Dead Catch

by T F Muir

  She sniffed, and he realised she might have been crying. ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s not about Tom, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to do with Tom. Why do you always have to jump to that conclusion?’

  Well, if he thought she was still pining after her ex-fiancé, he was mistaken. Rather than tread through the minefield of Mo’s personal life, he said, ‘I can swing by your flat later, Mo. I’m kind of busy at the moment—’

  ‘You’re always busy, Dad. And for goodness sake, I’m not asking you to spend the whole day with me. Can’t you just slip out for a few minutes? It’s not like Fife Constabulary is going to collapse just because you’re not there.’

  ‘A few minutes, you say?’

  But the line was already dead.

  He gritted his teeth. This was the side to Mo he truly despised, her selfish impatience that bordered on the downright rude, an ugly trait she’d inherited from her late mother – not from himself, he was sure of that. But at this stage of a murder investigation, he just couldn’t take time off. So, rather than phone her back, he typed a text – Will swing by tonight. Love you. Xxx – hit the Send button, then slipped his mobile into his jacket pocket just as Jessie tapped his window.

  He wound it down.

  Jessie leaned forward. ‘Mhairi took some photographs of the boat, and sent them to the Maritime and Coastguard Agency in Aberdeen. And guess what? She got lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Struck gold, more like. One of the staff recognised the boat from an unusual wood pattern on the cabin, a repair from being hit by a shipyard crane hook. Said he’d recognise it anywhere because he’d been on the actual boat when it happened. His father used to be a shipwright, and he’d offered to do the repair for a good price, but was turned down. Said that Joe insisted on doing the repair himself, and that he’d recognise his botched up handiwork anywhere.’

  A frisson of electricity iced Gilchrist’s spine. ‘Joe?’

  Jessie gave a grim smile. ‘Joe Christie. From your neck of the woods. Crail. His boat Brenda Girl was lost at sea three years ago, and old Joe with it.’ She sniffed, then twisted her mouth in a grimace. ‘They never found his body.’

  Gilchrist struggled to pull up the memory, and slowly the mist lifted.

  That winter had been milder than normal, and Joe Christie – he could see him now; tousled white hair, ruddy complexion, fingers thick and scarred from a lifetime’s fishing for a living – had set out to sea one Friday morning, as he’d done for the past fifty years. Gilchrist hadn’t known Joe personally. He’d seen him about town, and recalled the talk in the bars at the time, the general consensus being that eff all had happened to Joe, that he’d just got fed up being married to Brenda – who wouldn’t? – and done a runner, and hadn’t he been talking to that young Jenny McKie who worked in the Co-op? She’s up for it, now her man’s left her.

  It had taken his wife, Brenda, ten days to report Joe missing, by which time whatever trail there might have been had gone stone cold. When questioned by the Anstruther Office at the time, Brenda said that she and Joe had been married for too many years, and she thought he’d gone away for a week to have a wee break from life in general, just like he’d done the last ten years or so. But never this long. Which was why she was reporting him missing.

  Jenny McKie was found to be alive and well and not quite so young – late fifties – still working behind the till in the Co-op. She hadn’t seen Joe since that Friday morning when he’d stopped in for a packet of Rizla Kingsize Slim, and a can of Bugler’s tobacco. And that was the last anyone had seen or heard of Joe Christie and his boat Brenda Girl.

  Gilchrist opened the car door. ‘Phone Mhairi again,’ he said, ‘and tell her we need Anstruther’s records of the Christie investigation.’

  ‘I can get these for you.’

  ‘No. I need you to follow up with the SOCOs for photos of the victim, and email them to Dainty for ID. And if you can’t get any decent photos from Colin, the body’s in the Bell Street mortuary.’ He winked at her, and smiled as the penny dropped.

  Then he set off towards the sand dunes.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sure enough, now it had been pointed out to him, even from thirty yards the repair to the cabin roof was noticeable. But he didn’t bother clambering on board to check the repair close up. Instead he walked to the stern and removed his car keys.

  He reached up and scraped his key against the paint where Mhairi had scratched a bit loose. He took care not to gouge too deep, and tried to ease the top layer of paint free. It came away surprisingly easily, enabling him to pry a piece off to reveal a burgundy-coloured hull over which a small portion of the still shining golden letters of the boat’s name had been painted. He thought the letter could be a G. But he needed to make sure.

  He scraped again, and several minutes later had enough of the top layer removed to confirm the letter under the l for Plover was in fact a G – for Girl? He pressed on, scraping over the name from beginning to end, and found a patch where the paint flaked at the letter o in Golden, underneath which he found what looked like the top of a B. He was confused for a moment, until he realised that Golden Plover was longer than Brenda Girl, and could explain why the letter B was slightly offset. He scraped some more, but the paint stuck fast. The top coat would need to be buffed off, or removed with Nitromors or some other paint stripper. But even without the repair job in the cabin, Gilchrist now felt certain that the fishing boat was indeed Joe Christie’s long-lost Brenda Girl.

  He slipped his keys into his pocket and walked around the hull to the rope ladder. He pulled himself on board, then eased up and across the slanted hull until he gripped a corner of the cabin, and pulled himself around it to face the repair.

  Jessie was correct. The repair was a bit of a botched job.

  It looked as if the crane hook had smashed through a corner of the cabin, and broken the windows. Rather than replace an entire section of panelling, an attempt had been made to cut out the damage and fit in the new. Wood-filler had been used to repair the gaps where the new didn’t quite match the old. The windows had been replaced, too, but again the fitting was poor. All in all, a cheap job, and not the level of workmanship you would want to trust your life with, particularly in waters off the Fife coast, which could turn perilous in a heartbeat.

  Gilchrist removed his mobile and took photos of the repair to the cabin, then emailed them to Jessie in the first instance. Once downloaded for their records, he might have Mhairi deliver hard copies to the Maritime and Coastguard Agency for further verification. He was making his shaky way back down the rope ladder when Colin popped his head out of the hold, and said, ‘I think you were right. Looks like they could’ve been running drugs.’

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘I’d say a bag of the stuff burst, and someone tried to sweep it up, but missed a bit in one of the corners. Could be heroin. But I’ll get it analysed in the lab, just to make sure.’ He slipped from view, back into the hold.

  Gilchrist stepped off the ladder onto the safety of the beach. Overhead, the skies had cleared and the sun was doing what it could to remind the people of Scotland that spring was just around the corner. An unpleasant aroma clung to his clothes and a tangible coating on his tongue had him walking to the water’s edge where he took his time breathing in clear, crisp air. Despite the chill, the water looked inviting, and it struck him that he hadn’t swum in the sea, or really had a decent holiday overseas, for several years.

  Maybe it was time for a break. But that would come later.

  First, he had not only a missing-person case to look into, but a murder to solve.

  Logic told him that drugs must surely have been smuggled on Christie’s boat. People didn’t get tortured to death just for the hell of it. For some criminal businesses, drugs were the necessary evil that generated vital cashflow, and that lifeline was worth killing for. The echo of Colin’s earlier words reverberated throug
h his mind – It’s like an incoming tide … it just keeps coming. How right he was. It seemed that the more they tried to clear up the drugs problem, the more it spread – like the criminal equivalent of Japanese knotweed.

  But with drugs came the side-line activities, a thriving industry of drug-fuelled and drug-related criminality that fed off the main engine and kept an entire sub-culture in money or stoned oblivion. Gilchrist had once been convinced his son, Jack, had taken hard drugs, which Jack had repeatedly and vehemently denied, of course, claiming to have dabbled in soft drugs only – cannabis, mescaline – then taking pleasure in reminding his father that alcohol – which Gilchrist drank in copious quantities – was far more addictive than any of the soft drugs Jack enjoyed.

  Which reminded him that he hadn’t spoken to Jack in several weeks.

  He checked the time – 10.44 – which might be considered an early rise for his artist son, then dialled his number. To his surprise, Jack was up and about and sounding lively.

  ‘Hey, Andy,’ Jack said. ‘It’s been a while. How you keeping?’

  ‘Better than your mobile, it seems. Has it died on you?’

  Jack laughed, a hard rattle that pulled a smile to Gilchrist’s lips. ‘The phone works both ways.’

  ‘Not where you’re concerned, it doesn’t.’

  ‘So,’ Jack said, ‘what’s up?’

  He didn’t want to home straight in on the purpose of his call, so said, ‘Thought I’d phone my favourite son for a wee chat between breaks at work.’

  ‘Your only son, you mean. And I keep telling you to give up the day job. It’s doing your nut in. As for me, things are looking up this end. One of the bigger galleries in Dundee has agreed to show my stuff on a trial basis for a month. They’re linked with another gallery in Edinburgh, and if there’s enough interest then, hey, you never know.’

  ‘That’s great, Jack. Why don’t we meet up for a pint sometime soon, and you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘No pints. I’m off the bevvy. Been off it for a month now.’

  Gilchrist tried to hide his surprise with, ‘Are you on antibiotics?’

  ‘No, the wagon.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked. He couldn’t remember a day when Jack had not had a pint in the pub. In fact, since turning eighteen, it was possible that Jack had the perfect attendance record.

  ‘Met someone,’ Jack said. ‘And she’s keeping me on the straight and narrow.’

  Gilchrist almost groaned. Jack might have the perfect attendance in the local pubs, but where women were concerned he was definitely mentally AWOL, maybe even MIA. ‘Well, that’s good to hear, Jack. Anyone I know?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. If you’re free later, we can meet for a pint and I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘Thought you weren’t drinking.’

  ‘We’re not, but you are, right? The Central tonight at six? Does that work?’

  ‘Provided nothing turns up.’

  ‘Me and Kris’ll be in there anyway, having a coffee or something.’

  Jack having a coffee or something? In a pub? Gilchrist was so surprised he almost forgot the purpose of his call. ‘Have you been in touch with Mo recently?’

  Jack sighed, then said, ‘Me and Kris popped round to her flat last week. She barely said a word. You know what Mo’s like.’

  No, he thought. It had been so long since he and Mo had sat down and had a chat that he felt as if he didn’t know what his daughter was like at all any more. ‘Maybe she didn’t like Kris,’ he tried.

  ‘Not like and Kris are words that just don’t go together. There’s no way anyone can’t like Kris. She’s great. You’ll love her.’

  Gilchrist felt his heart slump. This was Jack at his worst, head over heels in love with a woman, blinded to everything in life including common sense and logic. Kris had already talked his son out of drinking alcohol – not that there was anything wrong with that – but the image of Jack in a bar without an alcoholic drink in sight just didn’t compute.

  He kept his options open by saying, ‘If I can make it, I’ll be there, Jack. OK?’

  When the call ended, Gilchrist stared off across the North Sea. He should be proud of Jack for overcoming his reliance on alcohol, and pleased he’d met a woman who could make him feel positive about his life. He should be supportive of his son’s latest relationship, safe in the knowledge that she was good for him.

  But Gilchrist suspected that somehow it would all be short-lived.

  CHAPTER 10

  Gilchrist’s first break arrived at 2.51 that afternoon in the form of a phone call from Dainty. ‘Just had the boys looking through these photos you sent over, and we’re pretty sure it’s Stooky Dee.’

  ‘Pretty sure?’

  ‘Ninety-nine per cent sure. To be a hundred, you need a match on his DNA.’

  ‘Should have results back soon.’

  ‘If the body’s got a tattoo behind the right ear, a bumblebee – don’t fucking ask – then it’s him.’

  ‘We’ll check that out,’ Gilchrist said, then added, ‘So how do you know Stooky?’

  The line hung for several seconds, as if Dainty was considering what to tell him, and how much. ‘A couple of years ago Stooky got involved in a stakeout that went to fuck,’ he said. ‘Took a bullet in his left thigh, and had to be carted off to the Royal. Hobbled about on crutches for months after, threatening to sue the police and everyone in it until we reminded him what side his fucking bread was buttered—’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Are you saying Stooky’s one of ours?’

  ‘Yes and no. He ducked and dived. Worked for whoever paid him.’

  ‘I thought he was on Jock Shepherd’s payroll.’

  ‘That’s why we put the emphasis on allegedly, Andy. He’s allegedly on Shepherd’s payroll. Big Jock knows how the fucking system works. To survive in his business, he has to give a bit, take a bit. From time to time he helps us, and we help him, exchange a bit of this for a bit of that. As far as Shepherd’s concerned, it’s business as usual. That’s the good news,’ Dainty said.

  ‘And the bad?’

  ‘A body was fished from the Clyde at lunchtime. Been in the water a couple of days, but we’ve already been able to ID the poor sod as Hatchet McBirn.’

  Gilchrist jolted. Hatchet McBirn was another name in Tommy’s diary. ‘So of the six names on that list, three are already dead,’ he said. ‘And all allegedly on Shepherd’s payroll.’ A pause then, ‘So it’s gang warfare?’

  ‘Word on the street is that no one wants to take on big Jock. But just keep the status quo, keep their heads down, earn a living, albeit a fucking corrupt one.’

  ‘And what about the remaining names on the list?’ Gilchrist asked, struggling to recall them – Chippie Smith, Angel Thomson, Bruiser Mann.

  ‘They’re on their fucking ownie-oh,’ Dainty said. ‘Just punters on the side, watching what’s what. We’ve had no dealings with them.’

  Something niggled Gilchrist. If Dainty had no interest in the other three, then why were he and Gilchrist still on the phone? He edged into it with, ‘But those who are dead are of interest to you – Boyd, Dee, McBirn. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Then it struck him. ‘But not all three. Only Stooky?’

  Dainty chuckled. ‘Only Stooky,’ he agreed.

  ‘Because …?’

  ‘Because he was tortured.’

  Even then, all the pieces didn’t fit. Dainty was holding something back, he was sure of it. But what? And why such a fuss over a small-time criminal who worked on both sides of the law for whoever paid him the most? Then the penny dropped.

  ‘The fiver stuffed into his mouth,’ he said. ‘It’s a calling card.’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Can’t say because you don’t know? Or because you don’t want to tell me?’

  ‘Some questions are best left unanswered, Andy. Let’s put it that way.’

  ‘You need to do better than
that, Dainty. The body’s turned up on my doorstep, and I’ve a professional and moral obligation to find out how and why he died, and who killed him. You’re duty bound to pass over any information that could assist in the—’

  ‘Cut the fucking protocol crap, Andy. Under normal circumstances I would. But listen to me when I tell you this. These are not normal circumstances.’ A pause, then, ‘Something’s going on. It’s big. And it’s fucking dangerous—’

  ‘And it’s to do with an imminent major drug shipment.’

  Dainty didn’t speak for so long that Gilchrist thought he had hung up. Then he came back with, ‘Was that a fucking educated guess, or have you found something?’

  ‘What would I have found, other than a dead body?’

  ‘You need to tell me what’s going on, Andy—’

  ‘Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?’

  Another pause, then, ‘I’m sending a man up. He’ll be with you by the end of the day.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘DS Nathanial Fox.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘You’ll like Nat. He’s a good guy. Got to go.’

  And with that, the connection died.

  Gilchrist held onto the phone for a few seconds before returning it to its cradle. He churned through their conversation in his mind, troubled by the way Dainty hadn’t taken him into his confidence. They’d been friends for more years than he could remember, but this was the first time he’d felt any kind of resentment against Dainty. It irked that Dainty had hung up without explanation, and annoyed him that he’d wanted Gilchrist to tell all, while keeping his own cards close to his chest.

  But as their words echoed through his mind, Gilchrist came to understand that Dainty didn’t want to be the one to update him, but instead had presented him with an alternative in the form of DS Nathanial Fox. You’ll like Nat. He’s a good guy. Was that Dainty’s way of telling Gilchrist that Nat had all the answers to Gilchrist’s unanswered questions?

  He glanced at the time. Just after three. If Dainty jumped right on it – and it sounded like he would – then DS Nathanial Fox could be with Gilchrist sometime after 5 p.m., in time for that day’s debriefing. He retrieved his mobile, and dialled Cooper’s number.