by T F Muir
Still, cheese wire didn’t explain the bloodied face and slashed arms.
He ran his gaze along the chevron cuts, noted the clotted blood, which told him that the man had been alive when these wounds had been inflicted, probably for the purpose of torture. He puzzled at the logic, and thought the chevrons were too perfect, too symmetrical, to have been done at sea. So, it was probable that the boat had been docked during the man’s initial imprisonment in the hold. Of course, all of this was conjecture at the moment, and he knew he could be so far off base that he could be outside looking in.
A shadow shifted across the hatch opening, and he watched with interest as first one Hunter-wellington clad leg, then another, searched for, and found, the ladder rungs. He knew how slippery the floor was, and he managed to work his way over to the ladder and offer his hand as support.
To his surprise, Cooper took it.
‘A gentleman to the last,’ she said.
‘Not sure I like the sound of to the last, but other than that, what can I say?’ He gave her a smile, which she failed to reciprocate. Well, what had he been expecting? ‘Body’s that way.’
‘So I see,’ she said, and pulled free.
It irked him that she could cast him off with such apparent ease, as if all he had ever been to her was someone to fill the void left by a philandering husband until she could decide whether or not to go through with their divorce. Last Gilchrist had heard, she had chosen not to. But with Cooper, nothing was ever straightforward.
He was saved by his mobile ringing.
Gripping the ladder with one hand, he removed his phone from his jacket with the other – ID Mhairi. ‘Yes, Mhairi. What’ve you got?’
‘Nothing, sir. Her car’s still in the driveway. It looks like she decided to walk to wherever she was going.’
‘What the hell’s Jessie playing at?’ he said.
Cooper cast him a knowing look, as if to say, I told you she would let you down. But he ignored her, and clambered up the ladder, feet slipping on the rungs. He staggered onto the deck, and braced himself as he faced an easterly wind that carried with it more than a hint of rain. A glance over the Eden Estuary told him it would be pelting it down in five minutes. But raining or not, he needed to have a word with Jessie that afternoon, the firmer the better.
In the meantime, he had a murder investigation to get started.
‘Drop what you’re doing, Mhairi. I need you at Tentsmuir Beach.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He shivered off a chill, and said, ‘And mine’s a latte, no sugar.’
‘On its way, sir.’
CHAPTER 3
Jessie waited for a gap in the traffic, then scurried across Largo Road and into ALDI supermarket. After the blustering winds, the store felt quiet, safe. She walked to the end of the first aisle, as instructed – so that Tommy could watch her from afar, she knew, to see if anyone was following her. Then she returned to the front of the store, purchased a newspaper – the Daily Record – and paid for it at the till.
Back outside, the cold wind felt like a punch to the face. She zipped her anorak up to her neck, flipped up the hood, then turned into the teeth of the wind. She walked along the side of the store, crossed the street and into Tom Stewart Lane, which ran beside an open green space with goalposts at either end. But with the weather so fierce, that morning the park lay empty. Trees that lined the chain-link fence swayed and bent in the gale. Leaves and pieces of paper trapped in the mesh flapped like fish in netting.
The lane was nothing more than a paved footpath, which brought her out to a parking area and a double row of lock-ups that served the surrounding terraced homes. Despite the quietness of the area, she didn’t think Tommy would make an appearance here, it being too exposed. Where she stood could be seen from a number of windows. She noticed a curtain twitch on one of the upper windows – not Tommy, she was sure, but a nosy neighbour. She slipped her hand into her pocket and removed a mobile phone – the one she’d found ringing on the hall floor that morning – just to give her something else to hold. Then she scowled at the screen to let Tommy know – if he was watching – that he was beginning to piss her off.
No texts. No missed calls. Nothing.
She cursed under her breath and slipped the mobile back into her pocket as her mind replayed Tommy’s words to her – Once you’re out of Tom Stewart Lane, keep walking. I’ll be watching you.
‘Aye, right, Tommy,’ she said to herself. ‘I’ll keep walking. But which way?’
She was unfamiliar with the housing estate in which she now stood, and didn’t know where any of the roads led. Not that you could get lost in St Andrews, more likely you could walk for miles and end up at some spot you’d driven past for years without knowing how you got there. Of course, she could look the street up on the internet, check it out on Google Maps if she’d had her own mobile. But the phone Tommy had slotted through her letterbox in the early hours was bottom of the range.
Nothing for it, she thought, but to carry on walking.
Rather than head deeper into the estate or walk beside the double row of garages – something about lock-ups always made her feel ill at ease – she decided to take James Robb Avenue. She turned left into the avenue, relieved to be out of the full blast of the wind. She had gone only a few yards when the mobile rang.
She stopped, and took the call.
‘Turn round,’ a man’s voice said. ‘You’re going the wrong way.’
‘You told me to keep walking—’
The connection died.
Jessie kept the mobile to her ear as she eyed the nearest windows, then those beyond, trying to work out where Tommy had called from. If he could see her, then surely she could see him. But Tommy had been on the run since last November, and despite Strathclyde’s best efforts, no one had found a trace of him. Her brother could be the Artful Dodger for all anyone knew. If a full police force couldn’t find him, what chance did she have?
She stuffed the mobile into her pocket, tucked the Daily Record under her arm, and said, ‘Fuck you, Tommy. I’ve got better things to do than fanny around after you.’ As if to make matters worse, it started raining, but she put her head down, and retraced her steps.
She returned to James Robb Avenue, turned left, and walked past the lock-ups. When she reached Fraser Avenue, she stopped, expecting the mobile to ring and Tommy to tell her she was going the wrong way again. But it lay in her pocket, silent. The rain had turned into a downpour. Drops bounced off the road like liquid bullets. From the distance, she caught the growling grumble of thunder. Above, the sky blackened. She hoped Tommy would make an appearance soon, and she wondered for the umpteenth time why he hadn’t insisted she do this under cover of darkness—
The mobile rang.
She turned her back to the wind and rain, and made the connection.
‘Eyes left,’ Tommy said.
Jessie shifted her body. ‘Now what?’
‘See that silver car, the one with the broken tail-light?’
It took her a few seconds to pick it out from others parked there. ‘Got it.’
‘It’s in there. On the back seat.’
‘What is?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Then what?’
‘You’ll know, once you see it.’
‘And what do you want me to do with this bloody Daily Record?’
‘Shove it up your arse for all I care.’
‘Then why did you tell me to buy it?’
‘So’s you wouldnae look suspicious in ALDI, walking in and back out again.’
‘Oh that’s fucking brilliant, Tommy, that is.’
The line died.
Jessie slid the mobile into her jacket, and walked towards the car. She glanced left and right, searching for movement, anything that might give her a clue as to where her brother was. But by the time she reached the car, she was none the wiser.
The car was a Vauxhall Vectra, with soft tyres that bulged from low pressure. The windscr
een, bonnet and roof were splattered with bird droppings. Dirt gathered on the road around the wheels told her that the car had neither been cleaned nor moved in weeks, maybe months. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves, took a quick look around her.
The worst of the storm had passed, but it was still raining hard.
She tried the rear door handle. It clicked open.
There, on the back seat, lay a small padded envelope. She reached inside, picked it up, and slipped it between the pages of the Daily Record. Door closed, newspaper tucked inside her jacket, and off she went, conscious that her actions might have been seen from one of the neighbouring homes, and already the police were being notified of a car theft.
She retraced her steps, walking smartly, but not running. Striding with the wind, the rain seemed less harsh, the temperature less chilling, and by the time she arrived at ALDI again, she found herself out of breath and sweating. Christ in a bucket, she needed to get fit, or cut out all the junk food – pizza, fish and chips, samosas, curries. But she shared meals at home with her boy, and where would Robert be if all of a sudden she stopped buying what he liked to eat?
She thought of stopping off for a coffee somewhere and opening Tommy’s envelope. But she decided against that. She was already running late, and with this latest crime – dead body found on grounded fishing boat – she knew that Andy needed all the help he could get. So she carried on, working her way back along Largo Road, towards her home where her car was parked, all the while expecting the mobile to ring, and Tommy to tell her what to do.
By the time she arrived back home, she was sweating like a sumo wrestler. But she didn’t stop for a coffee, or a shower, or a change of clothes. Instead she picked up her own mobile, then slid into her car, a Fiat 500 that Lachie – CS Lachlan McKellar of Strathclyde Police – ex-friend, ex-associate, ex-everything for that matter, had arranged for her to buy in a sweetheart deal. At the time she hadn’t asked what the term sweetheart deal had meant, but soon found out that it had much to do with the lowering of knickers.
Christ, how could she have been so stupid?
She had just driven through the mini-roundabout at the Whey Pat Tavern onto City Road, when she decided not to drive straight to Tentsmuir Beach, but to find out what was in the package. She needed to know what she was dealing with. It was all far too close to home, and could snap up and bite her. So, she drove into St Marys Place, and eased her way through early morning traffic – where do all these cars come from? In Market Street, she found a parking spot within spitting distance of Starbucks.
With skinny latte and blueberry muffin in hand – well, she had missed breakfast – she found a seat in the back room, devoid of students, visitors or others taking shelter from the storm. She broke her muffin, took a nibble and a sip of coffee, before daring to retrieve the package from her jacket pocket. She laid it on the table, and for a fleeting moment wondered if she should bypass Gilchrist and go through the formal process of logging it in at the Office. Then, just as quickly she discarded that idea. Instead, she retrieved Tommy’s mobile, and returned the last incoming number.
She held her breath as the call went through the connection process to end with a recorded message telling her that the number you have called does not exist. Well, no surprise there, she thought. Tommy had not evaded half of the national police forces by being stupid. But it did tell her that she would have to wait for him to contact her.
She picked up the padded envelope, turned it over just to check she wasn’t missing anything – an address, printed message, even a name – which she wasn’t. Then she slipped her car key under the flap and pulled it along the edge. Even so, she peered inside before sliding out its contents, a pocket diary – last year’s edition – no more than four inches in size, the kind she used to write in when she was in primary school. Although the cover appeared to be in good condition, the diary had a permanent bend to it, as if it had spent most of its life in someone’s back pocket.
She flipped through the pages, mostly blank, until she came across what Tommy had wanted her to find – a list of six names in child-like printing in ink near the spine, so that anyone flipping through the diary might not notice. None of the names meant anything to her. But clearly this information was of value to someone, and important enough for Tommy to risk his freedom getting it to her. Were these names somehow associated with the murders for which Tommy was wanted? But more worrying, now she had the diary in hand, she realised she could not simply present these names as evidence of anything, as they’d been given to her by the prime suspect in a double murder investigation.
She came to understand that she really only had one option.
And she didn’t think Andy would like it.
CHAPTER 4
‘Thanks, Mhairi,’ Gilchrist said. ‘You’re a darling.’ He took a sip of his Costa coffee, and felt the warm liquid slide into his stomach. Just that first mouthful made him realise how cold he was, how an east wind off the North Sea could suck the warmth from your body without mercy.
Mhairi had almost finished her own coffee, and nodded to the fishing boat. ‘What do you think, sir?’
‘I think you don’t need to see it,’ he said.
She grimaced, as if offended. ‘Sir?’
‘It’s bad, Mhairi,’ he said, then regretted having said that. He shouldn’t minimise her by trying to shield her from a gruesome murder scene. Baptism by fire, he’d been told when he first joined the Constabulary. But truth be told, of the three of them – Jessie, Mhairi and himself – he had the weakest stomach. He often suffered visceral nausea at the scenes of horrific killings he’d been forced to study in detail in order to solve the crime.
‘I meant,’ he said, ‘that with the hull lying the way it is, and with the wind and all the rain we’ve just had, the deck is super slippery. Best to wait until they’ve got the body in the mortuary.’
‘I see, sir.’
Gilchrist hid his face in his coffee as Mhairi eased away from him, the magnetic pull of the crime scene seemingly irresistible despite slick decking. He watched her eye the side of the ship, lean forward and touch the hull, run a hand over it as she walked to the stern. Then she stood there, tilted her head as if all the better to read the name of the boat.
Something about that action intrigued Gilchrist, the way she frowned as she read the name, then stepped forward to scrape a fingernail over the paint. Then coffee cup stuffed into the sand at her feet, hand into her jacket pocket to remove her car keys. It didn’t take much scraping before she looked at Gilchrist, brow raised, eyes wide.
‘What’ve you got?’ he said, and walked towards her.
‘The name’s been painted over, sir.’
He looked at it – Golden Plover – in bold yellow paintwork against the dark blue hull, beneath which the town – St Combs – was painted in the same colour, but in smaller, squarer letters. He couldn’t place the town of St Combs, only knew it was on the coast north of Fife. Part of the stem of the l in Plover had been scraped off by Mhairi where the paint had already been flaking. As he scanned the letters, he saw that the paint was in poor condition, and that the hull needed to be stripped and repainted if it was to be maintained in good order.
Back to the l in Plover, below which he thought he could make out the faintest shape of another letter, as if the paint beneath was embossed. Or maybe nothing more dramatic than a run in the paintwork. ‘What’re you thinking?’ he asked Mhairi.
She tore a sheet of paper from her notepad. ‘That there’s another name underneath.’
Gilchrist watched Mhairi press the paper flat to the hull, over the l, then run a pencil back and forth across it, until the ghostly shape of another letter took form – the tail end of an upper case G.
She removed the paper, held it out to him. ‘What do you think, sir?’
‘How often are names changed on boats?’
‘Don’t know, sir. But I phoned the Maritime and Coastguard Agency before I left the Office, and they confi
rmed they have no records of a Golden Plover out of St Combs. They had a Golden Eagle, but no Plover.’
Mhairi was proving herself to be an invaluable team member, prepared to take the initiative, and always willing to learn. He nodded. ‘So we have an unregistered fishing boat beached on the shores of Fife last night, with no crew, only the mutilated body of a black male.’ He stared off across the Eden Estuary, and had to shield his eyes against a sharp burst of rain. Black clouds, low enough to touch, were about to drop their lot – a thunderplump his mother used to call it. But with the rain came a slackening in the wind, no longer whistling from the east, but bustling from the south.
He turned back to Mhairi. ‘So what’re we looking at? Drugs? Smuggling? Human trafficking?’ He nodded to the boat. ‘Or just plain old murder.’
Mhairi’s lips pressed into a white line, causing him to reflect on what he’d just said. Was this a sign that he’d been in the job too long, that he was now inured to the horrors of a brutal killing? How could he breeze over such a gruesome crime scene by calling it plain old murder? He cleared his throat, and said, ‘Whatever’s going on, no one deserves to have their life ended like that. So let’s get cracking.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want you to find out the original name of this boat, who it’s registered to, and when it was last at sea under its original name. It’s likely too much to expect to find the logbook, but maybe the Maritime and Coastguard Agency have records of its whereabouts in the last couple of months. Get Jackie to help you. Give me everything you can. I want the works. OK?’
‘I’m on it, sir.’
With that, he tugged his collar up, and clambered up the rope ladder again, intent on finding out if Cooper had any news for him. The hold would also provide cover from the rain, now picking up to a steady downpour.
