by T F Muir
It took Gilchrist several seconds to realise that Jack had hung up. He redialled his number, then cut it off before the connection was made. The more he thought about it, the more he could believe Jack was innocent; that he didn’t know Bell, but had been led into some entrapment scheme through the over-mature Tess.
Which opened up another possibility.
Having seen Tess, it would be difficult for anyone to believe she was younger than sixteen, and he now wondered if he could work that to his advantage. Jack had inadvertently confessed to having had underage sex, and was in trouble. Could he use that to bring down the drug syndicate that Bell had been setting up? With that thought, he made a mental note to contact Baxter and discuss the possibilities.
He checked the time again, decided Novo’d had long enough, and phoned Dick.
‘Anything from six-thirty onwards?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Recording her right now,’ Dick said. ‘She’s hardly been off the phone. So far she’s made nine calls since six-thirty. Most of them boring stuff about insurance contracts and meetings and stuff. And a few where she’s let off steam about some Detective Chief Inspector giving her a hard time.’ He chuckled. ‘I take it that was you?’
‘And . . .?’ Gilchrist asked, failing to hide his impatience.
‘And one of them was odd.’
‘Was that the first one she called after I left?’
‘It was, yes.’
Gilchrist pressed his mobile to his ear as the sound of laughter and chinking of glasses had him glancing along a side street, and changing course towards the entrance to some pub tucked into the side of a pedestrian lane.
‘It was odd you said. In what way?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Short and meaningless. Here, let me play it back for you.’
Four young men with shorn heads and tattooed arms stood outside the entrance to the pub, each with a pint of lager in one hand and a cigarette in the other, too loud for their own good, he thought. But he nodded a smile to them as he walked past and found a spot about ten yards farther on, which gave him a level of privacy. He faced the pub and read the blackboard outside, trying to work up an appetite while he waited for Dick.
‘Here we are,’ Dick said. ‘You still there?’
‘Go ahead.’
A click, then the double burring of an old-fashioned British landline that cast up an image of his parents’ house, and him as a young boy answering the phone in the freezing chill of the entrance hallway.
The connection was made, and a man’s voice said, Hello?
That weekend away you were thinking of having? He recognised Novo’s voice. Take it this weekend.
Silence for two beats, then, Why?
Trust me.
The line clicked.
‘That’s it,’ Dick said. ‘Mean anything to you?’
Other than the fact that Novo was passing on some semi-cryptic message, it made no sense. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but can you find out the number of who she was calling?’
‘Already done that. It’s a mobile registered in the name of Kevin Kirkwood.’
The name meant nothing to Gilchrist. ‘You got an address?’
‘I do,’ Dick said, and rattled it off: a street in Dumfries, which again meant nothing.
But he thanked Dick, told him to look into Novo’s mobile records for non-business-related calls she’d made in the past week or so, and get back to him if he found anything. He was about to end the call when Dick said, ‘Did you look at the CD I dropped off at your cottage?’
‘Haven’t had a chance,’ Gilchrist said.
‘You’ll find it interesting.’
When the call ended, Gilchrist called Jackie’s direct line in the North Street Office and left a message on her voicemail, giving Kirkwood’s name, address and phone number. ‘And see if you can find any connection between him and Rachel Novo, now divorced from a Dimitri Novokoff,’ and added, ‘Formerly Rachel Davis. And while you’re at it, how about getting me a copy of the Novokoffs’ divorce papers.’
He slipped his mobile into his pocket and was about to enter the pub when one of the four youths turned to snuff out a cigarette dout with his boot and bumped his arm against his.
‘Careful there,’ Gilchrist said, then sidestepped him.
‘What you on about?’ the youth said.
Gilchrist was about to step inside, when a hand grabbed him by the shoulder.
‘You spilled my beer, you fucking sweaty sock.’
‘I think you spilled it yourself,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Cheeky bastard,’ one of his mates chipped in. ‘Go on, Bev, fucking have him.’
Gilchrist slipped out his warrant card. ‘Don’t get yourselves into trouble, boys.’
‘Do what?’ the mate said.
Gilchrist eyed the group. Bev was having second thoughts. He released his grip on Gilchrist’s shoulder and said, ‘Leave off, Gus,’ then turned away and gulped at his beer.
‘So who the fuck is this then?’ Gus said. ‘The flying fucking Scotsman?’
Gus seemed to be the leader, and the most drunk. His pained face grimaced red-eyed, as if he’d not slept for a week, maybe longer. He approached Gilchrist, fists clenched, face tight with drunken rage.
When the punch came, Gilchrist was ready for it.
He grabbed the arm as it swung at his face, used the blow’s momentum to topple the man to the ground before his stunned brain had time to tell him he was no longer standing. A tug and a twist of the arm had Gus on to his stomach, and a curse from Gilchrist as he jerked the arm up the back had Gus squealing like a scorched pig.
Gilchrist held his hand out to the others like a warden stopping traffic.
‘That’s enough, boys,’ he said, to keep them at bay.
‘Fucking arm you cunt—’
One more jerk pulled another squeal from Gus’s mouth, and put an end to matters as Gilchrist felt the fight go out of the guy. Just to be sure, he kept the pressure on, and leaned forward so his mouth was inches from Gus’s ear. ‘I can arrest you for assault,’ he said, loud enough for the others to hear. ‘Or I can have a pint on my own, in some peace and quiet.’
Gus’s mouth spluttered with fury as he tried to resist. But with Gilchrist’s knee on his back, squeezing the air from his lungs, he was in no fit state.
Gilchrist looked up at the others, but they were backing off, not wanting to risk being arrested as accomplices. ‘What do you say, boys? Should I arrest him? Or can I have a quiet pint on my own?’ He rose to his feet with a parting jerk that released a gasping grunt.
Silent, Gilchrist faced the group for a couple of seconds, then turned and entered the bar.
He showed his warrant card to a wide-eyed barman with a mobile to his ear. ‘I’m with Fife Constabulary,’ he said. ‘So no need to call the police. I won’t be pressing charges,’ and waited while the barman slipped his mobile back into his pocket. Then he nodded to the beer taps. ‘But I’ll try a Sambrook’s Junction when you’ve got a moment.’
In the mirror, he kept an eye on the group outside. Gus had been pulled to his feet, and stood, red-faced, grimacing in agony, holding his right arm as if in a sling. He shifted his stance and stared at Gilchrist’s back, and for one uncertain moment Gilchrist feared the man was drunk enough to continue the fight inside. Then one of the others grabbed Gus by his good arm and hustled him away.
When his pint arrived, Gilchrist waited for its creamy head to settle before taking that first glorious sip, so silky and smooth that he had to ease the glass from his lips at the halfway mark.
Then he pulled out his mobile and called Cooper.
CHAPTER 27
On the third ring, Cooper answered with, ‘I thought you might not call back.’
‘I got your message,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Where are you?’
‘In a bar.’
‘I gathered that much,’ she said. ‘Would you mind if I joined you?’
He caught the uncertainty in her voice, t
he worry that perhaps she had pushed him too far this time, that she was no longer in control of their relationship, that whatever she thought they once had might have been lost for good. But he said, ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ then added, ‘although I’m sorry to tell you I’m in London.’
She waited a beat, then said, ‘I suppose that means I can’t see you tonight.’
‘Unless you can beam me up.’
She laughed at that – a bit forced, he thought, and he wondered if she was worried that he might press for the name of the person who stayed over last night. Should he feel such a strong need to know? Did it really matter? But an echo of a man’s whisper entered his mind with such clarity that he glanced to his side to make sure no one was talking to him. He thought he would have vanquished the memory of his ex-wife’s infidelity by now, that the jealousy that smouldered in his heart would finally have burned out, but it was all he could do to cough and try to snap the image away.
‘Are you okay?’ she said.
‘Something in my throat.’
Neither of them spoke for what seemed like five minutes, until Cooper said, ‘I made a mistake, Andy. One that I deeply regret. And I’m truly sorry.’
He found himself struggling to translate her open-ended apology. Sorry she’d fallen pregnant by him? Sorry she’d had a miscarriage? Sorry she’d got herself involved with him in the first place? Sorry for what? he wanted to shout.
Instead, he said, ‘We all make mistakes, Becky. But we have to live with them. What else can we do?’
‘Move on,’ she said without missing a beat.
His heart shivered, as if ice-chilled fingers had reached inside his chest and gripped it. ‘Is that what you want to do?’ he asked. ‘Move on?’
Electronic silence filled the line for so long that Gilchrist thought the connection was lost. Then Cooper said, ‘I’m confused, Andy. I’m sorry. I . . . when I first met Max, I thought I’d found the perfect man – handsome, intelligent, articulate, urbane, and madly in love with me, or so I believed. When we married, I wanted to start a family, we both did, but then . . . well . . . nothing happened. I thought the problem was me. I truly did. Max has two children by his first wife. Teenage boys. Did I tell you that?’
Gilchrist reached for his pint. ‘You never did, no.’
‘Well, everything pointed to the fault being with me.’
Gilchrist took a sip of beer, then realised she was waiting for him to speak. ‘Did you seek medical advice?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said with a finality that warned him he was close to touching a nerve. ‘That was my mistake. I should have. But I didn’t. Max insisted that we make an appointment, but I refused. The more he persisted, the more I dug in my heels.’ She let out a sigh. ‘Am I holding you back?’
‘I’m having a pint. I’m sure I can have another.’
She chuckled, and an image of her raking her strawberry-blonde hair pulled a smile to his lips. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the wind’s breath, hear the waves rushing shoreward, ice-cold water licking their bare feet. They used to walk the beaches together, go for long walks at the end of the day, or whenever they had time, and no matter how long they spent, it always seemed too short for all they had to say to each other. He’d had a number of short-term affairs since Gail left him – was it really ten years ago? – but none had ever amounted to much. That is, until old Bert Mackie retired, and Dr Rebecca Cooper took over as Fife’s forensic pathologist. In Cooper, he thought he’d found a like soul, someone who handled the professional side with a passion verging on the obsessive, and who’d also managed to free herself from a damaged marriage. They seemed the perfect couple, or so he’d once thought . . .
‘You’ve gone all quiet on me,’ she said.
He was on the verge of telling her that she might have that the other way around, but the last thing she needed from him was conflict. So he said, ‘You were talking about digging in your heels.’
‘Yes,’ she said, as if trying to remember the gist of what she’d been saying.
He nudged her along with, ‘You never sought medical advice.’
‘No, I didn’t. Which was the start of the demise of my marriage.’
They had both discussed the failings in their respective marriages, but he’d always thought that Cooper was holding something back, as if she were reluctant to hang her dirty washing out for Gilchrist to inspect. He’d thought her on-again-off-again downward spiral with Maxwell had been the reason for her reticence, that somewhere in the deepest part of her psyche she believed, maybe even hoped, they would survive and remain together. But only in the last several months had it become clear to both of them that Cooper’s marriage was over for good. Of course, his own marriage was long gone.
He took another sip of beer, and only then realised that the muffled mewing on the line might be Cooper crying. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I’m hurting, Andy. I’m hurting in a way I’ve never felt before. It’s . . . I’m sorry for troubling you—’
‘You’re not troubling me at all—’
‘Truly I am, but I’m so sorry.’ A pause, then, ‘Max stayed over last night. I was going to tell you. He caught me in a moment of weakness. And I’d had too much to drink. I’m sorry that you had to find out the way you did.’
Well, alcohol was always a catalyst for trouble: he would be the first to agree.
‘Becky,’ he said, ‘what you’ve been through is emotionally devastating. To want a child so much, then to . . . to . . . ’ He struggled for the kindest word, but in the end said, ‘To go through such a difficult time, it’s bound to affect you. It would be unnatural if it hadn’t.’ He pressed his hand to his other ear to drown out a burst of laughter from the far end of the bar. ‘You’re still young enough,’ he said. ‘You’re not too old to try again.’
She sniffed, and he sensed she was pulling herself together.
‘Forget last night,’ he said. ‘And forget Max,’ he added as a joke. ‘I know I have.’
‘Have you?’
‘Of course I have,’ he lied. Past experience told him that an image of Cooper being close to Max would creep its way into his thoughts with resolute frequency for years to come, maybe even in perpetuity. But he shoved it away as best he could, and said, ‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning. I can swing by Bell Street, and you can bring me up to speed with some blood work—’
‘I’m taking the rest of the week off,’ she said. ‘Going to head off for a few days.’
He almost said Alone? but managed to bite his tongue. ‘Give me a call when you get a chance. Or text. Who knows, if Greaves kicks me off the case, I could come and join you.’ He sent a chuckle down the line, but from Cooper’s silence it sounded out of place.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, and the line clicked dead.
He stared at his mobile, as if the disconnection had been a fault on the line. But she really had hung up. With Cooper, there never seemed to be any middle ground; no greys, just blacks or whites, like living in a binary world, he thought – either on or off, end of. Still, she had been in tears – a first, he’d have to say – but the manner of her parting seemed in conflict with that momentary loss of composure, and displayed a coldness that had to be unhealthy.
He slipped his mobile into his pocket, then picked up his pint.
It took another couple of Sambrook’s Junctions and a Drambuie on the rocks before he decided to find a taxi and make his way to Euston and the sleeper to Edinburgh. Force of habit had him checking his mobile for text messages from Cooper, even though he knew there would be none.
He flagged down the first available taxi, irritated that Cooper seemed mentally more resilient than he ever was when it came to matters of the heart – always a failing of his. The taxi drew up to the kerb, and he found himself powering his mobile down before he opened the door, just to make sure he could not succumb to temptation.
Then he slid inside and slurred, ‘Euston Station.’
T
he sleeper was nothing more than a reclining seat, which he pushed back as far as he could, not worried about cramping the space of the person behind – it was a sleeper, after all. The carriage was almost too warm for comfort, but the alcohol at the end of a tiring day was as good as any sleeping pill, and he was sound asleep before the train left the station.
He saw Katie on the beach, black rocks rising sixty feet by her side. He saw her little face looking at him, eyes open with childish surprise as a woman dressed from head to toe in a white medical smock lifted her. Then Jack took Katie and walked with her towards the sea. Watch out for the waves, he shouted, as they reached the water’s edge. Jack flicked his reefer into the wind, and little Katie watched it spinning and tumbling over her head, sparks flying, until it turned into a cartwheel firework that broke loose from a pole and spun away like a comet into the night sky.
Cooper whispered something in Gilchrist’s ear, in a foreign language like Chinese. What had she said? When he next looked at Jack, he was stepping into the sea, Katie high on his shoulders. But with every step, the sea receded – twenty yards, thirty, fifty; and still it fell away, leaving fish flopping in shallow puddles. Tsunami, Gilchrist tried to warn them, but his voice was muffled, his arms and legs buried in sand as heavy as lead, and the woman in white turned to him and laughed. He could see her teeth, but not her face, and he shouted at her to run – Run. Run. Behind her rose a wall of water, a black mountain that swelled like an eruption and tumbled towards them—
‘Hey, hey, hey there, hey . . . ’
Gilchrist opened his eyes, jerked his head back from the woman’s troubled face at his side. ‘What . . .?’
‘We cannae get any sleep here, with you roaring your head off.’
‘Oh . . . sorry, I . . . I must’ve been dreaming.’
‘Having a nightmare, more like.’
Gilchrist nodded. He swept his gaze around the carriage, but other than the woman at his side, everyone seemed asleep. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Aye, well,’ she said, and pulled herself back into her seat across the aisle.
