by T F Muir
He took another sip of his beer. ‘So I understand how you feel, Mo. At the moment, you’re scared. And overwhelmed. It’s almost too much to take in.’ He smiled at her, placed his beer on the table, reached out for her hand, and massaged her fingers. ‘But don’t worry. That’s life. These feelings of uncertainty and insecurity will pass.’ He searched her eyes for any signs of having made an impact, but she stared back at him with a cold look that warned him he might have it all wrong.
Then she said, ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You already have.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
He nodded to her iced water. ‘Your subconscious already knows your decision.’
She stared at her glass as if confused, then looked up at him and said, ‘Maybe I’ll have a large wine before I go to bed.’
‘Maybe you will.’ He released her hand. ‘But if I was a betting man, I’d put money on you not wanting to harm your own child.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘I need to go. I’ve got a lot on. But thanks for the meal. And the beers.’ He slid the half-finished bottle to the side. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
She lowered her gaze to the iced water.
He let himself out.
CHAPTER 17
Back in his car, Gilchrist sat for several minutes trying to still the sickening feeling in his gut. Maureen was pregnant. A surprise, but not the end of the world. Nowhere near it. In fact, it was the beginning of the world for her child. He felt his lips stretch into a smile, then shift to a tight grimace as he tried to stifle a sense of rising panic. He hadn’t been convincing enough for Maureen. She was determined, single-minded, a woman who might – and there was a difficult question in that might – go through with the termination just to prove him wrong. Oh, dear God. Surely never.
He replayed their conversation, and saw that he had not handled it well. It wasn’t too late to go back to her flat and try to offer fatherly advice. But Maureen was no pushover. For years he’d struggled with their relationship. One moment she was loving and understanding, the next the switch would click, and it was as if she would do the exact opposite of what he was saying, just because she could. And tonight, he feared, was one of these moments.
But her own pregnancy …?
‘No way,’ he said to himself, and made a mental note to phone her first thing in the morning. Then he did what he always did when life’s problems appeared overwhelming, he went back to work. He retrieved his mobile from the glove compartment, and powered it up.
Maureen often accused him of loving his job more than he loved his family, so he’d not taken his mobile with him, a concession he was certain she hadn’t even noticed. But the manner in which their evening had ended niggled away at him. Should he have been more understanding, more patient? Had he rushed away? Should he have stayed longer?
But these thoughts were getting him nowhere.
He checked his mobile, and saw that he’d missed four calls, one from Cooper – now wasn’t that a surprise? – one from Jessie, one from Smiler and, most recently, one from DS Fox, in reverse incoming order.
He returned Fox’s call first, only to be dumped into voicemail. He left a message asking Fox to call back, then he called Smiler.
‘Sorry for calling so late, ma’am. But I’ve just picked up your message.’
‘Thanks, Andy. I’m not long off the phone with the Chief. I told him what you’d told me, but he’s still not happy about your contacting Strathclyde for help in resources.’
‘Did he listen to what you were telling him?’
‘He did. But he’s not interested.’
Gilchrist almost cursed with frustration. For big Archie to make such a fuss about resources from other constabularies, there had to be something more going on. But what, he was not being made privy to. He accelerated past the mini-roundabout at the foot of Kinkell Brae, and into open countryside. Off to his left, beyond the caravan park, the North Sea lay as black as ink. Ahead, the road lay clear, his rearview mirror, too. He could have the night stars all to himself. His car responded to his foot on the pedal, its three-litre engine powering him into the night with effortless ease.
‘So you’re instructing me to do what, ma’am?’
‘I’m instructing you to drop any and all involvement with Strathclyde,’ she said.
‘Someone’s pulling the Chief’s strings,’ he said. ‘Did he tell you who he spoke to?’
Her deep sigh could have been anger. ‘Don’t try to second guess the Chief Constable on this. There could be a hundred reasons for him being upset at your interference.’
Gilchrist didn’t like the word interference. As far as he was concerned, he’d not been interfering in anything, only trying to move his murder investigation forward. ‘Such as …?’
‘Such as some ongoing operation that is relying on discretion and stealth, as opposed to some other constabulary, specifically Fife, marching in with their bloody heavy boots, and interfering with carefully prepared plans.’
‘Did McVicar say that?’
‘Not word for word.’
‘So you’re reading between the lines—’
‘What I’m reading, DCI Gilchrist, is that you are to have no further contact with anyone in Strathclyde, or any other constabulary for that matter, with respect to the murder of Mr Stooky Dee.’
Gilchrist put his foot on the brake, pulled the car to a skidding halt, tyres kicking up dirt and gravel as he bumped onto the grass verge. ‘With all due respect, ma’am—’
‘And with all due respect, DCI Gilchrist, I will not have you challenging my direct instructions. You are off the case. End of. Is that clear? You and your staff are to have no further involvement in Dee’s murder investigation. You are to hand over all files to DS Fox of Strathclyde Police first thing in the morning.’
Gilchrist hissed a curse.
‘I’ve already spoken to DS Fox,’ she said. ‘He’ll be here at eight, first thing.’
Which explained the earlier phone message from Fox, but also the real reason why he was staying overnight in St Andrews. To ensure that all files pertaining to Stooky’s murder were delivered to Strathclyde in person. ID-ing the body, or confirming the five-pound note, could be considered a bonus—
‘You’ve gone quiet on me, Andy.’
The use of his first name told him that Smiler had got over her hissy-fit, and might be feeling regret at having snapped. Not regret at letting him have it, but regret at not controlling her temper as precisely as she liked to portray.
‘I’m thinking,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing to think about. The powers that be have taken us – you – off the case. In doesn’t matter that Stooky Dee turned up dead in Fife waters. He lived in Glasgow, and his death in all probability occurred nowhere near Fife. So, it makes sense for Strathclyde to take control. Besides, it’s all part of a much wider investigation. There’s too much at stake. This is beyond our scope.’ She let several seconds elapse, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Andy. But that’s the way it is.’
Part of a much wider investigation? Well, shouldn’t Fife Constabulary be called upon to assist? It seemed the logical thing to ask, but instead he said, ‘Very well, ma’am. I’ll be at the Office first thing to make sure DS Fox is given every file as required.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘You and I will have a word then.’
‘Before you go, ma’am?’
‘Yes?’
He could not fail to catch the bite of impatience in her tone. ‘For the avoidance of any misunderstanding, ma’am, I should tell you that I intend to retain some original files and hand over copies of—’
‘What did I just tell you?’ she snapped. ‘You are off the case.’
‘I know that, ma’am, but—’
‘Stop,’ she shouted. ‘That’s enough.’ She paused, as if to catch her breath, and when she next spoke, her tone possessed a clinical coldness that warned him he might have pushed too far. ‘Be in my office tomorrow morning at eight,’
she said. ‘At which time you will place every file, record and note pertaining to Stooky Dee’s murder investigation, every single one of them, all originals, on my desk.’
It took him a few seconds of silence to realise she was waiting for him to agree. ‘If you say so, ma’am.’
‘I will then witness you handing over every single original file to DS Fox. Is that clear, DCI Gilchrist?’
‘It is indeed, ma’am.’ But the line was already dead.
He slipped into gear and bumped back onto the road. Within seconds, he accelerated to seventy. If he’d been in Smiler’s position, would he have been so determined to stamp his authority on the Office staff? He would like to think not. But the odds of him reaching any rank loftier than Detective Chief Inspector at this stage in his career were slim to zero, maybe even one hundred below. Still, he would like to think he would be more willing to listen to his subordinates, take on board what they were saying. So, for what he was about to do, he reasoned, Smiler had only herself to blame.
He dialled Jackie Canning’s number, and she answered with, ‘Uh-huh?’
‘Evening, Jackie. Sorry to call at this hour. I haven’t disturbed you, have I?’
‘Nuh-uh.’
‘Got an easy job for you,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting the Chief Superintendent tomorrow morning first thing, and I need you to make a copy of all files and notes on the investigation into the body on the boat. Think you can do that before I meet her?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Might be simpler if you created a separate folder and just dumped all the computer files into it. Would you need a hand to scan and copy any handwritten notes?’
‘Nuh-uh.’
‘It shouldn’t take you too long, should it?’
‘A c … a c …’
‘A couple of hours?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Thanks, Jackie. You’re the best.’ He gave a squelchy mwah over the phone, and felt a smile tug his lips at her chuckle.
Next he dialled DS Fox and was dumped into voicemail again. ‘Just letting you know that I’ve spoken to Chief Superintendent Smiley, and she’s instructed me to hand over files to you tomorrow morning. It’ll take my team some time to pull them all together, so why don’t you swing by at, say, nine o’clock? We should have everything good to go by then.’
He ended the call.
Next, he phoned Jessie.
‘How did you get on with Izzy?’ he asked.
‘She didn’t come right out and say it, but she’s been in contact with Tommy.’
‘And …?’
‘And she’s going to have a talk with him.’
‘Well, the brown stuff’s hit the fan big time,’ he said. ‘McVicar’s been on to Smiler, and we’re off the case.’
‘Hang on ’til I clean my ears,’ she said. ‘For a moment there, I thought you said we were off the case.’
He chuckled, and said, ‘Get hold of Izzy again, tonight if possible, and tell her we need to speak to Tommy as a matter of urgency.’
‘So what’re you thinking?’
‘That someone somewhere has got something on McVicar, and until we know who it is or what’s going on, I wouldn’t trust anyone. Least of all DS Fox.’
‘You met him?’
Gilchrist explained that evening’s events, ending with, ‘Let’s talk first thing in the morning.’
‘Define first thing.’
‘I’ll pick you up at six.’
‘Will I have time to put on my mascara?’
‘Only if you’re quick.’
She giggled, and said, ‘See you then.’
He was driving into Crail when his phone rang again – ID Cooper. With all that had gone on that night, he’d forgotten she’d called. Or maybe his subconscious was warning him that it was for the best that they no longer communicated. On the other hand, recent contact between them had been nothing but professional. Even so, it still irked to hear her voice.
He took the call, and said, ‘Evening, Becky.’
‘I called earlier.’
‘Had my mobile switched off, but it’s switched on now.’
She tutted. ‘Have you heard from Smiler?’
The use of CS Smiley’s nickname surprised him, although nothing should surprise him where Cooper was concerned. ‘I have,’ he said, ‘which I suspect is why you’re calling.’
‘I don’t trust her, Andy. She told me that Strathclyde Police are now handling your murder investigation, and I’ve to coordinate all PM and forensic reports with a DS Nathanial Fox.’ She tutted again. ‘Have you seen him? He was here earlier in the day, ID-ing the body. God, what a creep.’ She paused, then said, ‘You don’t seem upset.’
‘Should I be?’
‘I’ve never known you to be so blasé about being pulled off a case.’
‘Have you had the toxicology results back yet?’
She gushed out a short laugh, and said, ‘I have, yes.’
‘And …?’
‘And I don’t believe I’m authorised to divulge that information to the ex-SIO.’
Something in her tone hinted at playful impudence, reminding him of her teasing in the past. God, it would be all too easy to pick up from where they’d left off. He forced these thoughts away, and said, ‘Maybe not directly through the office in the form of a formal report. But by slip-of-the-tongue, perhaps?’
‘As in – the toxicology results show high levels of cocaine, alcohol, and lower levels of Rohypnol …? Oops.’
Rohypnol was a date-rape drug, but Gilchrist knew it hadn’t been administered to take sexual advantage of Stooky, rather to subdue the man, make him more compliant. Cooper’s giggle at her deliberate slip-up had him struggling not to smile. ‘So, Dr Cooper,’ he said, ‘in your slip-of-the-tongue opinion, are the levels of that cocktail of drugs high enough to anaesthetise pain?’
‘They most definitely are.’
Gilchrist let out a sigh of relief. For all Stooky had been tortured, any pain his captors had intended to inflict would have been lessened by the drugs they used to make him cough up whatever secrets he’d been holding. ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ he said. ‘It would of course be nice to see a slip-of-the-tongue copy of that report.’
‘Already sent it,’ she said, her tone all business again. ‘I meant what I said, Andy. I don’t trust Smiler. And you would be wise to do likewise. Ciao.’ She hung up.
A few seconds later, he pulled into South Castle Street and drew to a halt. One more phone call to make. He got through on the second ring, Mhairi’s voice high with surprise to hear from him. ‘Did you get anywhere with restoring the logbook?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Not as badly damaged as I first thought, sir. Some mould, but mostly damage from dampness. The spine’s not separated from the text block, which is good. So, it’s in not too bad nick.’
‘Think you might have something ready for us first thing in the morning?’
‘We dried what we could by interleafing, and have an oscillating fan on it. Problem is the ink’s run on some pages, which makes many entries illegible. Might be able to have a look at it in the morning, sir, but it would need to be handled with care.’
‘Good. If anyone mentions it, you don’t know what they’re talking about.’
‘Sir?’
‘We’re being pulled off the case, Mhairi. We’ll talk in the morning.’
He ended the call, and stepped into the damp chill of a darkening March night.
CHAPTER 18
Fisherman’s Cottage, Crail
Gilchrist walked through the lounge and noticed his answering machine blinking. He frowned at it. Everyone he knew had mobile phones, so who would call his landline? He was slipping off his jacket when movement at his dining-room window startled him.
Even in the blackness of his back garden, he could make out the dark shadow of a cat on his windowsill, brushing itself against the glass, doing a balancing act as it turned on the narrow ledge and brushed along its other side, tail as upri
ght as a flagpole.
He walked to the window, hissing, ‘Puss, puss,’ knowing that Blackie wouldn’t hear him through the glass and, once he stepped outside, would run away to hide in the tight gap behind his garden shed at the back wall. Even though Blackie had never let him any closer than six feet, he had found to his amazement that she showed no fear through the glass. He could even pretend to run his hand along her fur through the glass, with Blackie arching her back and rubbing her whiskers against his hand with vicarious feline pleasure.
On four separate occasions he had opened the window midrub, but the instant the catchment cracked, Blackie made a dash for it. In the end, he had given up, settling for the questionable pleasure of petting a cat through the window.
If only relationships could be that simple, he thought.
In the kitchen, he removed a carton of cat food, and opened the back door. A glance at the dining-room window ledge confirmed that Blackie had done her usual, vanished into the depths of his garden. Sure enough, when he cleaned the bowls with the garden hose, twin pinpricks stared back at him from the corner of the hut. He rattled the carton. ‘Here puss, puss.’ But he was wasting his breath. Blackie was as good as deaf.
On the walk back along his garden path, it struck him for some reason that he hadn’t noticed Maureen’s cat in her flat. A Ragamuffin with the thickest coat and a long brush-like tail, Charlie was one of the friendliest house cats Gilchrist had ever come across. Or perhaps it had been Blackie’s unapproachable coldness that led him to that conclusion. Maureen had arranged for a friend of hers – Jen, as best he could recall – to look after Charlie once she and Tom emigrated to Australia. But maybe the agreement Jen made was for Charlie’s move to be permanent. Hence, the missing cat from Maureen’s flat.
He locked the kitchen door behind him, and shivered off the chill. He returned the cat food to the cupboard, wondering if Maureen might consider adopting Blackie. But he quickly dispelled that idea. A cat that refused to be touched would not be the most suitable pet for a pregnant woman. He strode into his living room, and pressed the button on his answering machine.
