Dead Catch

by T F Muir

  Gilchrist studied the headings again, puzzled and irritated in equal measure when he saw that no columns were headed Longitude or Latitude. He wasn’t a seaman himself, but it seemed to him that in the open vastness of the North Sea you would want to know where you were at any point in time. Still, if you thought about it, perhaps that would be of little concern for the solitary captain of a small fishing boat that never ventured into deeper waters, but mostly hugged the coastline, laying and retrieving creels, the Scottish mainland close by, always in sight.

  His hopes were kept afloat by the final column. Headed Remarks, this was a different matter altogether. Wider than the others – almost half a page in width – it was crammed with notes written in ink, in what looked like a childish hand, which he presumed was Christie’s. He struggled to read the spiderlike handwriting, made more difficult by the water-damage bleeding, and managed to make sense only of the odd bit here, another bit there.

  He turned to the preceding page, worried that the paper still felt soft and soggy. ‘You can’t dry this any faster, can you?’

  ‘Not recommended,’ Granger said. ‘We might damage it irreparably.’

  He gritted his teeth. Maybe Cooper was right. He really was becoming more impatient with age. ‘Once it’s dried,’ he said, ‘it’s going to take time to examine this in detail. The ink seems to have bled badly in places.’

  Granger nodded in grim-mouthed silence.

  Mhairi said, ‘I’ve had a go at working out what’s written on that final entry, sir.’ She screwed up her face as she opened her notebook. ‘It’s sketchy. But I’ve noted down what I think is reasonably clear, and tried to fill in the gaps with what I thought was obvious. I’ve left out what I couldn’t read or guess. For example some of the bearings aren’t clear,’ she said. ‘So I wouldn’t bank on these until we got confirmation.’

  Gilchrist felt his hopes soar. They might not have longitude and latitude noted, but if sufficient bearings had been noted in the Remarks column, then it might be possible to track Brenda Girl’s final course from Christie’s last entry. If he was heading to Amsterdam as his wife suggested, then with help they might be able to identify which port he’d been heading to. He didn’t want to get anybody’s hopes up, for there was always a possibility that Christie had sold the boat. But even as that thought was blossoming, it evaporated just as quickly. If Christie had sold his boat, he would surely have taken his logbook with him; as insurance, just as his wife had said.

  He nodded to Mhairi. ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘This is the last entry on twenty-fifth of October, sir. At the start, it’s noted in the appropriate columns that the wind is N6, which I take to mean a north wind at six miles per hour.’

  Nautical miles per hour? Or maybe kilometres per hour? Not that it really mattered, he supposed. So he nodded his agreement, and said, ‘So it’s relatively calm.’

  ‘I’d say so, sir. The main entry starts off with numbers which I think are bearings, so filling in some of the gaps, and expanding known acronyms, it says – Headed east-south-east then indecipherable. Swell six feet. Made steady progress for … can’t make it out, sir. Set new heading south, again illegible. Sighted IOM to west. Rendezvoused … at least that’s what I think it says, sir, the spelling’s wrong.’

  ‘Let’s see it on the entry,’ he said, and peered at the blurred ink. But the writing was too faint, the craftsmanship too poor, for him to confirm it one way or the other. How Mhairi was able to decipher anything, he couldn’t tell. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of it,’ he said, then turned to Mhairi. ‘You said he sighted IOM to the west. What’s IOM?’

  Mhairi grimaced. ‘I could be wrong, sir, but heading easterly from Crail, then turning south, it could be the Isle of May.’

  Gilchrist nodded. The Isle of May was an island at the outer mouth of the Firth of Forth where the German fleet surrendered all its warships at the end of the First World War. The island was now a nature reserve, and boat trips and a ferry service ran from Anstruther. But with respect to Christie’s disappearance, did it mean anything? He couldn’t say.

  ‘Carry on, Mhairi.’

  She returned to her notes. ‘Rendezvoused with … and again, I’m sorry, sir, it’s illegible, and I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess.’

  He offered her a smile, and said, ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Rendezvoused with … whatever. Set course west-northwest. Swell rising to ten feet. Wind stiffening. He’s also got that in the wind column, sir, N22, so it looks like the weather’s worsening.’

  ‘Anything else in that entry?’ he asked.

  ‘Only … Moored at Anstruther at 19:43. And that’s it.’

  Gilchrist let out a gush of frustration. He’d been pinning his hopes on coming across something they might consider worthy enough to provide Christie insurance. But it seemed to be nothing more than worthless maritime entries. And insurance against what? Had Christie feared for his life? Had the break-in been a prelude to his disappearance? Were the break-in and his disappearance even related, for crying out loud?

  ‘Let me see the logbook,’ he said, and removed it from the workbench. He flipped it open to the back cover, to receive a reprimand from Granger.

  ‘Careful. You’ll break the spine.’

  Fuck the spine, he wanted to say. If the logbook contained nothing more than the odd maritime note on wind speeds, sea swells, bearings out and bearings back, a day-trip to some unidentifiable destination, whatever that was – another fishing boat, perhaps; or some buoy where drugs or illegal merchandise could be dropped off and collected? – then they might as well throw the bloody thing in the rubbish bin. But he offered her a smile of apology, and handed it back.

  ‘I was thinking, sir, that if the last entry was the twenty-fifth of October, where Christie moored in Anstruther, then he must have gone missing the following day, the twenty-sixth.’

  Gilchrist narrowed his eyes as his mind fired its way through the logic of some other possibility. ‘Why would he go to Anstruther at all?’

  ‘The police report mentioned nothing about him mooring in Anstruther, sir.’

  ‘Maybe he never got off his boat. Maybe he was meeting someone in another boat in the harbour. Maybe that someone took the boat and killed Christie.’ Or maybe, he thought, he’d solved the equation to the square root of eff all. Christ, they were getting nowhere …

  ‘This is interesting.’

  Gilchrist and Mhairi turned together. Granger held up what looked like a decrepit business card. ‘I’ve just found this stuck between a couple of pages.’

  Gilchrist took it from her. The card had softened to such an extent that its edges were thin and frayed. But it had been placed between clean pages in the logbook so that no ink had bled into it. The card was plain white, one side blank, the other with a place name – Larach Mhor – and a phone number printed in plain type. But hand-printed in blue ink below that, in Christie’s spidery penmanship, was a name that set off alarm bells for Gilchrist.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he whispered.

  CHAPTER 22

  Gilchrist handed the business card to Jessie.

  ‘V Maxwell?’ she said. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

  But Gilchrist had already walked from the workshop and stood facing the wind, its icy breath refreshing against the flush of his brow. The fog that clouded his thoughts was lifting to reveal another possibility, one he did not like. His own words to McVicar echoed in his mind – If I could hazard a guess, sir, it would be that Strathclyde’s investigation involves a major drug shipment.

  No wonder McVicar had failed to respond. For if Victor Maxwell of the BAD Squad – Battle Against Drugs – was in any way involved in Christie’s disappearance, then it did not bode well for Stooky Dee’s murder investigation. What had been, until that moment, the single strand of a cold case of a missing person, all of a sudden had erupted into an interconnected web of drugs, murder and corruption.

  And just how deep did that corruption ru
n?

  Victor Maxwell had been up in front of Complaints and Discipline on more than one occasion, but each time had managed to walk away with his reputation intact – watertight alibis, missing witnesses, unarguable corroboration, all seemingly above board and unassailable in a court of law.

  But another, more worrying, thought flitted into Gilchrist’s mind.

  Had McVicar’s insistence in ridding Fife Constabulary of any involvement in Stooky Dee’s investigation exposed possible compliance in police wrongdoing? And Dainty, too? Was his relationship with DS Fox more than business? Fox had known about the names on Tommy’s list. You didn’t have to be Einstein to work through the possible links.

  And worse was the thought that three names on the list had been murdered, all of whom were employees … alleged employees … of big Jock Shepherd.

  The difficulty Gilchrist foresaw was not that the BAD Squad might be homing in on nailing Jock Shepherd’s ass to the proverbial cross – taking him out, in other words – but that they might be contemplating taking over—

  ‘Larach Mhor sounds familiar.’

  Gilchrist jolted at the sound of Jessie’s voice. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a bar in Pittenweem. Lachie took me on a date there once.’

  He held Jessie’s gaze, willing her to explain the joke to him. But her dark eyes told him there was nothing funny in what she’d said. She was serious. Lachie really had taken her on a date to Larach Mhor. Chief Superintendent Lachlan McKellar of Strathclyde Police had travelled from Glasgow to Fife for a night out in a small bar and restaurant in the tiny fishing village of Pittenweem. Nothing wrong with that, on the face of it, but McKellar had reputedly been involved in at least one of Maxwell’s sting operations. So, adding two and two to make four – he hoped – the reason Lachie knew about Larach Mhor was through his association with Maxwell. It all made perfect sense on one side of the coin. But on the other, he could be so far off base he was outside looking in.

  He faced Jessie. ‘You don’t still keep in touch with Lachie, do you?’

  ‘Who? Jabba the Hutt?’ Jessie knuckled an imaginary head. ‘Earth to Andy?’

  ‘What I meant was, we’re not likely to bump into him in Pittenweem, are we?’

  ‘Fat chance. Oops,’ she said, and giggled.

  ‘Phone Jackie,’ he said, ‘and get her to print out some headshots. We’ll need them for our trip to Larach Mhor.’ He ran off the names of those he wanted printed out, and opened the door to his car. Jessie slid inside, clipped on her seatbelt then busied herself with texting. Rather than drive off right away, he walked to the seafront and faced the harbour, intent on phoning Maureen.

  When she answered, he thought she sounded tired.

  ‘Just calling to see how you are, princess,’ he said, ‘and to follow up on last night.’ He listened to digital silence for so long that he thought the line had died. ‘You still there?’

  ‘I’m waiting for you to follow up on last night.’

  He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and let his gaze drift to the distant horizon, the sky grey, as dark as the sea. Speaking to Maureen when she was in one of her moods was like petting a lion. You had no idea when it would turn on you.

  ‘I was concerned about the way our evening went last night,’ he said. ‘I think we left a lot of things unanswered, and I wanted to make sure you were all right.’ He listened to silence fill the line. He wanted to tell Maureen that he cared for her, was there for her. But he also wanted to have another face-to-face chat with her, hopefully later that day. He seemed to have got off on the wrong foot with his call, so said, ‘Can we start again?’

  She tutted.

  ‘Look, Mo, I’m sorry about last night if I came across as telling you what to do. I would never do that. But I hope you took on board what I said. About your subconscious already knowing what you want to do.’ He paused for feedback, but she was not for giving up so readily. ‘I hope I helped you overcome your initial worries. About being a mother. About how you’re going to cope. I’ll help in any way I can.’ He paused again, but the line still lay silent. ‘It’s a big decision, so take your time. If you want to talk some more about it, let me know—’

  ‘I’ve already made my decision.’

  He swallowed the lump in his throat, then took his time saying, ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m not going to have a termination,’ she said. ‘I’m going to keep it.’

  It took a couple of seconds for the impact of what she’d said to hit him. ‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘I’m so happy for you. And I’m so proud that you—’

  ‘But.’

  He clenched his jaw, closed his eyes. He didn’t want to ask, but he really had no choice. ‘But what?’

  ‘But I’m going to have an amniocentesis.’ She paused, but only for a moment, then said, ‘If there’s anything wrong with the foetus, I want to have a termination.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, dragging the word out, trying to recall how many weeks a pregnancy had to be before an amniocentesis could be carried out. Sixteen, he thought, although he couldn’t be sure—

  ‘Could I ask you to do something for me?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Anything.’

  ‘I’ve scheduled an appointment at Ninewells on Monday, for ten in the morning.’ A pause, then, ‘Will you come along with me, Dad?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ The words were out before he could think. Of course he would go with his daughter to the hospital on Monday, but dreaded the possibility of the case being at some critical point. And in that moment, he made a promise to himself, that he would be with Maureen, come hell or high water. And if the worst came to the worst he would resign rather than be instructed otherwise.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘I’m here for you, Mo.’

  ‘I know you are, Dad. I love you.’

  ‘Love you, too, princess.’

  He ended the call, surprised by the hot nip of tears. At the thought of his daughter becoming a mother? Or of him becoming a grandfather? Or because he’d known from the whispered rush of her voice that she truly did love him, that for once in his life she knew he would be there for her when she needed him most.

  He walked back to his car and took his seat behind the wheel.

  ‘Problems?’ Jessie said.

  He smiled at her. ‘Sorted,’ he said, then eased back onto the road.

  Outside the Office, he double-parked on North Street while Jessie ran inside to collect the photographs from Jackie. He didn’t want to see, or have to speak with Smiler, and gave a sigh of relief when Jessie returned only minutes later.

  St Andrews to Pittenweem is about ten miles as the crow flies, and Gilchrist didn’t hang about. He floored it to eighty in some stretches of country road and within minutes, it seemed, they drove into Charles Street, past the Anchor Inn on the right and down into the older part of town. Stone houses either side could have stood there for centuries.

  He hadn’t bothered to enter the destination on his GPS system, and soon found out that he didn’t know his way around the back streets of Pittenweem as well as he thought he did. He crossed the main road – the A917 that ran through town and along the east coast – and continued into Routine Row. Not the shortest way as it turned out, but you can’t get lost in a town the size of Pittenweem, particularly if your destination is the seafront. He worked his way downhill onto Mid Shore and found a parking spot that overlooked the harbour.

  Outside, the air hung tangy with the smell of kelp and saltwater, and the less pleasant aroma of fish left in the open air too long. Gulls, on the constant search for food, quarrelled on the harbour walls, flapping and pecking, lifting webbed feet off the stone to hang in the air on buffeting wisps of wind. An engine burst into life as a fishing boat headed seaward, thumping pistons mingling with the day-to-day cacophony of a Scottish fishing harbour going about its daily business.

  From the outside, the Larach Mhor looked as if it had once been a house. Its stone
facade matched the homes either side, but a sign above the window – the name all one word, he noted – and a wooden bench beneath, gave the game away for the thirst-weary traveller.

  Gilchrist followed Jessie over the threshold, and into the pub.

  CHAPTER 23

  Inside, Gilchrist was faced with a gantry the pride of any public bar. Whisky glowed with enticing warmth; gin with chilling freshness. Draft beer could be pulled from any one of four taps. A barmaid with hair dyed black, and matching tights and sweater that showed off a frame more suited for work on a fishing trawler than behind a bar, offered a warm smile.

  ‘What can I get youse?’ she said.

  ‘A bit early for me,’ Gilchrist said, and held out his warrant card. ‘We’re with St Andrews CID. Can you spare a few minutes?’

  ‘Whatever it is, I didnae do it.’ She laughed at that, which had Jessie bristling.

  ‘How about serving underage customers?’ Jessie said. ‘You ever do that?’ Which took the smile from the barmaid’s face. ‘Your name?’

  ‘Jean,’ she said, no longer so sure of herself.

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘Hartley.’

  ‘How long have you worked in this bar, Jean?’ Gilchrist asked her.

  She shrugged. ‘About four years. Why?’

  Gilchrist removed one of Jackie’s printouts from a brown envelope he pulled from his inside jacket pocket. He held it out to her. ‘Have you ever served this man?’ he asked. ‘Or seen him in the pub, or anywhere else?’

  She sniffed, ran a hand under her nose, then shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

  Gilchrist turned Victor Maxwell’s photo face down on the bar. He hadn’t expected her to have recognised Maxwell. Doing so would be proof that Maxwell had set foot in a bar that might connect him to the disappearance of Joe Christie on the night his boat was stolen. No, Maxwell was too smart for that. He would have sent one of his minions to do the nasty; D I Walter MacIntosh, for example, or Tosh, as he was more commonly known.