by T F Muir
To force his thoughts from Tosh, he phoned Jack while his beer settled.
‘I’m having a pint in The Central,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d want one.’
A pause, then, ‘Don’t order it until I get there.’
Next, he phoned Baxter, but was dumped into voicemail, and left a short message.
His fish and chips had just been served when Jack pushed through the swing doors, made eye contact without a smile, and squeezed through the crowd at the bar to Gilchrist’s table at the back wall. He sat opposite him, without a welcoming smile or a customary high-five for a handshake.
Gilchrist slid his plate towards him. ‘Like a chip?’
Without a word, Jack picked up a couple, popped them into his mouth.
Gilchrist sipped his pint – almost done – then removed a twenty from his wallet and slid it to Jack. ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having. And order some food for yourself when you’re at it?’
‘Deuchars, is it?’
‘You talked me into it.’ But even that failed to elicit a smile.
Gilchrist watched his son slide his way to the main bar, six foot tall and thinner than Crouch on a diet. Black stonewashed jeans that could be held up by anti-gravity sat below boxer shorts that had seen better days. A loose T-shirt spotted with multicoloured splatters of paint hung from too-bony shoulders. A quick tilt of his head as he downed a shooter – vodka had always been Jack’s go-to drink – then the empty glass shoved across the counter before he carried two settling pints to the table.
He pushed one to Gilchrist, dug into his pocket and spilled some loose change on to the table. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Gilchrist eyed the pittance. ‘Expensive pints.’
‘Had a double voddie at the bar,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you the money for it,’ and dug his hand into his jeans’ pocket.
‘It’s all right, Jack, don’t—’
Jack slid a tenner across the table. ‘There you go.’
Gilchrist finished his first pint, placed his glass on the table with care and slid Jack’s tenner back at him. ‘Keep it for the next round,’ he said.
‘No. You keep it. Me drinking shooters obviously pisses you off.’
‘It doesn’t piss me off—’
‘Then why mention it at all, man? For fuck’s sake.’
‘A joke that came out wrong,’ Gilchrist said. ‘That’s all.’ He took a forkful of fish and diverted his eyes from Jack’s gaze. But it was no use. He returned his cutlery to his plate and said, ‘What’s got you fired up?’
‘You don’t trust me, Andy. That’s what’s got me fizzing.’ Jack took a mouthful of beer that almost drained the glass.
Gilchrist eased into it with, ‘I think you’re upset about being arrested—’
‘I’m upset about being fucking entrapped and questioned like a criminal.’ He finished his pint with an angry flourish, snatched the tenner from the table and rose for the bar, just as DS Baxter arrived.
‘Sit,’ Baxter said to him.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ Jack snapped. ‘I’m having a pint.’
Baxter clamped a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘Sit down, sonny.’
Jack took hold of Baxter’s hand and eased it from his shoulder. Then he squared up to him. ‘I’m buying myself a pint, mister. And once I’ve done that, I’ll come back to the table and sit all over that fat fucking face of yours if you’d like.’
Gilchrist said, ‘Make sure you get one for Ted.’
Baxter grimaced. ‘That’s very kind of you, Jack. Mine’s a Stella. Pint.’
Jack turned to the bar, while Baxter pulled a stool next to Jack’s and raised an eyebrow at Gilchrist. ‘Getting tough in his old age.’
‘Hungover, more like.’
Baxter forced a chuckle. ‘Got your message.’
‘Any good news?’
He showed some teeth. ‘I’ll wait till your lad gets back with that pint.’
Gilchrist nodded, cut off another slice of fish and forked on a couple of chips. He’d never seen Jack so incensed; never seen him confront anyone, let alone a DS in a public bar. Jack had always been the first to turn his back at any sign of trouble. But as he watched him alone at the bar, placing his order, he came to understand that for Jack it was all about being believed and trusted. How many times had he accused Jack of taking drugs, only for Jack to hang up on him and for Gilchrist to be proved wrong? Too many, came the answer. And now an attempt had been made by a fifteen-going-on-twenty-something Tess McKenzie to lure Jack into Sammie Bell’s drug chain, and in doing so entrap him into underage sex.
No wonder his son was fit to be tied.
Jack shuffled back from the bar and handed Baxter his pint of Stella.
‘Thanks, Jack. You know how to keep a man happy. Up yours,’ he said, and took a mouthful that half drained it.
Jack sipped his Deuchars and said, ‘Okay, I’m sitting,’ and Gilchrist felt his heart go out to him. No more tough guy. Just a young man frightened of what lay ahead, and whether or not he would have a criminal record assigned to his name for the rest of his life.
‘Right.’ Baxter placed both elbows on the table, like a conspirator about to reveal all. ‘Your toxicology results are clean.’ Then he turned his strongest DS look Jack’s way, and said, ‘I’ve just had another chat with Tess McKenzie.’
Jack swallowed a lump in his throat and sipped his pint, the tiniest of tremors in his fingers as he waited for the verdict.
‘She says you never touched her.’
Jack shivered a sideways look at Baxter.
‘What do you say to that?’ Baxter asked him.
Gilchrist stepped in to prevent Jack from sticking his foot in it. ‘What he’s always maintained, Ted. That he never laid a finger on her. Right, Jack?’
‘Right,’ Jack said, then buried his face in his pint.
‘She’s also identified a couple of Sammie Bell’s gofers,’ Baxter said. ‘If you’d be willing to have a look at some photos, Jack, tell me if you recognise them, it could help us nail them, big time.’
‘Would I have to testify in court?’
‘Would be helpful if you could. But no one’s pushing you.’
Jack took another sip, then nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll take a look.’
Gilchrist said nothing while Baxter and Jack argued over a time for him to visit the Office, with Baxter reluctantly accepting tomorrow, which brought a grim smile to Gilchrist’s face – Jack’s way of getting revenge on the way Baxter had treated him.
Then, job done, Baxter finished his pint and pushed to his feet.
‘Not staying for another?’ Gilchrist said.
‘The wife’s got me wallpapering. Halfway through the hall at the moment. It’s doing my nut in. If I don’t finish it today, she’ll leave me in no fit state for another pint. Ouch.’
Gilchrist tilted his pint. ‘Catch you.’ He watched Baxter exit on to Market Street when his mobile rang. He felt a flush of surprise at the ID screen – Becky. ‘Got to take this,’ he said to Jack, and walked towards the side exit on to College Street.
He stepped outside and made the connection.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’ A couple of beats of silence on the line warned him that this was not going to be a let’s-make-up-and-start-again call, and he found himself pressing his mobile hard to his ear.
‘It doesn’t matter where I am,’ she said.
He thought her voice sounded small, strained, as if she were too weak to talk across all the miles that separated them. ‘How are you feeling?’ he said, and wished he’d thought of something more meaningful to ask. ‘I mean . . . are you . . . are you coping?’
‘What do you think?’
With Cooper, it had never been an easy journey. He’d often taken their bantering as nothing more than ritual sparring, sexual manoeuvring; two lovers jostling with each other before the inevitable surrender. But he could not fail to catch the hard bite in her tone.
‘I think yo
u’re struggling to come to terms with it,’ he said. ‘Losing the child you’d never been able to conceive when married.’ He listened to the silent hiss of electronic ether, and stepped to the side as two students jostled past, oblivious to his presence. He watched them totter down College Street arm in arm, trying to remember when he had last done that – only last month, he realised, with Cooper. They’d seemed so close then, even confessed their feelings for each other – well, only he had, now he thought about it, told her he loved her. But for the life of him he could not remember Cooper’s response.
‘You need support,’ he said to her. ‘And I’m happy to—’
‘I don’t need support. I need time.’
He almost pulled his mobile from his ear, not wanting to hear the words he knew were coming.
‘I need to take a break,’ she said. ‘Get away.’ She paused for a couple of beats. ‘Make a fresh start.’
Again, he knew the answer, but still had to ask. ‘You’re not coming back?’
‘I’ll be back in a few days,’ she said, ‘to carry on with my work.’
He waited for her to continue, but she seemed to have passed the conversation baton to him. ‘And what about . . . us?’ It was all he could think to say.
She gave a sigh, not of boredom or irritation, but of regret, sadness, resignation in what she had to tell him, perhaps. ‘I’m sorry, Andy. I can’t. It’s just that . . . if we carry on . . . if we . . . it’ll be a constant reminder of . . . of—’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It’ll take time.’
Another sigh, this time with a hint of annoyance at his failure to understand.
‘If you need anything,’ he said. ‘If I can help in any way—’
‘Please, Andy, don’t.’ Another beat, then, ‘I’m so sorry.’
The line died.
He kept his mobile to his ear as he looked skywards. To anyone watching, he could be one lover listening to the romantic whisperings of another. He watched a patch of blue appear for a fleeting moment before being swallowed by swelling clouds that seemed to soften at the edges as they turned misty.
He lowered his mobile and hung his head.
Then walked back to North Street for his car.
CHAPTER 39
Gilchrist opened a bottle of The Balvenie Doublewood and poured himself more than a fair measure into a crystal glass. He dropped in a chunk of ice and felt a wry smile tug his lips – Whisky’s a warm drink, his mother used to proclaim, then contradict herself in the next breath with: You pour it over the ice, son, no’ the other way about.
He took a large sip, relishing its rich sweetness as he rolled it around his mouth.
On the drive back to Crail, he’d phoned Jack and apologised for having to leave so suddenly – after Cooper, he would have been poor company – following up with a promise to take him and Maureen out for a night some time during the week – take your pick. Oh, and can you take my laptop home with you and I’ll swing by your flat and pick it up later? Jack had enthused about starting a series of abstract paintings based loosely on human features, the kind of thing Chloe used to do, the first mention of her name in over a year, a really positive sign. Removing the threat of going to jail for having sex with a minor would do that to you.
Gilchrist sat at the dining table and switched on his old Dell computer, surprised to find that the next sip drained his glass. Nothing for it but to have another. He was pouring out a large one – was there any other measure for whisky? – when movement at his back window caught his eye. For a moment, his heart stuttered, then settled when he recognised Blackie on the sill, brushing her body up against the glass.
He removed a packet of Perle Ocean from the kitchen cupboard and opened the back door. ‘Here, puss, puss,’ he said, and sprinkled a scattering of moist cat food on to the back step, his first attempt to lure Blackie from the garden shed into his cottage. But she eyed him with feline disdain from her spot on the sill, obliging him to close the door and return inside.
Back at the table, he watched Blackie slip from the sill, out of sight.
Well, at least it was a start.
He logged into his email account to find several paper-clipped messages from Jackie. He opened the attachments one by one and worked through them – copies of letters, excerpts of medical records, prescriptions, flight schedules, tax returns, bank statements. He puzzled at what appeared to be an excerpt from a Final Will and Testament – how had Jackie accessed that? – and felt a frisson of excitement sweep through him when he recognised the name of the executor – Hughes Copestake Solicitors. You would never believe what turns up when you least expect it. He read through the attachments again, then once more, the mental fog lifting, clearing by the second, revealing possibilities that had been blinded to him, up until that moment.
Then he pushed his whisky aside and called Jessie.
He told her what Jackie had emailed, explained his thoughts, testing his logic as he bounced ideas off her and she off him. Ten minutes later, he thought they had what he needed to start the ball rolling, maybe even set it alight.
‘I’ll call Glenrothes,’ he said, ‘and set up an interview.’
‘Robert’s staying over at a friend’s,’ she said.
He caught the excitement in her voice. ‘Would you like me to pick you up?’
‘Is the Pope a Catholic, or what?’
Gilchrist and Jessie entered the police station and almost shuddered to a halt.
Copestake was walking towards them, jacket over his sleeve, shirt collar open. His eyes hung heavy and dark, as if he’d not slept for a couple of days, or been on the binge for a week. ‘Rachel called,’ he said. ‘What’s so important that an interview couldn’t wait?’
‘She’s already wasted enough of our time,’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist pushed past Copestake with, ‘This way.’
Novo was already seated in the Interview Room.
Without a word, Copestake took the seat next to her.
Gilchrist and Jessie sat opposite and, without introduction, Jessie switched on the recorder and proceeded with the interview formalities.
Then she sat back to let Gilchrist take over.
‘I thought you weren’t going to represent any members of the Davis family,’ he said to Copestake.
‘My client’s not had sufficient time to find alternative legal representation.’
‘So you’re it until she does?’
‘You’d have to ask my client that question.’
‘Are you happy to continue to be represented by Mr Copestake?’ he asked Novo.
‘Just get on with it,’ she said. ‘I’m tired of fooling around with you.’
Jessie said, ‘In case it’s slipped your mind, you’re going to serve time for assault—’
‘That has yet to be proven in a court of law,’ Copestake interrupted.
Jessie smiled. ‘Isn’t that what I just said?’
Copestake raised an eyebrow in disbelief, which warned Gilchrist that the man could not be trusted to tell the truth regarding Novo’s attack on Jessie in the kitchen – he’d found his client being cuffed by DS Janes for no apparent reason; and no, he hadn’t seen the knife in his client’s hand, nor had he witnessed her alleged attack.
Which could just be the start of it.
Gilchrist began with, ‘Your mobile records show two numbers stored in Contacts for your sister, Andrea: one for her regular mobile, and one for her other mobile that she seems to use exclusively for calling you.’
‘So?’
‘So why would you only ever call Andrea back on her regular mobile number, and not the other number, the one she uses to call you?’
‘Habit?’
‘You don’t think it strange that your sister has two mobile phones?’
‘Why would I?’
‘Or a mobile phone account in Katarina’s name?’
Novo gave a smile that failed to touch her eyes. ‘If she didn’t want anyone to know she was talking to m
e, it makes perfect sense to me.’
And to Gilchrist, too, he had to agree. He changed tack with, ‘Tell me about Spain.’
‘What about it?’
‘When you and the family solicitor, Mr Copestake here, spent a quiet five days in a luxury villa overlooking the Mediterranean, not long after your husband died.’
‘She was grieving,’ Copestake said.
‘I’m speaking to your client,’ Gilchrist reminded him.
Novo gave him a dead-eyed stare. ‘I was grieving.’
‘That’s understandable, with your husband of only eighteen months having died so unexpectedly in Tangier.’ He noticed Copestake ease back in his seat, as if not wanting to admit to something he’d said earlier. ‘We found the prescription medication.’
‘What prescription medication?’
‘OxyNorm.’
Novo blinked, gave the tiniest shrug. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘It’s an opioid painkiller. But fatal if you take too much. It’s what killed Dimitri.’
Copestake jerked to life. ‘You can’t possibly know that. No post-mortem was carried out on Dimitri—’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘His body was flown to Russia before . . . ’ He shut his mouth, as if stunned by the angry tone of his voice.
Gilchrist held his gaze, let the silence build for several seconds, then turned to Novo. ‘You’d been to Spain before,’ he said, ‘earlier that same year. A weekend in March. Another in May.’
‘If you say so. I’d have to check my passport.’
‘You were accompanied on one of these trips by your solicitor, Mr Copestake, while we believe he met you in Spain on another.’
‘And your point is?’ Copestake asked.
Gilchrist kept his gaze locked on Novo’s. ‘That the two of you were having an affair long before Tangier.’
Novo shrugged. ‘So?’ If she’d had a cigarette to hand, she would have blown smoke in his face.
‘Let’s get back to the prescription medication,’ he said. ‘Did you know it was your stepfather’s?’
