s lips parted to reveal front teeth blackened from years of biting into a pipe stem. ‘I’ve done what I can to stand up for you,’ he said. ‘Reminded the Chief Constable of your excellent record, albeit on the maverick side of the equation.’ He screwed up his face, as if the very mention of Gilchrist’s record had fouled the air. ‘But Archie’s a difficult man to appease when he’s got the bit between his teeth.’
Gilchrist thought an agreeable nod as good a response as any.
‘So. Bottom line. If you haven’t found Katie by close of business Thursday, you’re being pulled off the case.’
‘Thursday’s tomorrow,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Clever you.’
Well, there he had it. Shot at by his own side, and shat upon from above. He doubted Greaves would have put up any meaningful resistance to McVicar – more than likely simply acceded to his demands; maybe even encouraged setting a deadline.
The shorter the better.
Tomorrow gave him no time at all. But it did give him clarity of thought.
Katarina was a Russian name. And Dimitri Novokoff was a Russian man.
Which opened up another set of possibilities if you thought about it.
He turned on his heel, and left Greaves’s office without a word.
CHAPTER 23
Leuchars Station
Jessie screeched her Fiat to a halt. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘I think this hairdryer’s just blown a gasket.’
Gilchrist opened the door. ‘I’ll buy you a new one.’
‘Hairdryer or gasket?’
He gave a toodle-oo wave as he ran to the platform, and managed to board the train with seconds to spare. He found a seat in a relatively quiet compartment – two elderly women chattering about their purchases from a St Andrews charity shop; a teenager with a stud in his eyebrow and an acned face that must surely hurt, on his mobile, oblivious to everything around him; a scruffy gentleman with the rubicund cheeks of a farmer and the rheumy eyes of a drunk, deep into the Daily Mail sudoku puzzles.
Gilchrist laid his office laptop on the table. He’d almost forgotten to take it with him – a last-second reminder in the car park by Jessie had him scrambling back to the Office. He tried to connect to the train’s Wi-Fi system, which only reminded him that when it came to IT literacy, he was bottom of the class. It took him some time – between Cupar and Springfield – before he managed to access the Internet and work his way back into his email account.
He opened his copy of Jackie’s email to DCI Travis – she’d attached everything he’d asked her to forward – and read Travis’s response, which included the names of a couple of suspects who meant noth
ing to him: Stuart Hyde and Malkie Forester. So he prepared a short message to Baxter, and sent the email string to him. Next, he searched his inbox for messages from Cooper, but found none – surprised to feel the bitter nip of disappointment; then sent her an email, professional and to the point, instructing her to copy in DCI Travis on Stevie Graham’s post-mortem, then powered down his laptop.
He checked his mobile for any last-minute messages, then switched it off, intending to catch up on some lost sleep on the remainder of the journey to Edinburgh’s Waverley Station and the connection to London. But the echo of Greaves passing on McVicar’s threat to toss him off the case reverberated in his mind and, as he shuffled around in his seat, and gazed out the window at the worsening weather, the skies seemed to darken in tune with his mood.
Four hours later
Late Wednesday afternoon
Jessie slowed down as she neared Grange Mansion, struck by how quiet the area was. Even though the investigation was still wide open, the packs of journalists and TV crews that had choked the entrance for the past couple of days appeared to have fled the scene. If it hadn’t been so odd, it would have been pleasing. But she sensed that the lack of reporters was the quiet before the storm.
She drove through the entrance and eased her way along the potholed track. She felt the front wheel dip into the worst of the hollows, heard the splash of mud on her axle and door panel, and an image of Gilchrist challenging Rutherford flashed into her mind with a surge of irritation. Why had she not noticed the telltale splashes of mud on paintwork?
Rather than park next to the vehicles that surrounded the Mobile Incident Room, she veered to the left and pulled up behind the white Lexus – did Andrea Davis ever drive it? As if on cue, Mhairi stepped from the Incident Room and walked towards her.
‘Any change?’ Jessie asked her, and nodded to the mansion.
‘She hasn’t put a foot outside since her daughter’s disappearance.’
Jessie felt her gaze being pulled to the Lexus. Could be worth making an offer for it – one woman owner, hardly used – but she could not afford to upgrade at the moment, let alone bear the brunt of the additional road tax and petrol costs.
She closed her Fiat’s door and together she and Mhairi walked to the front door.
When Andrea answered, Jessie thought she looked tired, as if lying on the sofa all day long, watching TV and doing bugger-all in general was exhausting work. Jessie held out her warrant card. ‘We’d like to ask you some more questions.’
‘Not again.’
‘Can we come in?’
Andrea sighed, turned and walked along the hallway.
Jessie waited while Mhairi closed the door behind them, then let her lead the way past the staircase and into the welcoming warmth of the kitchen.
Chivas was asleep on the rug by the cast-iron range cooker, and paid no attention to them as Andrea dragged a wooden chair from the side of the table with a loud screech on the tiled flooring.
The kitchen felt warm, almost stuffy, as if that room was the heart and soul of the house. Jessie resisted the urge to quip about hot flushes, and removed her rainproof anorak and hung it over the back of her chair.
She took her seat opposite Andrea, who had lit a cigarette and was dragging on it as if trying to kill it in one breathless hit. Jessie had to look away as she exhaled, resisting the urge to breathe in secondhand smoke. She’d not had a cigarette for three years now and, just like Gilchrist, had to fight off that often inexplicable need to light up.
Andrea said, ‘Tell me you’re not going to ask me about my sister or father.’
Jessie rested her elbows on the table. ‘We’re not going to ask you about your sister or your father.’
Andrea scowled at her. ‘I don’t much care for your attitude,’ she said.
‘We could arrest you and take you down to the North Street Office. That would do wonders for my attitude. On the other hand, you could put out your cigarette and show some respect.’
Andrea risked a glance at Mhairi, took another draw, then exhaled at Jessie, smirking at her through a blue haze. ‘Looks like you’ve grown a pair of balls now they’ve let you out on your own.’
‘Balls are delicate and sensitive,’ Jessie said. ‘Pussies are tougher. They take a lot of pounding.’
Andrea snorted. ‘I’m sure they do in your case.’
‘That sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.’
Andrea ground out her cigarette with a force that should have screwed it through the table. Then her eyes burned. ‘Get out,’ she said, and snapped a look at Mhairi. ‘Both of you.’
Mhairi shifted in her seat, as if to stand, but Jessie said, ‘It’s not going to work this time. I’ve had enough of you ruling the roost. If we go, you’re coming with us.’
‘What right do you have to—’
‘Every right,’ Jessie snapped. ‘We’re trying to find your missing daughter, and you’re trying to pap us off at every turn. Either you tell us what’s going on, or I’m going to arrest you here and now and take you down to the Station.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On any grounds I can make up.’ Anger rushed through Jessie like a burst of flame. Her breath pumped hard. But it felt good watching doubt cross the woman’s face. ‘Call your solicitor, and tell him to meet us at North Street. We can take it from there.’
Andrea tugged her mobile from her pocket and poked a finger at the screen.
‘Not that one,’ Jessie said.
Andrea frowned at her, finger hovering over the pad.
‘Your other mobile. The one you used to call your sister, Rachel.’ Jessie opened her own mobile, dialled a stored number, then stared at Andrea.
Mhairi heard it first, a melodic tone that could have been a distant doorbell.
‘That one,’ Jessie said. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
Andrea’s lips pressed white, but she made no attempt to move.
Jessie nodded to Mhairi, who pushed to her feet and left the room.
Within thirty seconds the ringing ended, and Mhairi returned with another phone in her hand. ‘We’ll be taking that,’ Jessie said to Andrea.
‘You have no right.’
‘Here we go again. Call your solicitor.’
Jessie placed the other mobile on the table between them, a reminder to Andrea that she’d been lying to them. And it struck her that it always seemed to be the well-to-do people from upper-class families – with old money behind them or new money in the bank – who acted as if the law applied only to others less privileged, and how dare you bother us with your impertinent questions and your irritating presence.
Having come from a rough upbringing of her own, Jessie felt an infuriating sense of injustice fire through her system now, filling her with an almost overwhelming desire to slap the condescending look off Andrea’s face. But she forced it behind her, and said, ‘Mark Davidson. Remember him?’
‘Should I?’
‘You’ve been shagging him often enough. I’d be surprised if you didn’t.’
‘How dare you,’ Andrea snapped.
‘You deny it?’
‘No comment.’
‘Hello? Earth to Andrea. Anybody home?’ Jessie rapped her knuckles on the table. ‘There you go again. We’re trying to find your missing daughter—’
‘Hah,’ she said. ‘That’s a laugh.’
‘Was Mark Davidson with you the morning you discovered Katie was missing?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Was he with you the night before?’
She tutted.
‘I take it that’s a Yes.’
‘That’s a No. No, he wasn’t with me, as you so ridiculously put it.’
‘Oh, I see – should I be asking has Mark Davidson shagged you any time within the past week? And I’d be careful how you answer that, as we’ve already spoken to him.’
Andrea removed her hands from the table, wrapped them around her middle, as if to fend off a c
old wind. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Utterly ridiculous. I don’t see what any of this has to do with Katie’s disappearance.’
‘Could Mark have taken her?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Why is that ridiculous?’
‘Mark would never harm Katie.’
‘I thought you didn’t know him.’
‘I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t harm a child.’
‘He’s not into children then?’ Jessie said. ‘More into older women?’
Andrea tightened her embrace, then seemed to find interest in something on her lap.
Jessie pressed on. ‘Anybody else you’re not telling us about? Anybody else that you know well enough? How about Sammie Bell?’
Another tut. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Sammie Bell’s into children. He’s a registered sex offender.’
Andrea lifted her eyes as if to ask a question. But the moment passed, and she tutted again and returned her attention to her lap.
‘Sandy Rutherford knows Sammie Bell,’ Jessie said, just throwing it in there to search for a reaction, and thought she caught a flutter of panic behind Andrea’s eyes. ‘Indirectly, of course,’ she added.
‘Sandy would have nothing to do with any registered sex offender,’ Andrea blurted.
‘Sandy’s an ex-con,’ Jessie said.
‘He’s a what?’
‘Didn’t you know that?’
Something like distress creased her features, and for a moment Jessie thought she was going to reach across the table and punch her. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she screamed, then lifted her hands to her face, and sobbed in dry heaves that shuddered her shoulders and had Chivas looking up, wagging his tail. ‘Will you leave?’ she gasped. ‘I’m begging you. Please leave. Now. All I want is to find Katie again. Please leave.’
Mhairi looked as if she was about to reach over and take Andrea in her arms. But Jessie caught her eye, shook her head, then pushed herself to her feet. All of a sudden, she was aware of what Andy had told her: that Andrea’s mother and Chief Constable McVicar knew each other. A complaint to the Constabulary would likely be filed, and an unsettling sense of worry, along with a rush of doubt that she had pushed too hard, swept through her.
