by T F Muir
Hey, Andy, we waited a couple of hours, but you never showed. Told Kris your head was wasted with work, but what can I say? Bummed you up so much, she’s gagging to meet you, so we’re heading out to the Golf Hotel. We’ll be there until the back of ten. Hope you can stick your head in. But if you can’t, no worries, we’ll maybe just pop down the road to yours, and knock you up. Catch you.
Gilchrist blew out a silent curse. This was Jack at his worst. Besotted with a woman, blind-sided to everything else – even alcohol, for crying out loud. Jack and sober were words that hadn’t been seen together for years. And the last thing he wanted was for Jack to come to his house this side of midnight, with his girlfriend of the month. Once seated comfortably, Jack was renowned for staying the course.
On the other hand, this new sober Jack could be completely different. But Gilchrist didn’t want to take the chance. He had an early rise in the morning. The Golf Hotel was no more than a five-minute walk from his cottage. He pulled a scarf from the hall cupboard, wrapped it round his neck and set off.
He found Jack seated at a table near the corner by the fire, prodding it with the poker, logs turning over, sparks flying. When he saw Gilchrist, he almost jumped to his feet and came over and gave him a hug.
‘Hey, you got my message.’
‘I most surely did,’ Gilchrist said, hugging him tight in return. When they parted, he noticed no drinks on the table. He looked around. But the bar seemed devoid of anyone he could consider being Kris. ‘Where’s this Kris of yours?’ He frowned. ‘Has she left?’
Jack beamed a smile. ‘She’s just popped out to make a call.’ His gaze drifted beyond the bar, and from the brightness in his son’s eyes Gilchrist knew that Kris had just returned.
He turned to face her, and struggled to hide his surprise. Where he’d imagined Kris to be a contemporary of Jack’s, lines around her eyes and wrinkles on her neck gave the impression of her being closer to Gilchrist’s age.
‘Lovely to meet you at last,’ she said, and gave him a firm handshake. ‘I’m Kris.’ She stretched up to peck his cheek, then back and over for the other side.
Her face felt warm, her skin soft, and the sparkle in her eyes spoke of happiness and youth, despite first impressions.
‘Can I get you a drink, Andy?’ she said. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Andy?’
‘That’s my name,’ he said, although he had a suspicion that it wouldn’t have mattered however he’d replied.
‘Jack said you prefer real ale.’
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Let me get these. What’ll you have?’
‘Told you,’ said Jack.
‘That’s very kind of you, Andy. I’ll have a soda water and lime. Not juice. Two slices of lime. Preferably freshly cut, if they can manage that.’
‘And you?’ he said to Jack.
‘The same.’
Gilchrist nodded, and said, ‘Any ice?’
‘No way. It’s too cold.’
Gilchrist glanced at the fire, the logs flaring from Jack’s pokering. Well, it was March, he supposed, and officially still winter – only just.
When he returned with the drinks and placed them on the table, Kris and Jack were happily ensconced in the corner, cuddling in like young lovers.
Jack said, ‘You’re having a Corona? Never thought I’d see the day.’
‘Wanted something light,’ he said. ‘Got an early start in the morning.’
‘So what’s new?’ Jack lifted his glass of soda water, chinked it against Kris’s, then Andy’s. ‘Sláinte,’ he said, and took a sip that almost drained it.
Gilchrist necked his Corona, the sliced lime refreshing in the log-fired air. ‘So tell me, Kris, how did you and Jack meet?’
‘At an art exhibition in Dundee,’ Jack said.
‘Thanks, Kris.’
Kris choked out a laugh, and Jack raised his glass. ‘Touché,’ he said, then drained it, seemingly unaccustomed to pacing non-alcoholic intake.
‘Like another?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘No. I was just thirsty. I’ll wait.’
Kris on the other hand had taken a sip that barely made a difference. ‘Jack’s right,’ she said. ‘I’d been exhibiting in Edinburgh for over a year, and wanted to expand beyond the city. So I arranged an exhibition in Dundee. And that’s when I met Jack.’
‘And it was electric, I’m telling you. Pure electricity.’ Jack huddled closer.
Kris gave a demure smile, and nodded. ‘When Jack and I first set eyes on each other, I can’t explain it. It truly was remarkable. Electricity is a good way of describing it.’
‘So you’re an artist,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Sculptor. Mostly metal.’
‘Like welding, soldering? That sort of thing?’
‘Sort of.’
He took another sip of Corona, conscious of Jack’s eyes on him. ‘So why Dundee?’ he asked. ‘That’s north. Most Scottish creatives want to have their name spreading south, into England, especially London if they could.’
She smiled at him. ‘I’m not interested in money.’
‘I never said you were.’
‘I’m more interested in exhibiting my work in cities and towns that are not famous for being steeped in artistic history.’
Gilchrist said, ‘Dundee? For example.’
‘You could say.’
‘The home of the Beano, the Dandy and a host of other comics, all of them steeped in creative history.’
‘There’s a difference,’ she said.
‘I’m sure there is.’ He took another sip. ‘I suspect Jack would like to have his work shown farther south.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘Yes?’
‘Used to think that, but Kris is showing me another side to my art. One that’s the by-product of persistence and dedication. More a marathon than a sprint.’ He nodded to her, as if seeking confirmation.
She smiled in return.
Gilchrist hid behind a mouthful of beer. He’d watched Jack over the years strive to make the most meagre living from his art. But as recently as six months ago, for the first time in his life Jack appeared to be selling his stuff, making decent money – five figures for one or two pieces – and seemingly flush with cash, at long bloody last. Which raised the question; what had he done with it? He forced the worrying answer away.
‘Jack tells me you’re a policeman, Andy.’
‘Detective,’ he said. ‘So only two years in Edinburgh?’
‘And you work in St Andrews CID?’
‘Hence the early start in the morning.’ He removed a business card from his pocket and placed it on the table. ‘Sure I can’t get you another one, Jack?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘So.’ He faced Kris. ‘Before Edinburgh you lived …?’
‘In London.’
‘The centre of the universe for arty-farty types.’
‘Arty-farty types,’ Jack repeated. ‘What did I tell you?’
‘Not so much nowadays,’ Kris said.
He shoved his business card towards her. ‘Do you have a card?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t, Andy. No need. Most of my contacts are word-of-mouth.’
‘Best way to network, so they tell me.’ He took another sip, almost finished it, and said, ‘It was good to meet you. But you have to excuse me. I really do have an early start.’
Something that looked like relief washed over Jack’s face, and he almost jumped to his feet, held out his hand in a man-to-man handshake. Whatever happened to the customary high-five? Gilchrist turned to Kris, and before he could shake her hand, she said, ‘Can I have a chat with you, Andy? Before you head off?’
‘Sure.’
‘Outside?’
He nodded, then smiled at Jack. ‘Keep that phone of yours alive.’
Jack guffawed, and said, ‘Catch you, man.’
Outside, Gilchrist turned left and walked onto the paved area between the Golf Hotel and the adjacent Tea Room. He stepped past a couple of windows – just to make sure they w
ere out of Jack’s line of sight – then turned to face Kris, and rested his elbow on the hotel’s stone wall.
Kris already had a cigarette in her mouth, filter tight between her teeth, lighter in her hand. She held the packet out to him – Silk Cut – and he declined. She nodded. ‘Jack told me you’d given up.’ Then she lit her cigarette, inhaled as if her life depended on it, twisted her mouth and blew out.
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘That you’re naturally inquisitive, which makes you a perfect fit for your job.’
He returned her cool gaze, trying to ignore the warm waft of second-hand smoke that seemed to drift his way no matter which way he turned. ‘You wanted to talk.’
She took another deep hit. ‘I’m not as old as I look, Andy. I’m still in my thirties.’
He found her confession strange, but said, ‘Jack’s twenty-four.’
‘Twenty-five on Saturday.’
Christ. He’d forgotten all about that. He hadn’t bought a card, let alone a present.
‘I’ve had a tough life,’ she said. ‘Hence, what I like to call, my mature look.’
‘By tough, you mean addicted?’
‘I’m clean now.’
‘How long?’
‘Five years.’
‘Hard drugs?’
She sniffed, nodded. ‘You name it, I’ve tried it.’
He said nothing, just stared at her, and fought off the urge to snatch her cigarette from her and take a deep draw. He breathed in the acrid night air. Christ, it smelled great. ‘Do you have a criminal record?’ Well, he might as well come straight out and ask.
She blew smoke from the side of her mouth. ‘Possession of illegal substances. Muled for a year. Maybe longer.’ She shook her head. ‘But never distributing. Only using.’
He resisted reminding her that muling was a form of distributing, and instead said, ‘So you spent time inside?’
‘Community service only.’
He turned away, eyed the length of the street. How many youngsters had he arrested over the years for drug-related crimes? It didn’t bear thinking about. He faced her again. ‘Does Jack know?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘There are no secrets between Jack and me.’ She finished her cigarette, dropped the dout to the paving, and ground it out with a flat-shoed foot. She ran a hand through her short hair, and sniffed the air. ‘I care for your son, Andy. I care for him very much. And he cares for me.’
Gilchrist said nothing, just held her gaze.
‘I don’t know if you’re aware or not, but Jack is gifted. He has an incredible talent.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
Something in the tone of his voice drained her, as if it struck her all of a sudden that she was wasting her time trying to explain anything to a boring old detective chief inspector. ‘Anyway, I thought you should know,’ she said.
‘You didn’t have a business card,’ he said. ‘But you have a surname.’
‘Hedström. Kristen Hedström. It’s Swedish. Not me. My parents.’ She turned from him. ‘That’s another thing Jack warned me about you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you would check me out.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Go ahead. I don’t care. I’ve nothing to hide. It’s not me you’ll be upsetting.’ She gave a quick smile that failed to reach her eyes, then walked away from him, back to the bar.
When she slipped around the corner, Gilchrist just stood there, feeling like a fool. She had tried to explain herself to him, let him know her feelings for his son, try to allay concerns he might have had about their age difference, even come clean about her past dependency on drugs, her present reliance on art – Jack’s reliance, too, for that matter.
Why the hell wasn’t that enough? What was it about Jack that he found so difficult to trust? He’d made a promise to himself months ago that he would believe Jack when he said he’d never done drugs, despite his own demented concerns. And if you stopped to think about it, that’s exactly how he should describe himself – demented.
He tightened his scarf around his neck, upped his jacket collar, and set off for home, deep in the discomfort of his own misery.
CHAPTER 19
The following morning arrived dark and dreary. The bedroom skylights could have been black ceiling posters. Gilchrist switched off his alarm, checked the time – 5.00 – and groaned. Not that rising early was the difficulty, rather it was avoiding that last one-for-the-road – the road being the short walk from the lounge to his bedroom, as it turned out last night – that often proved irresistible.
Brushing his teeth almost had him throwing up, but a piping hot shower and a shave with his waterproof electric razor had him feeling good to go – well, as good as he was ever going to feel at that time on a Friday morning.
In the kitchen, with a fresh mug of tea in front of him, he checked his text messages, pleased to see one from Jackie Canning confirming that all files on the Stooky Dee murder investigation had been copied and saved. A link to the Constabulary website provided him immediate access. A quick check – he really was beginning to get a handle on all this digital stuff now – let him thumb his way through them. While doing so, he managed to crunch his way through two slices of dry toast and marmalade, which was about all his stomach would permit.
In the lounge, he replaced the top on the bottle of whisky – Aberlour – and struggled to recall if it had been full when he’d started. Bloody hell, he hoped not. He returned it to his cocktail cabinet, nothing more than a trolley on wheels, on which stood a number of bottles – whisky, gin, Bacardi – and of course that unavoidable bottle of vodka, Jack’s go-to drink; well, at least it used to be.
He gathered up several sheets of scribbled notes off the chair and table, picked up his notebook from the floor. He fluffed up the cushions, then grabbed his scarf and leather jacket from the hook in the hall, and headed out.
His breath puffed white in the cold morning air as he strode up Rose Wynd, the wind picking up, hinting that the Fife coast was in for a mid-March battering. Behind, he caught the shrill call of seagulls fighting over scraps of food, or with each other – he couldn’t say – the distant thunder of waves as they thumped against the harbour wall. If the rain stayed off, most Scots could handle a cold wind, no matter how strong. But bloody hell, it could be an Arctic morning. He tugged at his scarf, and blew off the chill. Hands deep in his pockets, he pressed the remote fob, and his BMW winked at him.
Inside, he powered up and drove off, fan on high to take whatever heat the engine could offer. He checked the time – 5.39 – then phoned Jessie.
She picked up on the first ring. ‘You said six. Not half-five.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Well, I guessed that. How else are you going to get from Crail to St Andrews?’
‘Good morning to you, too, Jessie.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ she said. ‘It’s pitch black outside.’
‘At least it’s not raining.’
‘Not yet.’ The line died.
He took his time on the drive to St Andrews, and pulled up outside Jessie’s home in Canongate at six on the dot. She rushed down the drive, one hand on her head, pulled the door open and clambered inside. ‘Where’s summer when you need it?’
‘It’ll be Christmas soon.’
‘Piss off. How fast can you make it to the coffee shop?’
‘Seatbelt on?’
‘Stop talking, and just drive. My mouth feels like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.’
‘What kind of parrot?’
‘The kind that shits on your tongue.’
She slipped out her mobile, and tapped the screen.
He guessed she was texting a message, and said, ‘Anyone I know?’
‘Angie. I’m asking her to stick her head in and check on Robert this morning.’
At the mention of Jessie’s son, Gilchrist felt his heart sink. Late last year, Robert had been given the devastating news that his hearing loss
was permanent, and nothing – not even a cochlear implant – could help. His hearing nerves weren’t just dead, they’d never developed in the first place.
‘So how is Robert?’ he said.
‘He’s something else, let me tell you.’ She looked up from her texting. ‘He said he hasn’t spoken to his girlfriend in three weeks—’
‘He has a girlfriend? You never told me that.’
‘No, you dumpling. It’s one of his jokes he’s come up with. For his book.’
‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’
‘Anyway, he’s not spoken to her in three weeks. He doesn’t want to interrupt her.’ She coughed out a laugh, and slapped her knee. ‘I don’t know where it comes from,’ she said. ‘But I just love him to bits, you know.’
Gilchrist smiled. He did know. With her irrepressible sense of humour and her vigour for life, Jessie smothered her son with heartfelt love. If it was ever possible to love someone to the max, that was Jessie with Robert. And if you ever spoke out against Robert, or harmed him in any way, even without intention, you’d better be ready for war.
Gilchrist drove into Market Street. ‘Robert gets his zest for life from you, I’d say.’
‘It’s the Glasgow sense of humour. Doesn’t matter how bad it gets, there’s always a funny side to it.’
‘Not always,’ he said, wondering what she found amusing about being hauled off the Stooky Dee investigation.
She tapped her mobile again, then said, ‘That’s it. Job done. Don’t know what I’d do without Angie. And all these tutors for Robert’s costing me a fortune. But d’you know the good news?’
‘What’s that?’
‘He doesn’t want to go to university.’
Gilchrist frowned. ‘That’s good?’
‘He’s decided he wants to be a chippy.’
‘You mean a joiner?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Same as Angie’s brother, Carson. Even said he would take Robert on part-time some weekends and show him the ropes. And pay him, too. Like, whoah, my wee boy’s turned into a man all of a sudden.’
