by T F Muir
‘Cause of death, strangulation by a wire ligature around his neck,’ she said without introduction. ‘The wire is similar to the kind gardeners use to tie back plants, and was tied with a slipknot. So he could have choked himself simply by trying to struggle free. He’d also lost a great deal of blood, so he’s not likely to have been conscious at the time of his passing.’
‘Does he have any tattoos?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘He has several.’
‘How about behind the right ear?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘An insect. Could be a wasp.’
‘How about a bee?’
‘It’s a poor tattoo if it is.’
Gilchrist felt confident enough to say, ‘His name is Stooky Dee, and you should find a DNA match on the database.’
‘Stooky Dee? Who’s he?’
‘A petty criminal known to Strathclyde Police. I’ve been on the phone with Dainty who confirmed the bullet wound in the left thigh was from a stakeout a couple of years ago that went wrong. He had an operation in the Glasgow Royal Infirmary. What else can you tell me from the body?’
‘The slashes on his left arm were done before he died, and by a sharp knife with a fine blade, the blade of a scalpel, perhaps, or something like that.’
‘So he’d been tortured?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Any alcohol, illegal substances in his blood?’
‘Don’t have the toxicology reports back yet, but if he was tortured, it’d be unlikely that whoever was doing the torturing would lessen the pain by giving him drugs.’ She let out a heavy sigh, which had Gilchrist thinking she was irritated by his questions. Or maybe she was having difficulty understanding, just like he was, how any human being could do that to another—
‘They also tortured him with his toes.’
‘Say that again.’
‘His toes. The metatarsal-phalange joint, where the toe connects to the foot. Every one of them was torn.’
‘All five?’
‘All ten. Both feet.’
Gilchrist had to close his eyes, but an image of the man’s toes being pulled back until the joints snapped hit him with such clarity that he pushed away from his desk and looked out the window. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady his heart. White clouds dotted blue skies, nature’s way of fooling you into thinking summer was close.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she said, with a coldness that reminded him of how heartless she’d been with him at times. ‘Open wounds on his back are indicative of him having been whipped.’
‘Ah, fuck.’ He squeezed his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Jesus, Becky, the poor soul’s gone through hell. And for what? To get him to cough up the goods on someone? Don’t they have drugs that can do that now?’
‘They do,’ she said. ‘But they’re expensive, and not readily available.’
Neither’s crack cocaine, he wanted to say. But they can still get their hands on that, whoever they are. But Cooper’s coldness was getting to him. It took a certain individual to carry out postmortem examinations day in day out. You had to be capable of switching off emotions with the ease of turning a tap, which in a way helped him understand how Cooper could just blank whatever feelings she’d once had for him.
He turned from the window as the oddest thought passed through his mind.
‘Send me a copy of what you’ve got so far,’ he said, and ended the call.
The date. That’s what had jumped into his mind.
The date in the diary. The nineteenth of March.
Which happened to be next Monday.
His mention of an imminent drug shipment had stopped Dainty in his tracks. Was that a fucking educated guess, or have you found something? Yes, Gilchrist thought. I’ve found something all right. I’ve found the date of the drugs shipment …
Which you, Dainty, weren’t going to mention.
CHAPTER 11
He found Jessie in her office at her computer, staring at the screen, opened folders strewn across her desk like discarded cards. Her eyes widened as he walked towards her.
‘What’ve I done now?’ she said.
‘I need you to get hold of Tommy.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘Did you get a location on his mobile number?’
‘We got a couple, yeah. But he’ll be long gone by now.’
‘That’s not what I want to hear.’
Without another word, she picked up her mobile and dialled a number. She tapped the screen, and the sound of the dialling tone filled the room. When the connection was made, a recorded voice said, The number you have called is not in service. She ended the call, looked up at him, and said, ‘That’s the only number I’ve got for him.’
‘And your point is?’
Jessie frowned. ‘Even if I was able to contact him, sir – which I’m not – what would you want me to do with him if I found him?’
Gilchrist leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk so that their eyes were level. ‘You’re not listening to me, Jessie. I want you to find Tommy Janes. And when you do, I want him to tell you where and exactly when the drug shipment’s coming in—’
‘What drug shipment?’
‘Tommy knows.’
‘You’ve lost me, sir.’
It might be argued that he was lost himself. He didn’t have a clear understanding of what had happened, only that something was niggling that sixth sense of his, telling him that the answer to Stooky Dee’s murder and, just as importantly, Joe Christie’s disappearance all these years ago, somehow lay with Tommy. But Tommy was prison-smart, and could be one step ahead of him, maybe more. Which raised the worrying thought, that what if Tommy was up to his ears in the killings, and had handed over the diary to throw the police off his trail?
He pushed back from Jessie’s desk, and said, ‘There were six names in that diary. Three are now dead. We can’t rule out the possibility that Tommy—’
‘Hold it.’ Jessie held up her hands. ‘I know my brother’s a nutcase, but he’s no killer.’
‘It’s no giant leap from GBH to murder,’ he tried.
‘It’s not Tommy.’ She shook her head, her eyes almost pleading. ‘Tommy’s a hard bastard, I’ll give you that, but he’s not a killer, Andy. He had a tough upbringing—’
‘As had you.’ He returned her look with one of hard fact. ‘But you don’t go about killing people—’
‘And neither does Tommy.’
‘How can you be sure?’ he said. ‘Tommy’s spent more time inside than out. He even shared a cell with Bully Reid, for God’s sake. If there was one born killer on the planet, then Bully was it. And after being released on licence, Tommy found himself back inside within six months—’
‘He’s changed, Andy. Believe me, I know he’s changed.’
‘Like a leopard changes its spots?’
Something passed behind Jessie’s eyes at that comment, some thought that stilled her, as if time had backtracked and she found herself staring at Tommy as a youngster. Then the scene rebooted. ‘Tommy can’t swim,’ she said.
‘And …?’
‘When we were young, me and Tommy and Terry were playing by the River Cart, searching for frogs. Tommy slipped on a rock, and fell in. He panicked. Started screaming and flapping his arms like he was drowning. Terry walked in and pulled him out. The water was only waist high. Ever since then, Tommy’s been scared to death of water. He won’t go anywhere near it. He’ll barely walk across a bridge if there’s water flowing under it.’ She shook her head with absolute certainty. ‘Even if that boat had been high and dry in a shipyard waiting to be launched, there’s no way Tommy would’ve gone onto it to kill that guy—’
‘Stooky Dee.’
Jessie gawked at him. ‘What?’
‘Our tortured guy’s name is Stooky Dee. Dainty’s team ID’d him. Cooper expects the DNA results back any time now, which will confirm it.’
She still seemed pu
zzled. ‘You said three on the list were dead.’
‘Dainty confirmed that Cutter Boyd was found in a dumpster at the back of the King’s Theatre two weeks ago, with his throat cut. Lunchtime today, Hatchet McBirn was pulled from the River Clyde.’
Jessie said, ‘And about a week ago, Stooky Dee was killed in the hold of a fishing boat. So …’ She let out a lungful of air. ‘One killing a week? Is that significant?’
Gilchrist raised an eyebrow. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. But maybe.’ He walked across the room, turned his back to the window, and sat on the sill. Jessie looked small and wounded, as if hurt by his accusations about Tommy. But sometimes you just have to push.
‘How would Tommy know these six names?’ he asked.
‘That’s anybody’s guess.’
‘They’re all on Jock Shepherd’s payroll. Allegedly,’ he emphasised. ‘Does Tommy know big Jock?’
‘Wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘What if it’s not just the names we should be thinking about, but the date?’
‘What date?’
‘The date in the diary. The page Tommy wrote the names on. The nineteenth of March.’
‘Is that significant?’
He pushed off the sill. ‘Dainty said something big is going on, and that it’s dangerous. But he wouldn’t tell me what. But I think Tommy knows. And he knows when. Monday’s the nineteenth, so if Tommy knows the date, then logically he must know what’s about to happen.’ He returned Jessie’s gaze, but she was offering him nothing.
‘The SOCOs found evidence of hard drugs on Joe Christie’s boat,’ he said. ‘So I think it was being used for shipping drugs.’
‘I’d heard,’ she said. ‘Maybe for social use?’
‘Too much for that. Colin thought it was spillage from a burst bag.’ Gilchrist pulled out a chair. ‘Tommy’s the key. He knows what’s going on. So we need to find him. And you’re the best person to do that.’
‘How the hell am I going to do that?’ she said. ‘Sir.’
‘You once said that you and Tommy used to be close—’
‘Used to be. Past tense.’
‘But you know who his friends are, who he’d confide in, where he’d likely go to lie low for a while.’
‘I’ve hardly spoken to Tommy in years,’ she said. ‘I’ve no idea who his friends are. If word gets to Tommy that I’m looking for him, he’ll think I’m after him. And believe me, when Tommy’s cornered, he’s scary. I don’t know if I’d like to meet him anywhere under these circumstances.’
‘You might if you were to give him good news.’
Jessie stared at him. ‘And what good news would that be?’
‘A new life in exchange for his testimony.’
‘Witness protection?’
Gilchrist nodded.
Jessie puffed out her cheeks, then let it out. ‘Jeezo, Andy, I wouldn’t know where to start to look for him. I really wouldn’t.’
‘He’s got your phone number, hasn’t he?’
‘Hello? Earth to Andy?’ She tapped an imaginary head with her knuckles. ‘Tommy might have my number, but I can’t get through to his. Duh …’
‘So make him call you.’
‘What am I missing?’
‘I don’t care how much of a loner Tommy is. He must have some friends somewhere. Or one friend, only one that he trusts.’ He tried to hold her gaze, but she offered a blank look at the floor in response. ‘Tommy’s never married. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘But there must be someone he’s close to.’
Jessie pursed her lips.
‘Think,’ he demanded. ‘Was he ever in love? Did he ever lose his heart to a woman?’
‘This is Tommy Janes we’re talking about. Love and Tommy are two words that don’t go well together.’
Gilchrist raked his fingers through his hair. ‘A girl maybe, when he was younger.’ But still he was not breaking through. ‘When you were all younger. Before Tommy grew up and became wild.’ He caught his breath as something seemed to shift behind Jessie’s eyes, like the faintest of shadows. ‘Yes?’ he urged.
Then she stared through him. ‘Izzy,’ she said. ‘Izzy Sinclair. She lived in the same close as us in Easterhouse. She had a soft spot for Tommy. I remember Tommy and Terry fighting out the back one day over something Terry had said to Izzy. Tommy gave him a right doing. Izzy must’ve been only fourteen or fifteen, but after that she doted on Tommy. But Tommy being Tommy, played the big man, wanting nothing to do with a wee girl. Not long after that, Izzy’s old man got a new job and they moved away. Years later, I heard that Tommy and Izzy had met up again and had an on-off relationship for some time. But I don’t think it lasted. Probably got pissed off visiting him in Barlinnie.’ She grimaced at Gilchrist. ‘And that’s about it.’
‘It’s thin, I know. But it’s a start.’ He pushed to his feet. ‘Get Jackie to find out what she can about Izzy, where she is, what she’s doing. And if she’s still in the country, go and talk to her face to face. She might know something.’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
He shrugged. ‘Then we’re back to square one.’
CHAPTER 12
With Jessie assigned to finding Tommy with the help of Jackie Canning – researcher extraordinaire – Gilchrist went in search of Mhairi. He found her at her desk, headphones on, eyes fixated on her computer screen.
When she noticed him, she whipped off her headphones. ‘Sir?’
‘Any luck with Joe Christie’s files?’
She held up a large Manila folder. ‘Got them here, sir.’
‘Is his wife still alive?’
‘She is, sir, and she still lives in Crail.’
‘Let’s go. And update me on the way.’
He had just pulled his BMW onto North Street when his phone rang – ID Cooper. He took the call through his car’s system, and said, ‘Yes, Becky.’
‘The DNA is a match for Stooky Dee,’ she said.
‘Toxicology results?’
‘God, Andy, you really are impatient.’
‘I take it that’s a no. So when will you have them?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘I’ll talk to you then.’ He ended the call, and said, ‘Tell me what you’ve found on Joe Christie.’
Mhairi flipped the folder open, and slipped out several sheets with notes scribbled on them. ‘The SIO assigned to his case was DS May Pearson. She’s since left the service and the area, and moved to Calgary in Canada with her husband and two children.’
‘That’s a bad start.’ He turned left into Abbey Street, and accelerated downhill. ‘We can still contact her if we need to. Keep going,’ he said.
‘The last person to see Joe Christie was Ivan McIver, who owned the fishing boat Seagull Bait. He died last year.’
Gilchrist gritted his teeth, gripped the steering wheel, and hissed, ‘Jesus.’
‘But we’ve got Ivan’s statement here. He says that Joe was never a talker, that he was a loner who just got on with the day job of setting out to sea and laying his creels. He says here, that the last time he saw Joe, he thought he looked troubled—’
‘Troubled? In what way?’
‘He doesn’t say.’ She flipped through a number of pages, then read, ‘That morning, Joe was quieter than usual. I said Good morning to him, but he ignored me. He looked awful worried, as if some major problem was troubling him. He was always tight with money, and I remember thinking he must have had a bad weekend in the bookies.’ She flipped a page over. ‘The last sighting I had of him was at the wheel of Brenda Girl heading east. The swell was rising and the winds were picking up from the north. I wondered why Joe was heading into deeper waters.’
‘So Joe was going somewhere different that day?’
‘Looks like that. But McIver didn’t know where.’
‘Did the Anstruther Office look into that?’
Mhairi brushed through some more pages, then shook her head. ‘No, it looks like that was it.
Joe sailed into the sunset, so to speak, and was never seen again.’
‘Surely someone somewhere must have a sighting of him.’ Gilchrist let out a gasp of frustration. ‘I mean, the North Sea’s got to be one of the busiest fishing areas on the planet.’
‘But how would we find that out after all this time?’
‘The Coastguard must have some records of shipping, surely.’ But even as the words left his mouth, he realised he could be setting his team an impossible task, trying to track down evidence of a sighting of Christie’s Brenda Girl before he and his boat vanished. And all for what? It didn’t matter where the boat had gone to. What mattered was that it had been found again, albeit with a new name. Joe Christie was dead, Gilchrist felt sure. They might be able to glean more about what had happened to Joe, and where he had gone, if they spoke to the one person who must have known him better than anyone else – his wife.
‘Tell me what else you’ve found,’ he said, and drove on.
But by the time they reached the fishing village of Crail, and turned into Kirkwynd, Gilchrist was none the wiser. He parked opposite the address, a small terraced cottage on Nethergate with a clay-coloured pan-tiled roof. Weeds grew from the roof gutter, paint peeled from the fascia, a once-tidy home now tired and rundown, as if it needed a man’s presence. Grey smoke from the single chimney trailed across the adjacent rooftops.
Someone was at home.
Mhairi rang the bell.
Gilchrist counted to twelve, then Mhairi rang the bell again.
A few seconds later, she cocked her head. ‘Someone’s coming.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your hearing.’ He stood back as the door cracked open, and an elderly woman’s face, lined and grey, topped with dishevelled hair, filled the gap. The door creaked wider to reveal a stained dressing gown that draped over worn slippers.
‘Mrs Christie?’ he said.
‘That’s what it says on the door.’
He held out his warrant card. ‘DCI Gilchrist from St Andrews CID, and this is DC McBride.’
