by T F Muir
He glanced out the window, at a dark countryside that swept past in flickering blacks and greys. Overhead a starless sky hinted of the coming dawn. He glanced at his watch, but his eyesight was not what it used to be, and as best he could tell it was 2.25 a.m., or maybe 3.25 a.m.
Not that it mattered, he supposed.
His mouth felt dry, and he removed a plastic bottle of ginger ale from the back of the seat in front, pleased that he’d had the foresight to buy a couple of soft drinks before boarding the train. His head swam from too much alcohol on an empty stomach, and he still felt tired enough to sleep in a heartbeat. But, once wakened, it seemed that he could never return to the land of nod. Besides, remnants of his most recent dream – call it nightmare – echoed in his mind, forcing him to question the deeper meaning, the twisted rationale. He necked another mouthful of ginger ale, then burped as discreetly as he could, only to have the woman across the aisle glare at him.
He smiled at her, and shrugged, then powered up his mobile.
It was the woman in white in his dream who troubled him the most. Who was she? Why did she turn to him and laugh as the tsunami reared up from the horizon behind her? His phone beeped to life, and he checked his messages to find only one – a text from Jackie.
Because of her cerebral palsy, Jackie was allowed to work from home, as long as she turned up at the Office at least three times each week, which meant she was cleared to access the main Constabulary server remotely to enable her to carry out her research work. Living alone, and with a disability that limited outdoor activities, Jackie spent more hours on the computer than many of her associates, and probably more hours than was good for her health. But working as a researcher made her feel like she was contributing as a normal member of society, and her job had become more to her than a way to earn a living; it was her passion.
Which explained why she’d worked on his query overnight.
He opened her text message.
Kevin kirkwood married annette martin 10 years ago. Rachel davis and annette on same course at york uni. Rd and am graduated with economic degrees in 95. Have emailed more details 2u cc ds janes.
Gilchrist reread the text message. This showed a link between Kevin Kirkwood and Rachel Novo. Well, of course there was a link. There had to be. Why else would Novo have phoned Kirkwood and left a semi-cryptic message?
That weekend away you were thinking of having?
Take it this weekend.
Trust me.
Why? Gilchrist thought. And, even in his still-over-the-limit hungover stupor, the outline of some scratchy thoughts materialised into an image of a woman dressed in white being handed a young child, then turning and laughing at him, only to manifest into Novo’s sister, Andrea, before evaporating into a blank face.
Which was the key.
Not Rachel. Not Andrea.
And definitely not handing over any child.
For the ploy to succeed, that would not work.
Trust me.
Oh, Kevin would trust Novo all right. Of course he would. Kevin’s wife and Novo were university students together, on the same course together; they graduated together, maybe even lived in rented accommodation together. And, having shared all of that, what else might they have shared? Secrets from the past, no doubt.
Which led to secrets in the present?
Trust me.
Why would I trust you? Gilchrist thought. No phone calls from the restaurant until you were sure I was out of sight. That was the giveaway. That was your mistake. You’d just been interrogated by me, effectively harassed without legal representation. You should have picked up your mobile and called your solicitor as soon as I left, even insisted on filing a formal complaint. I know you should have, because that’s what I would have done.
Instead, you waited until I paid the bill and left the restaurant before calling.
And not your solicitor, but Kevin, your friend Annette’s husband.
To leave a cryptic message.
Trust me.
Oh, I trust you all right, Gilchrist heard his mind say.
I trust you as I trust a snake.
CHAPTER 28
7.26 a.m., Thursday morning
Waverley Station, Edinburgh
Jessie met Gilchrist as he strode through the ticket barriers.
‘What did you find out?’ he asked, stepping in beside her.
‘I think we might be barking up the wrong tree. The Dumfries Office has already been in contact with Mr and Mrs Kirkwood, and they’ve nothing to report.’
Gilchrist felt a wave of nausea sweep through him at the ever-increasing likelihood he was wrong – again. The sound of a thousand shoes scraping the platform felt like gravel and cement mixing in his head. He adjusted his step to avoid a limping pigeon as it scavenged the concrete on stumps for feet, its claws burned off from roosting on electrical wires.
‘Have they gone to their home like I asked?’ he grumbled.
‘A couple of uniforms dropped by about five-ish this morning. Reported both cars in the driveway, and curtains drawn.’
‘And what did the Kirkwoods say?’
‘They never knocked them up.’
‘So they don’t know if they’re at home or not?’
‘They believe they’re at home.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘You see the problem with that word believe? It means we don’t bloody well know for sure. That’s what believe means.’ He bumped into Jessie as she veered to the right. ‘Where’re you parked?’ he snapped.
‘Got Mhairi with me,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t find a parking spot, so she’s still circling, looking for a place to land.’ She slipped her mobile to her ear. ‘We’re on our way. Where are you?’ Then she slapped it shut. ‘Top of the ramp. Let’s go.’
Sure enough, Mhairi had an unmarked police car – a black Vauxhall Vectra – parked on double yellow on Bridge Street.
Gilchrist held the rear passenger door open for Jessie.
‘Am I in the back, then?’ she said.
‘You certainly are.’
‘A gentleman to the last.’
Gilchrist closed the door behind her and took the front passenger seat. ‘You know the way?’ he asked Mhairi.
‘I do, sir, yes,’ she said, accelerating into traffic.
‘How long will it take?’
‘About two hours, sir. Depending on traffic.’
Jessie said, ‘Would you like me to call the Dumfries Office and tell them to arrest the Kirkwoods?’
Gilchrist jerked a look at her. ‘No. Don’t,’ he said, and hoped his tone had not come across as panicked as he’d felt. He was flying by the seat of his pants again, going with his gut instinct, that sixth sense of his which, even though it had worked for him over the years, was far from infallible, he knew. And oh, how he knew. ‘Call them, and tell them to park outside the Kirkwoods’ home. If the curtains are still drawn at eight o’clock, get them to check it out.’
Jessie dialled her mobile, and Gilchrist said, ‘On speaker.’
She did, and within a minute was put through to a Detective Sergeant Chambers.
‘We have two of our boys in blue already parked outside their house,’ DS Chambers assured her. ‘And the curtains are now opened, so we’re happy to report that the Kirkwoods are still at home, safe and sound.’
Gilchrist half turned in his seat. ‘This is DCI Gilchrist,’ he said. ‘I’m the SIO in the Katie Davis abduction case. I’d ask that you keep this super-low profile for the time being. We don’t want the place flooded with media if any of it leaks. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Jessie thanked DS Chambers and ended the call. ‘Ever felt like a twerp?’ she said.
Gilchrist said nothing, just stared at the road ahead, struggling to ignore a burning feeling that threatened to scorch his gut. Now he was sobering up, what had seemed so clear last night on the sleeper, so irrefutable in its step-by-step alcohol-induced logic, was now beginning to lose its lustre, th
e gold-plated prize looking more like rusted scrap.
Did he have it all wrong? Only time would tell.
‘Want me to stop for coffee, sir?’
‘Let’s get there as fast as we can,’ he said, and slumped into his seat, as miserable as he had ever felt.
The Kirkwoods lived in a detached red sandstone mansion on Edinburgh Road. A Mercedes ML350 SUV, and a dated Porsche with a black go-faster spoiler on the back stood bonnet to boot on a grey asphalt driveway that could do with being re-tarred.
Sure enough, the curtains were opened.
Gilchrist approached the unmarked police car parked some fifty yards farther along Edinburgh Road. He introduced himself, and asked to be updated, only to be told that neither Mr nor Mrs Kirkwood had made an appearance that morning.
Gilchrist checked the time on his mobile – 09.41. ‘Do they not work?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, sir.’
He nodded to Mhairi. ‘Find out where they work, and if they don’t work from home, why they’re not in the office.’ Then he strode towards the entrance and eyed the mansion, wondering how much the Kirkwoods earned – more than he ever would, came the answer. He glanced at Mhairi, but she was still on the phone.
‘Come on,’ he said to Jessie. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘You don’t sound as confident as you did last night,’ she said.
‘I’m sober now.’
‘Ah, the demon drink.’
‘Indeed.’
Together they strode up the driveway. An expansive lawn spread off to the right. Its edges could do with a bit of a trimming – not Mr and Mrs Perfect – although the shining paint and glistening brightwork of the Mercedes and Porsche could have fooled many a man. Even the tyres’ black sidewalls looked freshly dressed.
‘Looks like they’re not short of a bob or two,’ Jessie said, as she stood on the tiled porch and eyed the plants – dwarf conifers, pansies, trailing ivy – in floral blue and white ceramic pots.
Gilchrist rang the doorbell, and ten seconds later the door cracked open to a dark-haired woman in her late thirties – same age as Novo, he guessed, but a few inches taller – who stared at him wide-eyed as he held out his warrant card.
Her gaze darted to Jessie, back to Gilchrist. ‘Let me fetch my husband,’ she said, and closed the door.
‘Charming,’ Jessie quipped.
Two minutes later, Gilchrist was on the verge of ringing the doorbell again, when Mhairi walked up the driveway towards them.
‘What you got?’ Jessie asked her.
‘He runs his own chartered accountancy firm here in Dumfries – Kirkwood Associates – and she’s the regional representative for an international clothes distributor, Maycom. Never heard of it. He’s already called in this morning and told them he was off on holiday for a week.’
That weekend away you were thinking of having? Take it this weekend.
‘Where to?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Didn’t say.’
‘What about her?’
‘Seems to be her own boss, keeps her own hours, so I don’t know, sir.’
‘Right.’ Gilchrist rang the doorbell, kept his finger down to the count of five. A chime echoed back at him from somewhere deep in the hallway. He counted to twenty, and rang the doorbell again, and was about to give it one more shot when he caught movement through the frosted panels.
The door opened and a tall man – six-four, give or take an inch – wearing jeans and a white open-necked shirt looked down at them with a goofy smile more suited to a horse than a human. Sweat dotted his brow. A bead trickled down his cheek.
‘Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested,’ he said.
Gilchrist held his warrant card out. ‘Kevin Kirkwood?’
‘Yes?’
‘It may be better if we talked inside.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘You’re going on holiday?’
‘Look, what’s this about? We’re busy packing.’
Gilchrist thought he heard a door slamming shut, maybe on the upper floors, but he couldn’t be sure, then said, ‘That’s it,’ and pushed past Kirkwood.
‘Wait a bloody minute,’ Kirkwood shouted after him.
But Gilchrist was striding down the hallway, galloping up the stairway.
He opened the first door on his left, guest bedroom, closed it, tried the next – another bedroom. From behind him, he heard the thud of feet reaching the top of the stairs.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ Kirkwood shouted after him.
Gilchrist took a chance and opened the door at the end of the hallway, and found what he was looking for – the master bedroom. The bed was not made. Pillows were scrunched to one side. A continental quilt lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. A counterpane had slipped off the end and fallen to the floor. A laptop sat opened on a chair in the corner. Imprints on the carpet told him the chair had been moved. Phone-charger cords coiled from wall sockets to mingle with nightclothes that lay where they’d been dropped – negligee and panties for her, pyjama bottoms and vest for him.
If they’d arrived an hour earlier, he might have caught them at it.
He was about to walk to the en-suite bathroom when a hand thudded on his shoulder and spun him around. ‘You’ve absolutely no fucking right to come barging in here like—’
‘You’re packing,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Where are the suitcases?’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘And you hear this,’ Kirkwood snarled as he turned from the bedroom, mobile pressed to his ear. ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘Would you like me to arrest you instead?’
‘Do what the hell you like,’ Kirkwood snapped. ‘But you’re out of order,’ and strode along the hallway, heading for the stairs.
Gilchrist found himself chasing after him, annoyed that he’d been so easily fobbed off. He struggled to keep up as Kirkwood skittered down the stairs with his lanky legs and entered the second door off the entrance hallway.
Gilchrist followed him into a lounge decorated in creams and lilacs. Kirkwood’s wife, Annette, stood with her back to the room, staring at a landscaped garden for which money seemed to be no object. Kirkwood stood beside her, facing Gilchrist as if to protect her from this strange lunatic. Jessie and Mhairi were nowhere in sight, although Gilchrist knew they would be searching the lower floor. Which brought its own set of problems. Any search was illegal, and evidence of the Kirkwoods’ involvement with Katie Davis could be inadmissible in a court of law.
Still, finding Katie would be an answer in itself.
Kirkwood appeared to be having trouble getting through on his mobile, and stabbed at its screen in tight-lipped frustration.
‘Put the phone down,’ Gilchrist tried.
Kirkwood snatched a glance at him. ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘We are the police.’
‘You have absolutely no right to enter our home in this manner, and to . . . to—’
‘You know Rachel Novo,’ Gilchrist interrupted. ‘Formerly Rachel Davis.’
His words had the effect of stilling Kirkwood, but jump-starting his wife, who turned from the window and faced him. Her eyes brimmed with tears. A quiver jerked the edges of her lips. Then Kirkwood’s arm was around her shoulder, hugging her to him. He twisted his body and kissed the top of her head.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll take care of this.’ Then he pulled himself upright to his full six-four, maybe -five, and said, ‘We know Rachel. Yes.’
Gilchrist took the opportunity to advise them that he was with Fife Constabulary and the Senior Investigating Officer in the abduction of Rachel’s niece, Katie Davis, and that they could call their solicitor to be interviewed at the local police station.
Something seemed to pass between Kirkwood and his wife then, and Kirkwood said, ‘We have a plane to catch this evening.’
‘Of course,’ Gilchrist said.
> Jessie and Mhairi entered the lounge; he knew from the look on Jessie’s face that they’d found nothing, that he’d had it all wrong, that his blustering entrance was just the sort of thing that CS Greaves would use to get him booted out of the Constabulary once and for fucking all. Jesus Christ, if it wasn’t so serious, it would be funny. But no matter how he tried, he could not pull a sliver of a smile to his face.
His only course of action was to press on.
‘Rachel called you last night,’ Gilchrist said, and noticed something close to panic sweep across Annette’s eyes. Kirkwood, on the other hand, stood tight-lipped. ‘We can check your phone records,’ Gilchrist suggested, ‘if that makes your decision on whether or not to be truthful any easier.’
‘She called last night. Yes,’ Kirkwood agreed.
Gilchrist knew he had to proceed with extreme caution. If he showed any knowledge of what had been said during that call, it could backfire; point them to Dick’s illegal tapping of Novo’s phone. Talk about wading deeper? It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Why did she call?’ he asked.
‘To wish us a safe flight, and to enjoy our holiday.’
Lie number one. ‘Why would she do that?’
‘Why not? We’re friends.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Corfu. It’s nice this time of year.’
‘I’m sure it is.’ Gilchrist managed a smile, but it was not reciprocated. ‘Just the two of you, then?
‘Yes,’ Kirkwood snapped. ‘Who would you think we were taking?’
‘Other friends, maybe?’
Kirkwood’s Adam’s apple dunked. ‘Oh. I see. No. Just the two of us.’
‘Taking?’
‘Excuse me?’
Gilchrist stepped closer. ‘You asked me who I thought you were taking.’
‘Yes?’
‘Odd choice of word – taking.’
‘In what way?’
‘I would’ve thought going with would be more appropriate – who would I think you were going with? – if you were, well, going with some friends on holiday. Of course, if you were taking someone younger, much younger, then I could understand you saying taking, which would be more appropriate.’ He searched Annette’s gaze, but she seemed unable to return his look, and eyed the carpet. Kirkwood’s hand squeezed her shoulder.
