by T F Muir
He lowered the window, breathed in the morning air, a hint of a chill on its breath. The lawn glistened with a light covering of dew. Flowers bowed their heads with the weight of it all, as if praying for the sun to touch them. The brick paving was dotted with tiny clumps of sand pushed to the surface from ants nesting beneath the driveway.
Not like Rutherford, he thought, to put up with such infestation.
Curtains on the upper floors were open, but a pair of windows that overlooked the glass conservatory and the rear lawn had the curtains drawn – the master bedroom, if he was a betting man. Through one of the lower windows, he thought he caught movement deep inside the house, but could not be sure.
The clock on the dash read 06.37. He accelerated away.
He drove around the town centre before finding a Costa Coffee at the corner of Scott and High Street, and ordered a tall latte and a blueberry muffin. He took a seat by the window and powered up his mobile – seven missed calls and five text messages. He should power his mobile down more often, be less of a slave to his phone, make it harder for demented chief superintendents and insane Toshes to track him down.
Only one call was not business related, from his daughter, Maureen; nothing from Jack. He took a sip of coffee and dialled her number.
‘Jeezo, Dad,’ she grumbled. ‘What is it with you and mornings?’
Just the husky sound of her sleepy voice pulled him close to her. If he shut his eyes he could be holding her, pressing his lips to her head, telling her it’ll all be all right, it’ll be okay, don’t worry, he would always be there for her, always – well, except when he wasn’t.
‘I’m returning your call, princess.’
‘Oh, that, I . . . eh . . . I was calling to tell you that I got a message last night. A kind of a strange message—’
‘Who from?’
‘That’s the thing, she didn’t say. It sounded like Rebecca, but I’m not a hundred per cent sure. I tried calling back, but the line was disconnected or something.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She just said – take care of your father.’
Gilchrist felt his blood turn to ice, the power in his legs leave him. He slid back on to his stool. Take care of your father. If the call was from Cooper, it could mean one of only a few things, none of which he would have thought possible a day or so ago: she was leaving the area; she was leaving him; she was going back to her husband – or, more worrying, was the possibility of her harming herself, something Gilchrist refused to accept and forced out of his mind. But why leave a message on Mo’s phone? It made no sense, except in a roundabout kind of a way it did – his mobile had been powered down last night.
‘When did she leave the message?’ he asked.
‘Just before midnight.’
‘You still got it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you read out the number?’ he asked, which she did. ‘Don’t delete that message. I’ll get back to you.’ He ended the call and accessed Cooper’s contact details. He had a good memory for numbers, and he confirmed that the number recited to him by Maureen was the same as the one he’d saved in his mobile’s system under Becky.
So, Cooper had left a message on Mo’s phone? Which meant what, exactly?
He hit Cooper’s number, and on the first ring got through to the automatic voice recording – the subscriber you are trying to reach is not available at this time. Please check the number and try again.
He tried again. Same result.
He hung up.
Outside, pedestrians walked past, some on phones, others grim-faced with audio leads plugged in their ears, as if the music they were listening to was intended to put them in a foul mood. For one insane moment he thought of phoning Cooper’s landline and speaking to her husband, or soon-to-be-ex-husband, or whatever the hell Cooper had deigned him to be. But, thankfully, sanity prevailed.
Instead, he called the Force Contact Centre in Glenrothes, and gave the controller the registration number of Cooper’s Range Rover. He asked her to run it through the ANPR – which could track vehicles in real time – and let him know if she received any hits.
‘Are we looking to apprehend the driver, sir?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Just trying to establish where the car is, and where it might be going.’
‘One minute.’
Gilchrist sipped his latte as he listened to the clatter of a computer keyboard. In the background, he caught the discordant drone of others speaking. He tore off a piece of muffin, tried a nibble, but his appetite had deserted him. As if to confirm his mood, the morning sky had lost its blue sharpness, already fading to a lacklustre white-grey. For all anyone knew in Scotland, it could be snowing by the afternoon—
‘We have it located in Glasgow International Airport,’ the controller said. ‘Picked up entering satellite parking at 23.17 last night, sir.’
‘Is it still there?’
‘It appears to be, sir, yes.’
Gilchrist thanked her and hung up.
The timing of Cooper driving into satellite parking, then calling Maureen, made some sense. She had parked, made her way to the airport terminal and phoned Maureen from there, before powering down her mobile then boarding a flight to God-only-knew where.
Well, at least she was safe. Although her cryptic message puzzled him.
He checked the time, and realised he needed to get moving.
Coffee finished and muffin binned, he returned to his car.
He parked short of the Rutherfords’ paved driveway, but when he walked through the entrance gateway, the first thing he noticed was the garage door open, and the Range Rover missing. He cursed under his breath. He should have been patient, sat in his car, waited until one of them made an exit. Or, more sensible still, gone to the door and held his finger to the bell until one of them answered.
He eyed the driveway, noted the telltale tracks on the fading dew – the Range Rover reversed from the garage, into a two-point turn, then drove through the gate on to the road. A matching pair of short skid-marks hinted that Rutherford might be an impatient driver.
Gilchrist walked past the Bentley, unable to resist running his hand along the polished paintwork, leaving a smear-line across the bonnet. On the top step, he rang the doorbell, now hoping that Rutherford and Vera had not driven off together. But, within seconds, he caught a shimmer of movement through the frosted glass door, which manifested into the body of a woman wearing a full-length dressing gown.
The lock clinked with the effort of a key turning, then the door opened to a frowning Vera Davis, who stared at him in silent amazement.
‘May I come in?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Why?’
‘To talk.’
‘About what?’
‘Katarina.’
At the mention of the Russian name, suspicion shifted across her face like a fleeting shadow. Her eyes narrowed, as if she were trying to work out why he had come. ‘Can’t it wait until Sandy returns?’
‘No.’
She tutted. ‘Very well then,’ she said, and turned and walked along the hallway, leaving Gilchrist to close the door and traipse after her.
She seemed remarkably sprightly for her age – which he’d worked out at sixty-four – and showed no signs of any ageing aches or pains, as if her limbs and joints were well oiled. He caught a glimpse of bare ankles, surprised to see the skin tanned and tight, nothing like an elderly woman’s – more like someone’s half her age. He followed her through the living room and into the conservatory at the back of the mansion.
A pot of tea and two teacups – one empty – stood on a wicker table next to a recliner.
‘I won’t offer you any tea,’ she said, ‘as I expect you won’t be staying long.’
So much for Highland hospitality. ‘Where’s Sandy?’ he asked.
‘Out fetching the newspapers. No one delivers them any more.’
‘No.’
She settled into her recliner, snapping her dres
sing gown around her legs to hide them from his prying eyes. Then she glared at him. ‘So what’s this all about? I was expecting to hear from Andrea.’
‘About Katarina?’
‘Why do you keep calling her Katarina? Her name’s Katie.’
‘I thought you and Andrea rarely spoke to each other.’
‘I’m still her mother, for goodness’ sake.’ She removed the tea cosy and topped up her china cup, and Gilchrist had the strangest sense of having just been dismissed. He watched her take a dainty sip, return the cup to its saucer with the tiniest of clatters, then look up at him as if surprised to find him still standing there. ‘She’s not well, you know.’
‘Who’s not?’ he asked, just to limit the confusion.
‘Andrea. That’s who we’re talking about, aren’t we?’
‘She’s not been well for some time, I understand.’ He thought he caught the tiniest flicker of uncertainty, as if she sensed the conversation was heading towards an inevitable conclusion. ‘Perhaps something happened to her in her childhood?’
She returned his gaze with an unnatural coldness, eyes flat and lizard-still. ‘You’ve been speaking to Rachel,’ she said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I told her you would.’
Gilchrist jolted at the sound of the man’s voice, and jerked a look across the room. He had not heard the Range Rover return – windows in the conservatory must be triple-glazed – nor any door in the main building opening or closing. Not even the irrepressible sounds of the old house, with all its creaks and squeaks from years of settlement and use, despite its recent refurbishment. But there stood Rutherford, in the doorway, arms by his side, face flushed from the early morning chill, a light in his eyes that warned Gilchrist to be careful.
And not a newspaper in sight.
CHAPTER 33
Rutherford entered the conservatory.
Despite Gilchrist’s earlier take on Rutherford’s secondary role in the Davis family hierarchy, he was left in no doubt that the man of the house had returned to take his place at the head of the household.
Rutherford barely cast a glance at his wife, who said nothing as he crossed the tiled flooring. Her face had hardened, aged ten years in as many nanoseconds, and her lips pressed white, perhaps from being caught in the act of almost spilling a secret. Rutherford strode past Gilchrist as if he were nothing more than a shadow on the wall, then flipped off the tea cosy, dropping it to the floor, and filled his cup. Tea splashed into the saucer, over the table. Then he picked up the cup by the rim – his workman’s fingers too thick to fit through the delicate handle – and took a slurp.
For one worrying moment, Gilchrist thought he might throw the empty cup across the conservatory, just to test the quality of the triple-glazing. But his lips jerked into a smile that vanished as soon as it appeared, and he leaned forward to return the cup to its saucer, turned his head to the side, and pecked Vera’s cheek.
She seemed neither surprised nor flattered by her husband’s meaningless flash of affection, and dabbed at her lips with a tissue that appeared from nowhere, which she then used to soak up his saucer’s spillage.
Rutherford eyed Gilchrist. ‘Is that your BMW outside?’
‘Want me to move it?’
A pause, then, ‘You’re alone?’
‘Why do you ask?’ Gilchrist said, and had a sense from Rutherford’s eyes that some calculation had just been made, a decision reached.
Rutherford smirked. ‘So you spoke to Rachel?’
‘Did she call you and say I had?’
‘We don’t communicate like any normal family.’ He flicked a damning glance at his wife. ‘I couldn’t tell you when I last spoke with her.’
Gilchrist could. Six days ago, according to Dick’s records. On his Rumford landline, not the Rutherford mobile. A short call that lasted all of twenty seconds. And maybe even more recently than that – like yesterday, after his own call to Novo had struck a nerve?
‘How about Kevin and Annette Kirkwood?’ Gilchrist tried, just to try for a reaction.
Which came in the next instant.
Not from Rutherford, but from Vera, who reached for her tea and rattled the cup from its saucer as she lifted it to her lips. Even then she had to use both hands to steady it, her long fingers as narrow as spider’s legs. Then she glanced at Rutherford, and Gilchrist sensed that something ominous had just passed between the two of them.
‘Let’s talk outside,’ Rutherford said, ‘I’d like to show you something that might help you to understand.’ Then, before Gilchrist had time to reply, he turned and strode to the back wall, where he opened a glass door and bruised through it on to the rear lawn.
A rush of cold air followed his departure.
Gilchrist nodded to Vera, who seemed incapable of lifting her eyes, then strode after the hastily departing Rutherford.
A line of flagging stones dotted the lawn around the conservatory, then branched off into two lines – one continuing along the side of the mansion that caught the full heat of the morning sun, giving easy access to landscape beds that seemed alive with colour and bees; the other leading to the rear of the garage and a back door that appeared to be the target of Rutherford’s urgent focus.
Rutherford pulled the door open, and glanced at Gilchrist before disappearing inside.
The door closed behind him with a clatter as it hit its wooden frame, then was opened again by a quirky gust of wind funnelled between the garage and the garden wall, and tricked into doubling back on itself. Before the door clattered shut, Gilchrist glimpsed a silhouetted Rutherford reaching up to lift some tool or piece of equipment off the garage wall.
Gilchrist reached the garage’s back door, stretched for the handle, and was about to open it when some age-old instinct warned him to stop. He lowered his hand, took two steps backwards, and jolted with surprise as the door exploded open with a force that would have knocked him flat on his back had he been standing next to it.
Rutherford erupted from the garage like a caged bull breaking free.
Gilchrist had time only to stumble back as an axe-head scythed in front of his chest, close enough for him to hear the rush of its urgent whisper. Another manic sweep by a wild-eyed Rutherford would have taken Gilchrist’s head off if his heel hadn’t caught on a tree root on the lawn and sent him sprawling backwards.
He landed on his back with a heavy grunt that blasted the air from his lungs, and managed to avoid being cleaved in two by rolling on to his side as the axe-head buried itself into the lawn with a heavy thud that shuddered the ground.
Rutherford tugged at the handle once, twice, but the axe-head had caught on a root, and Gilchrist saw his chance. He rolled back over, covering the axe-head with his body, trying to grapple the handle from Rutherford’s desperate grip. But his sudden action and his own body weight tore the handle free from Rutherford, the axe-head from the root, and slapped it flat on to the lawn.
Still on his side, Gilchrist lashed out with his leg, catching Rutherford below the knee. But at that angle, his kick was too weak, not powerful enough to tear cartilage or break bones, and Rutherford only grunted in surprise.
Gilchrist jumped to his feet for the final confrontation, but Rutherford turned and stumbled towards the garage. And Gilchrist saw that he was going to find something more reliable than an axe.
No time to think.
Just move.
Now.
Gilchrist put his head down and charged.
Rutherford had his hand on the handle when Gilchrist crashed into him from behind with a force that should have sent both of them through the garage wall. But the wall sprang back at them; Gilchrist trapped Rutherford’s legs against one of his own and flipped him over his shoulder on to the ground.
Rutherford hit the lawn full-length on his back, with a grunt so pained that it sounded terminal. Before he could recover, Gilchrist fell on top of him, punched as hard as he could into the solar plexus to take the wind from him.
Rutherford gawked like a landed fish, but Gilchrist was in no mood for tossing him back. He took hold of Rutherford’s shoulders, surprised by the compact strength of tight muscles, rolled him over and pressed his knee into the middle of his back. Rutherford grunted, but Gilchrist pressed harder until he heard a burst of breath that emptied the older man’s lungs and seemed to power his body down as if he’d been switched off.
‘You’re under arrest,’ Gilchrist gasped, his breath coming at him in hard hits that burned his throat and fired his chest. Despite the fight being over almost before it had begun, he was stunned by how hard the struggle had been, how close he had come to being killed. If he had followed Rutherford into the garage, he would now be dead.
He reached into his back pocket for a pair of plasticuffs and, in doing so, angled his body just enough for his peripheral vision to catch movement, a shadow of sorts, reflected in the conservatory’s glass façade—
His mind screamed.
Panic shot through him like an electric shock.
He released Rutherford, pushed himself back, knowing he was too slow, too late, as Vera stepped into view, face contorted with anger, arms held high, the axe already swinging down at him in a death blow that would split him in two.
He shouted, ‘No . . . ’ and turned his face away from the blow.
The axe thudded into his body with a thump that splattered his face with blood.
He lay still for a second, too afraid to move in case he found he could not, waiting for the pain to kick in. He had heard about the numbing effect of fatal injuries, when the human body was brutalised beyond recognition and the brain counteracted the pain. The fact that he was able to think like that told him the axe had missed his vital organs at least. But its blade felt cold and smooth, and he dared to open his eyes to see the sleeve of his leather jacket sliced open, the head of the axe buried deep into flesh.
Vera screamed at him then, a demented rush of words, wild and hard and painful and cruel, and she slumped to her knees with a groan that sounded as if it had come from the heart of hell itself.
Gilchrist tried to push himself upright, but the axe had buried itself into Rutherford’s back, taking part of Gilchrist’s jacket sleeve with it, effectively strapping him to the dead man’s body. Vera made no attempt to remove the axe and carry on with the job of finishing him off. Instead, she just sat on the lawn, her dressing gown slipping open to reveal skinny legs, her face pale and drawn, lips mouthing something that could be a prayer or whispered gibberish. Her gaze, for the moment, was riveted on Rutherford’s body, on the axe that stuck out from his back like some misplaced animal horn.
