by T F Muir
He held up a photo of Tosh.
Hartley narrowed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head again.
Gilchrist felt oddly deflated. ‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
He laid Tosh’s photo face down on top of Maxwell’s then showed her a photo of Joe Christie. ‘How about him?’
‘He looks familiar. But it’s been a while. I cannae be sure.’
‘A while since you’ve seen him?’
‘I think so.’
‘A year? Longer? Three years?’
Hartley glanced at Jessie, then back to Gilchrist. ‘I’m sorry. We get all sorts of people having a pint or a bite to eat here. I never really pay attention to them. I’m always too busy serving customers, rather than eyeing them up, if you get my meaning.’
‘Who else works here?’ Jessie said.
‘Velly.’
‘Who?’
‘Velly Rangan. She hired me. She’d be your best bet.’
‘She in?’
‘Doesnae start ’til later.’
‘She got a phone number?’
Hartley slipped her mobile from her back pocket, tapped the screen and read out a number. Gilchrist dialled it, and his call was answered straight away, a woman’s voice that gave no hint of an Indian or ethnic accent. He strode back outside while he went through the introductions then, after explaining the purpose of his call, said, ‘Where can we meet?’
‘I’m just about to have a coffee on Shore Street in Anstruther.’
He asked for the name of the shop, and said, ‘We’ll be with you in five.’
It took him closer to fifteen minutes to hook up with Rangan. For some reason, the town was heaving – maybe because the sun was threatening to come out. The public car park was full, and he ended up having to abandon his car on the slope of the concrete ramp to the harbour. He sent Rangan a text in case she was thinking of leaving.
They found her inside, seated at the window, an Apple MacBook opened on the table, a large mug of coffee and a half-eaten slice of chocolate cake on a side plate. Gilchrist put her in her thirties, a thin woman with aquiline Indian features, and brown eyes enlarged behind black-rimmed spectacles. She didn’t stand when Gilchrist approached. With only one chair available, and others taken up with customers chatting or texting, there was no room for the three of them.
Jessie said, ‘You sit. I’ll stand.’
Gilchrist obliged and took the only chair. He showed Rangan his warrant card, just to make the meeting a bit more formal than she seemed to think it was. She took the hint by closing her MacBook and hiding behind her coffee.
‘How long have you worked at Larach Mhor?’ he asked.
She lipped the rim. ‘Coming up for ten years.’
‘Are you the longest-serving employee?’
‘You could say.’
He opened Jackie’s envelope, and showed her Victor Maxwell’s photograph first, which was met with a firm shake of her head, further proof that Maxwell did indeed know how to keep himself out of the spotlight.
Next came Tosh’s photo. Another shake of the head.
Again, Gilchrist felt a flush of disappointment.
Then he showed her Joe Christie’s.
‘I know him,’ she said.
‘Do you have a name?’
She grimaced, as if struggling to recall. ‘He’s missing, isn’t he?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Isn’t he?’
Gilchrist said, ‘Do you know his name?’
‘No, but I recognise his face. Haven’t seen him around for yonks, though.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Now you’re asking. Years ago. Two maybe. Longer, even. I don’t know.’
‘How about his boat?’
‘What about it?’
‘Do you remember seeing that?’
She shook her head. ‘I know nothing about his boat. I get seasick just walking along the harbour,’ she said, as if that explained everything.
He tapped Christie’s image again, pushed it closer to her. ‘Try to remember,’ he said. ‘When you last saw him, what was he doing? Was he with anyone? Did he buy a pint? Did he buy some food? Did you serve him? Did he talk to anyone?’
She stared hard at the image, and Gilchrist could tell from the furrowing of her brow that something was coming to her. Her lips tightened, as if the moment had passed, then she looked at him. ‘I’m not sure, but I have the vaguest memory of something years ago.’
Gilchrist focused on her deer-like eyes. ‘I’m listening.’
‘We hardly get any trouble in our bar. The odd drunk swearing, or someone spilling a pint. Nothing to write home about.’ She turned her head and looked out the window, her gaze settling on something on the far horizon for several seconds, before returning. ‘But one night I remember this man coming in.’ She tapped her fingers on the photograph, pulled it closer. ‘Him, I think. He was out of breath. As if he’d been running. He looked around, like he was searching for someone. Next thing, he’s back out the door.’
Gilchrist retrieved the photograph. ‘Are you sure it was him?’
‘I think so.’
Not exactly a vote of confidence. He leaned back and returned her gaze. ‘A police investigation was carried out when he went missing. Every home and every pub, shop and office in Anstruther was visited.’ He knew what he was saying was not likely, but sometimes you just have to push. ‘Did you tell the police what you saw?’
‘They never asked me.’
‘They never came to Larach Mhor?’
‘They came, aye, but they didnae ask me. I remember I was on the late shift when they came round that day.’
‘And they never came back?’
‘No.’
‘And you never went to the local police station to tell them what you saw?’
‘Why would I? They’d asked the others.’
Gilchrist pursed his lips with frustration. Christie hadn’t been reported missing by his wife for ten days, and even then she hadn’t been convinced he was in trouble, but had sailed off into the sunset, so to speak – Amsterdam to be exact. With a less than interested wife, and a cooling trail already over a week old, no wonder the local police put in a half-hearted effort to find old Joe.
‘Can you think of anything else?’ he tried. ‘Anything at all?’
‘Only that he was wearing a fisherman’s cagoule.’
‘Why would you remember that?’
‘Because it wasnae your bog-standard yellow cagoule, but bright red. Stood out like a sore thumb.’ She scowled. ‘And it had a tear in the shoulder. I remember that. If it had been mine, I would’ve binned it yonks ago.’ She forked a piece of chocolate cake, as if to tell him that she’d said all she was going to say.
After thirty seconds of silence, he slid a business card to her. ‘If you think of anything else, give me a call.’ He slipped the photographs back into the brown envelope, was about to push his chair back, when he decided to show her one more.
He removed it from the envelope, and laid it on the table. ‘How about this man? Do you recognise him?’
She studied the image for a couple of seconds, then shook her head. ‘Sorry. No.’
Gilchrist returned Jock Shepherd’s photo to the envelope, then stood. ‘Thanks for meeting with me. Your description’s been very helpful.’
‘Except for one thing,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘It might not have been that man at all.’
Well, there he had it. Never rely on human memory.
He gave a grim smile and pushed through the café door, Jessie behind him.
CHAPTER 24
They crossed Shore Street, heading for Gilchrist’s car. ‘Do you have Mrs Christie’s phone number?’ he asked.
Jessie checked her mobile, then rattled it off.
The call rang out, but didn’t dump him in voicemail. He recited the number back to Jessie, to confirm he had it correct – he h
ad – and dialled it again. This time it was answered on the second ring.
‘Mrs Christie?’
‘What?’
He introduced himself, and said, ‘Did your husband ever wear a cagoule?’
‘A what?’
‘A fisherman’s cagoule. A waterproof jacket. Did he ever wear one?’
‘Aye. All the time.’
‘Can you describe it for me?’
‘It’s just like any other waterproof jacket.’
‘No, I meant what colour? And did it have any defects? That sort of thing.’
‘He had two or three of they jackets,’ she said.
Bugger it. The last thing he wanted to hear. He pressed his remote fob, and his car winked at him. ‘Do you still have them?’
‘Threw them in the bin years ago, when I realised he wisnae coming back.’
Gilchrist kept his tone level as he took his seat behind the wheel. ‘Again, I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Christie. But it would be helpful if you could remember what he was wearing when he left home that day.’
A pause, then, ‘Naw, I couldnae tell you what one he had on.’
Gilchrist gritted his teeth. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to tease the answer he wanted from her, but she was leaving him with no choice. He switched his mobile onto speaker, and grimaced at Jessie, then tried, ‘Did he ever wear a yellow cagoule?’
‘Aye, he did. As well as a black one and a red one. But I couldnae tell you what one he had on that day.’
Gilchrist tried a more direct route. ‘The red one. Can you tell me anything about it?’
‘Like what?’
‘Was it brand new?’
‘Naw, it was torn to buggery. I’d told him to get a new one, but he wouldnae listen.’
‘Where was it torn?’
‘The sleeve was hanging off.’
‘It had come away from the shoulder. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Hanging by a thread.’
Jessie gave the thumbs up, and he said, ‘OK, thanks for your help, Mrs Christie. If anything turns up, I’ll be in touch.’ He disconnected, and said, ‘So it looks like it was Christie who turned up in Larach Mhor that night. If we can find out who he was looking for, that could help us figure out what happened to him.’
‘Sounds like a dead end to me.’
Gilchrist almost agreed. ‘Get on to the Coastguard and see if they’ve got any record of Brenda Girl sailing from Anstruther to Crail that night—’
‘They don’t have,’ Jessie said. ‘Or we would already have it. Remember? The last record they have of it is what we’ve found in the logbook.’
Gilchrist started the engine with a growl that sent a flock of seagulls over the harbour wall. Jessie was right. Christie was a dead end. He was missing, and his boat had been stolen, and no one – least of all the police who handled the initial investigation – had any idea what had happened. But the niggling thought he couldn’t shift, was that Christie’s disappearance – could he call it murder? – and Stooky Dee’s murder were somehow connected. He was sure of that. But the answer as to how they were connected was beyond him at that moment.
Had Christie’s disappearance and Dee’s murder been carried out by the same criminal gang? Or, more worryingly, did the fine line between criminality and the law run through the middle of both cases? Once again, Victor Maxwell’s name jumped to the fore, courtesy of the business card found in Christie’s logbook.
Gilchrist slipped into reverse, and backed up the ramp onto Shore Street. At the lights, he turned onto Crail Road and had just passed Burial Brae when Jessie said, ‘You’re driving too fast.’
He glanced at the dashboard – 52 in a 30 limit – and eased back. ‘Sorry. My mind was somewhere else.’
‘Penny for your thoughts?’
‘Need to be more than a penny,’ he said.
‘OK. I’ll buy you a pint. Spit it out.’
He pursed his lips, kept his eyes on the road ahead. Maxwell was somehow involved, but they had no proof, and were unlikely to uncover proof anytime soon. But his mind tugged his thoughts in another direction, and he said, ‘I’m thinking that I don’t like DS Fox.’
‘Yeah?’ She twisted around on her seat, so she was facing him. ‘Is this the famous Gilchrist sixth sense kicking in?’
‘Don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘But there’s something false about him.’
‘He lived in the States for a while, you said.’
‘So he said.’
‘You think he’s lying?’
‘Maybe not about living in the States, but he’s holding something back. That’s what I sensed, that he had some other agenda, as if ID-ing Stooky’s body was an excuse for doing something else.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’
Jessie thought for a moment, then said, ‘Dainty knows him. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘So you’d think Dainty would have told you if there was something going on.’
‘You would think so, yes.’ Which should have brought an end to his concerns.
But still his thoughts niggled.
He took the long road back to St Andrews, but by the time he drove through Kilrenny, he’d failed to come up with anything definitive. But he knew how gut feelings worked, and said, ‘Let’s get Jackie to look into DS Fox on the QT. She needs to be careful. I don’t want to drag her into Smiler’s bad books. Or you, for that matter.’
He had just driven past the entrance to the Castle Course when Jessie’s mobile rang.
She stared at the screen, and said, ‘Uh-oh,’ then answered with, ‘Yeah?’
Gilchrist drove on, conscious of a tightening in the air. Whoever Jessie was listening to had her pressing her lips tight. All of a sudden, she said, ‘I swear to God, if you’re having me on, I’m telling you, I will find you and arrest you myself.’ Then she slapped her mobile shut, and let out her breath in a long gush. ‘Holy shit,’ she said. ‘That was Tommy.’
‘Get onto Telecoms,’ he said, ‘and get them to locate that call.’
‘No need,’ she said. ‘He’s back on side, provided he gets witness protection.’
‘I thought he wasn’t interested in Spain.’
‘He’s not. He wants Izzy and him to be set up in Thailand.’
Gilchrist slowed to a crawl on the Kinkell Braes. Off to his right, the tide had ebbed, leaving the East Sands glowing like a copper beach. ‘Why there?’ he said.
‘Because Maxwell’s reach doesn’t stretch that far.’
Gilchrist jerked a glance at her. ‘Did he mention Maxwell by name?’
‘He certainly did.’
Gilchrist gripped the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Could Tommy provide them with proof that Maxwell was up to his neck in it?
‘He also said that Bruiser Mann’s body will turn up at a recycling plant in Whiteinch first thing in the morning.’
The name hit Gilchrist like a slap to the face. One of the remaining three on Tommy’s list. ‘Where’s Whiteinch?’
‘Glasgow. Near the Clyde Tunnel. And he said if you want him to side in with the Procurator Fiscal, then we’d better get our act together, fast.’
Gilchrist accelerated up Abbey Walk, the sound of the engine reverberating off the stone walls. He was missing something, some piece that didn’t quite fit. ‘Why now?’ he said. ‘Why come back now, ready to turn Queen’s evidence?’
‘I phoned Izzy this morning, and told her to tell Tommy that Strathclyde Police were now handling Stooky Dee’s case, and that we’d been pulled off it.’
‘So Tommy knew he’d lost any leverage he thought he had with us.’
‘Got it in one.’
‘And Bruiser Mann’s another one of Shepherd’s boys? Allegedly.’
‘Tommy says Shepherd’s being pushed to the brink. And that something big’s about to happen.’
‘And when it does, Tommy wants to make sure he’s in with the right crowd?’
Gilchrist switched on his car’s phone. ‘Call this number for me.’ He read it out, while Jessie entered it. ‘Not a word,’ he said. ‘You’re not here.’
Jessie ran her thumb and forefinger across her lips as the phone rang. Then a man’s voice said, ‘Small.’
‘Dainty,’ said Gilchrist. ‘How are you?’
‘Better than you by the sounds of things. Heard you’d been pulled off the Stooky Dee investigation. I tell you, the mind fucking boggles.’
Gilchrist felt he had no time to waste, and went straight in with, ‘What can you tell me about Bruiser Mann?’
‘Fuck sake, Andy. That was quick. He’s just turned up in a bin lorry in Whiteinch, face battered to fuck.’
Bloody hell. Tommy must be tight with someone in the know. ‘So who’s handling the case?’
‘Vic Maxwell.’
Why was he not surprised at that? ‘What’s Shepherd saying?’
‘Fuck knows,’ Dainty said. ‘But if I know big Jock, he’ll be spitting nails.’ A pause, then, ‘Why the interest, Andy?’
‘It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘But we’re looking into a cold case that might be linked to Stooky’s murder.’
‘What’s the connection?’
‘Too early to say. But Maxwell’s name keeps popping up.’
‘Watch yourself there, Andy. Best to steer clear of him. I mean it.’
‘That list I gave you,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Only Chippie Smith and Angel Thomson are still standing.’
‘Shepherd’s got them in hiding.’
‘Battening down the hatches, you mean. For the big shipment that’s coming in.’
‘Got to go. If anything turns up, you’ll be the first to know.’
The line died.
Jessie looked at Gilchrist. ‘He couldn’t hang up quick enough, could he?’
No, he thought. Any mention of that something big had Dainty running for cover.
‘What now?’ Jessie said.
He drove on. ‘I think it’s time we talked to that brother of yours,’ he said. ‘You need to set it up for tonight.’
‘For crying out loud, Andy. You’re chancing your arm.’
‘Give him a call, Jessie. If he wants a one-way ticket to Thailand for him and Izzy, then he needs to earn it. Tonight’s his one-time opportunity. If he doesn’t turn up, then we’re walking away, and he’s on his own.’
