Dead Catch

by T F Muir

  ‘This way,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Where the hell is that idiot brother of mine?’ All of a sudden she wished she hadn’t agreed to meet Tommy here. She should have insisted on meeting him in some remote car park, or on a beach. It’s not like the Fife coast was short on quiet spots. But she was here now, and once they found Tommy, they could—

  ‘Wait.’ Gilchrist stood still, head cocked to one side. ‘You hear that?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  He turned his head, stared at some spot on the back wall.

  She pointed her mobile at it, to reveal another door.

  ‘It sounded like someone running,’ he said.

  ‘Tommy?’

  ‘Why would he be running?’

  Then Gilchrist was striding to the door, reaching for the handle. She rushed to keep up with him, mobile flickering shadows over the walls and ceiling like fleeing ghosts. The lock clicked, and Gilchrist stepped into another room, his hand already reaching for something on the inner wall—

  The room lit up like a flash of lightning.

  Jessie froze.

  Gilchrist turned to face her, and from his eyes she could read his anguish.

  It took another second of confusion before she noticed the dark pool in the corner of the room, her mind asking why the workmen would not have cleaned up their spilled paint. And for just that moment, her breath locked, as if time had stilled. Then her heart kick-started with a jolt that thumped a shudder to her core, and her mind at last took in what her eyes were telling her.

  ‘Ah, fuck,’ she said, and pushed past Gilchrist.

  ‘Don’t.’

  She stopped, half-squatting, arms reaching out to the body at her feet.

  ‘It’s a crime scene,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

  She knew from the way Tommy’s eyes were opened and staring blindly at the ceiling that it was a crime scene. She knew from the blood that still dripped from a gaping wound in his throat and ran across the room to form a pool by the door like a red puddle, that he’d been murdered. And she knew from the warmth of his face as she brushed her hand across the scar on his cheek that whoever killed him had only just done so.

  The person Andy heard running …? Shit …

  Then she was on her feet and jogging back the way they’d come.

  But Gilchrist was already ahead of her.

  ‘He’s still here,’ she shouted to him.

  ‘Outside,’ he said. ‘He’s making a run for it.’

  As she followed him back through the darkened rooms, across the concrete floor, to the street door that danced in the shadows from her phone’s torchlight, it amazed her that he sounded so firm, so in control – nothing at all how she felt.

  Then she was outside in the cold air, and standing with Gilchrist in the middle of the road. A quick look one way, then the other, told her nothing. But the departing echo of a car’s racing engine from somewhere in the direction of Leuchars told her where the killer had fled – and told Gilchrist, too.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he shouted.

  Again she was running after him, his slim build more suited to being fleet of foot. She pressed a hand to steady her chest, her breath coming at her in hard hits. She was nowhere near as fast as Gilchrist, and lost sight of him as he ducked into the side street where he’d parked his car. But she gritted her teeth, held onto her boobs, and ran as fast as her legs would take her.

  And as she ran, images of Tommy’s gaping throat, the bloodied mess that had once been a living body, flashed before her. Last year her mother had been murdered, then Terry, her brother – all in the space of a couple of days. And now Tommy. Gilchrist warned her that she might be next, but as long as Tommy had been alive, Jessie had felt safe – well, as safe as you could be in a family of criminals.

  But now Tommy was dead, what next? Or should it be – who next?

  Christ, Tommy, what the hell did you get yourself into?

  She rushed across the junction, and had to jump to the side as Gilchrist’s car slithered to a halt. The passenger door swung open as if on its own, and she jumped inside as the car careened onto the main road and accelerated into the country, engine roaring. She was still panting when they powered through Leuchars. A glance at the speedo – 85 – had her holding onto her seatbelt for dear life.

  ‘Get onto the CCTV Control Centre,’ Gilchrist said. ‘And get them to check out the road from Leuchars to Dundee.’

  ‘What are they looking for?’

  ‘Any car that’s breaking the speed limit.’

  ‘That’ll be us then.’

  ‘We’re looking for a description, hopefully a number plate.’

  She had to hold onto the dashboard as he slammed on the brakes then powered out of town, taking the car up to 90 mph in a heartbeat, it seemed. ‘Jesus, Andy, I’m wearing clean knickers.’

  ‘There’s a couple of junctions up ahead. We need to catch him before then.’

  St Michael’s Golf Course flew past on the left and, within seconds, the 30-mph speed limit of St Michaels flashed by doing close to the ton. A heavy dose of the brakes took the breath from her as her seatbelt crushed her chest. She’d travelled this road many times, on trips to Dundee with her son, Robert, for appointments with ENT specialists at Ninewells Hospital. So she knew why Gilchrist was driving so fast.

  ‘Which way?’ he shouted.

  ‘Straight on.’ She wondered why she had chosen that. The junction flashed past – left to Edinburgh, right to Dundee – and in no time at all they hit another junction.

  ‘Which way?’ Gilchrist shouted.

  ‘Straight on.’

  She had to slap her hands to the dashboard as the car veered left, tyres struggling for grip on the cold road. The road sign for Wormit flickered in the headlights for a millisecond, then sank into darkness at the speed of light.

  ‘You need your ears cleaned,’ she said. ‘This isn’t straight on.’

  ‘I have a feeling he’s going this way.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Figure of speech.’

  ‘I would’ve gone straight on,’ she said.

  ‘I know. You said that.’

  Jessie stared into the blackness ahead, the headlights piercing the night inkiness like tunnels of light. Overhead, the sky could be a black blanket. She felt the power go out of the car’s engine, and for a moment thought they’d run out of petrol. But the grim tightness of Gilchrist’s face told her that he knew he’d lost him … or her … or them.

  ‘Still want me to contact the CCTV Control Centre?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to give a description of the car, but …’ He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘They could be anywhere now.’

  Jessie got onto the CCTV Control Centre as Gilchrist worked through a three-point turn on the narrow country road. He now seemed resigned to the fact that whoever they’d been chasing had vanished into the network of Scottish country roads. At night, and with limited CCTV coverage in open countryside, Tommy’s killer – if that was indeed who they’d been chasing – could be well on his way to Dundee, or Edinburgh, or Glasgow by now. By daybreak, he could be in London or across the Channel.

  Gilchrist swung his car onto the grass verge, then slid to a halt. He opened the door, and stepped out, mobile to his ear. Jessie followed. The night chill squeezed tears from her eyes, or maybe her subconscious was reminding her that the last member of her childhood family had just been murdered. A tremor took hold of her lips, and all of a sudden she struggled to fill her lungs.

  What the hell was happening?

  It’s not like she and Tommy had been close. Maybe her sadness was for Izzy, whose hopes for a better life in sunny climes abroad had been snuffed out with the cruel slash of a razor-sharp blade. She stared across the dark countryside, catching bits of Gilchrist’s phone conversation as he organised a team of SOCOs, and gave instruction for someone to contact Dr Rebecca Cooper, the police pathologist. Odd that he didn’t just call Becky himself, she
thought. Or maybe he truly was over her. Then he finished his calls, slipped his mobile into his pocket, and walked over to her.

  ‘How’re you doing?’

  She sniffed, shrugged her shoulders. ‘I never really got on with Tommy.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m really sorry, Jessie. It’s been a tough time for you.’

  She sniffed again.

  ‘We need to distance you from the investigation,’ he said. ‘It’s too personal.’

  She knew she couldn’t be involved, and shook her head to let him know it was OK. Then her eyes stung from the nip of tears, and she couldn’t stop a sob escaping from her throat as Gilchrist placed his arms around her and held her close.

  CHAPTER 28

  Saturday morning

  North Street Office, St Andrews

  Despite a late night, Gilchrist arrived at the Office at 7.30 a.m.

  He’d told Jessie to take the weekend off – no excuses – and to give him a call in the morning, any time that worked for her, any time at all, as long as she felt up to it. He’d also phoned Colin – spoiled his date with Mhairi, as it turned out – and told him to have a draft report on his desk first thing.

  He took a sip of his Starbuck’s coffee, opened Colin’s file, and removed a series of photographs. As he flipped through them, he had the oddest feeling that Colin had taken these to upset him, or perhaps to remind him that he didn’t care for having his Friday-evening date with a good-looking woman cut short.

  Another sip of coffee to wash back the nip of bile as his stomach threatened to eject last night’s sandwich – tinned tuna and sliced tomato after midnight. Tommy’s eyes, as flat as a dead fish’s, stared back at him in high definition, close enough for Gilchrist to count the bloodied veins beneath the cornea. Images of the fatal wound to the throat, the cut so deep that the head seemed to be held on by only the spinal column and a flap of skin, flipped past him, one after the other. Gilchrist took another sip of coffee, pressed his lips tight, then hissed out a curse. How close did you have to be to take a photograph of a fatal wound? Close-ups could be valuable, but bloody hell, this lot verged on the sadistic. Maybe he should have a word with Colin. Or better still, next time just let the lad enjoy his Friday night.

  More images of Tommy’s slaughter slid from hand to hand, until one photo stopped him cold. Another close-up, this time of Tommy’s stomach, his bloodied shirt pulled open. It struck him that there was not much blood from a wound such as this. But if Tommy had been almost decapitated first, then the stomach wound inflicted second, that would explain it.

  He stared at the wound, a diagonal cut over twelve inches long that sliced through the belly-button. He felt his blood run cold, the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and swallowed another spurt of bile that nipped the back of his throat. He took another sip of coffee to kill the taste, and forced himself to study the image. He’d noticed that wound last night, but thought only that Tommy’s shirt had been slashed. But in this image, the cut was so clean and deep that the camera caught the glistening pink of Tommy’s intestines.

  Gilchrist’s stomach gave another involuntary spasm, and he pressed his hand to his mouth to avoid throwing up. Yet he still forced himself to study the image, his mind pulling up the memory of a similar wound that had him pushing back from his desk and walking to the window. He fumbled with the latch, and threw the window open, the damp air cool and clean against the sweat on his face.

  It had been the angle of the wound that first caught his attention, the specific spot – the belly-button – through which the blade had sliced, the second. At first glance he could be forgiven for thinking it was just another madman’s act of slaughter. But lay the two bodies side by side, and they could be twins.

  Last year. That was when he’d seen it.

  And the victim had been Terry Janes, Jessie’s older brother.

  Standing at the window, his mind fired at the logic. Whoever had killed Terry had also killed Tommy. But was that brutal, gut-slicing wound the killer’s signature, his calling card? And if so, who was the killer’s card for? Last year, when Jessie’s mother and brother, Terry, had been murdered, Dainty had alerted Gilchrist to the possibility that Jessie could be next. Was this calling card a warning for Gilchrist that more was to come?

  He jolted at the hard rapping on his door.

  He forced a smile to his face. ‘Didn’t expect you in today.’

  Mhairi entered his office. ‘Just wanted to follow up on a few things from last night, sir.’ She nodded at the photographs on Gilchrist’s desk. ‘Are these of Tommy Janes?’

  ‘They are. Anything jump out at you?’

  She picked them up, flipped through them with the poker face of a gambler staring at a full house. Then she found what she was looking for, and held the photograph out to him. ‘We found this, sir.’

  Gilchrist noticed the we, and realised that Mhairi had gone to the old paper mill with Colin, as part of the investigation team. Of course, she would have. They were out on a date, and Mhairi wouldn’t have missed an opportunity to add to her growing portfolio of first-hand murder scenes. Once he’d organised the SOCOs and pathologist, Gilchrist had spent no more than fifteen minutes at the crime scene. He’d been conscious of the fact that both Smiler and McVicar had pulled him off the Stooky Dee investigation, and was concerned that she might turn up out of the blue – she was known to do that from time to time – and ask some difficult questions like – Why were you meeting a known criminal whose involvement with Strathclyde Police is well known, despite being personally ordered off a murder investigation handled by Strathclyde? And don’t try and tell me they’re not related. Because I know they are. So what do you say, DCI Gilchrist?

  The question would come. No doubt about it. But last night he’d decided that he and Jessie should first work on their stories before facing Smiler’s inquisition. So, he’d left with Jessie and driven her home. Which explained why he hadn’t noticed the bloodied footprint in the photograph Mhairi now held out to him.

  He took it from her, and pulled it close – part of a footprint, with sufficient definition to see the pattern on the sole. A tape measure lay across the edge of the toe to give a clear indication of the print’s size.

  ‘Could be a work boot,’ he said. ‘Or a running shoe.’ He thought he could make out a crack in the sole’s pattern, but couldn’t say for sure. He nodded to the folder. ‘Any others like this?’

  ‘That’s the best of the lot, sir. We found some scuff marks near the body, but this one was by the door. We were able to track his escape route through the building, and find out which way he left. You said at the time, sir, that you heard him running?’

  It took him a few seconds to realise she’d asked a question. He nodded, and said, ‘So how did he get out of the place?’

  ‘A door at the rear that opened onto waste ground.’

  ‘What about the security fence? How did he get onto the road?’

  Mhairi frowned. ‘I don’t know, sir. I just—’

  ‘Call the security firm, and get a copy of last night’s CCTV footage from them,’ he said. ‘And follow up with the Control Centre, too. We put in a request for coverage on the Leuchars to Dundee road.’

  When Mhairi left his office, he studied the image of the footprint again. Something was niggling. How long had it taken from the moment in the darkness of the paper mill when he’d first heard someone running, until he heard the departing roar of a racing engine?

  One minute? Two? Longer?

  He couldn’t say for sure. But what he did know was that the security fence had been tight and sound last night. Mhairi’s words came back to him – a door at the rear that opened onto waste ground. But once the killer was in that waste ground, how had he escaped? And just as troubling – where had he parked his car?

  Had Tommy’s killer been familiar with the paper mill’s layout? Somehow that didn’t fit, because Gilchrist had it in his mind that the murder had been opportunistic, that the killer had lain in wait for
Tommy, and killed him the moment he arrived. But how had he known of their meeting? Had Tommy let it slip? But again, for someone so street-smart and prison-tough, that scenario just didn’t compute.

  But the second question raised all sorts of probabilities. Tommy’s wrecked Vauxhall Vectra had been the only parked car on the main road. If there were no other cars parked in the immediate vicinity, did that mean the killer had not acted alone, but had an accomplice, a driver who’d hung around in the back streets, waiting to be called upon when the time was right?

  Bloody hell, he was digging up more questions than answers.

  Only one thing for it.

  He slipped on his jacket and strode to the door.

  CHAPTER 29

  In mid-morning sunlight, the old brick building appeared less ominous, smaller, too. What had looked to be solid walls that soared overhead into the night sky turned out to be no more than three storeys tall in one block, two storeys in others. The paper mill formed only one part of a terraced row of interconnected buildings and walls that ran along the back of the pavement for over a couple of hundred yards. He drove the full length of it, then beyond, and parked his car on the same spot as he had last night.

  The SOCOs had opened the large sliding door, and reversed their Transit van inside. Crime-scene tape flapped across the open entrance. A group of bystanders watched from the opposite side of the street, taking photos with mobiles, and conversing amongst themselves.

  Tommy’s body had been removed to Bell Street mortuary in Dundee in the small hours of the morning. Gilchrist hadn’t yet heard from Cooper, but expected she would carry out her PM examination as early as possible, despite it being the start of the weekend. He made a mental note to give her a call if he’d heard nothing by midday. Then he stuffed his hands into his pockets, and set off for the waste ground.

  When he reached the security fence, he walked its length, from the paper mill to the bridge that crossed Motray Water. He took his time, checking for breaks in the fence, tugging the chain links between the metal stanchions. But when he reached the bridge, he’d found nowhere that would let anyone slip through, or under. It was not beyond reason for the killer to have climbed up and over the fence, but Gilchrist’s gut was telling him that was not how he’d made his escape.