by T F Muir
At the bridge, the fence ran back into the site, along the edge of Motray Water, which was when Gilchrist saw a possibility. From the paper mill to the spot on which he stood, the security fence was sound, with metal stanchions concreted into the ground. But where it ran alongside Motray Water, the fence consisted of a row of interconnected chain-link panels that stood on the ground on metal feet. A gap at the base of the panels was deep enough for someone to slide under.
Gilchrist visualised the killer running over the waste ground, then a quick slide under the fence to put himself at the edge of a vertical wall that dropped some eight feet to Motray Water. He walked farther, onto the bridge, and looked seawards. And there it was, as plain as day, a concrete walkway that ran across the shallow river and connected the waste ground to the opposite bank.
At the other end of the bridge, Gilchrist came across a side road, nothing more than a paved track wide enough for a car. But what caught his attention was a pair of skid marks close to a padlocked farm gate, beyond which lay an open field that led to the walkway.
He squatted, and studied the skid marks. No doubt about it. A car had left that spot in a hurry. Twenty yards up the slight incline put him back on the main road. He’d driven past this side road twice last night. But parked down there, off the main road, on a dark night, any vehicle with its lights off would never be noticed by anyone driving by.
He pushed himself to his feet and eyed the field. Last night had been damp, the grass winter-soft and March-soggy. They might be lucky enough to make a cast of footprints if the killer had stepped in some mud. The forecast for the weekend was cloudy and no rain, but in Scotland you would never bet on that. The SOCOs had a narrow window of opportunity. He stepped back from the gate and realised that as it was padlocked, the killer would have had to clamber over it. If he hadn’t been wearing gloves, then the SOCOs might be able to lift fingerprints from the metal railing—
His mobile rang – ID Mhairi.
‘Some bad news, sir. The security firm had a glitch in the CCTV system last night.’
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘They’ve no footage from six until midnight.’
‘About that, sir, yes.’
Gilchrist walked up towards the main road. The glitch in the CCTV system was not accidental. No, someone in the security firm had been paid to shut it down for the night while someone else got on with the business of murdering Tommy. He could assign a couple of uniforms to look into the security firm’s records, interview a string of employees if they had to. But what would that give him?
Bugger all, came the answer.
It troubled him that their arranged meeting had led to Tommy’s murder. But it told him that whoever was responsible for it – and likely Stooky Dee’s murder, too – had money and power and tentacles that stretched from Glasgow to the Fife coast with the speed of light – or more correctly, with the speed of a phone call. But with the body count mounting, it also told him that something big was about to break, some criminal operation with millions of pounds at stake, maybe hundreds of millions for all he knew.
‘Jesus,’ he hissed.
‘Sir?’
‘Sorry, Mhairi, just thinking out loud.’ He turned to look across the waste ground and the paper mill beyond. Overhead, clouds were thinning, revealing patches of blue. Maybe the forecast would be right for once. The rain would stay off, and they could make casts of the killer’s footprints and have the case wrapped up by the end of the day.
Or maybe pigs could fly.
‘Any luck with our CCTV Control Centre?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Chase them up, Mhairi. We need a description of that car. And get back to me the instant you find anything.’ He then phoned Colin and arranged for the SOCOs to examine the padlocked gate for fingerprints, the adjacent field for footprints.
You never could tell. They might just get lucky.
A gull wheeled overhead.
For a fleeting moment he thought it was a pig.
By midday, Gilchrist was none the wiser.
Mac Fountain, manager of the CCTV Control Centre in Glenrothes, had called. ‘A car driving fast, you said.’
Gilchrist closed his eyes, pinched his nose. Hearing his request spoken like that, made it sound as ridiculous as it was. ‘Not just fast,’ he said. ‘But speeding.’
‘On the Leuchars to Dundee road?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know how long that road is?’
‘Not off the top of my head, no.’
‘Or how many cut-offs?’
Gilchrist exhaled, hard, letting Mac know that he was frustrated, too. ‘Look, Mac, I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all we’ve got at the moment. I’ve given you an accurate time frame, and was hoping you might pick up something in Leuchars before it hit open country.’
‘We got one in Leuchars all right. Two actually.’
‘You did?’ His hopes soared until the pause on the line told him that one of the cars was his own. ‘Let me guess. My Beemer, and one other.’
‘I guessed it was yours,’ Mac said. ‘But the quality’s so bad it’s more or less useless. You wouldn’t recognise it yourself.’
Gilchrist hissed a curse. What was the point of being the most CCTV’d country on the planet if all they showed was worthless recordings?
‘The cameras aren’t set up for traffic,’ Mac said, as if reading his mind. ‘But for—’
‘Got it.’ Gilchrist didn’t need to know the details, only that he was getting nowhere fast. Cameras were likely located at the railway station, maybe the Post Office, or some other spot, mostly for public safety, not necessarily for accident hot spots or tricky road junctions.
‘Want me to keep looking?’
Mac’s question sounded innocent, but what he was asking was approval to commit resources to it, and some department he could assign his time to. Gilchrist tilted his head back and resisted the urge to shout at the sky. It was always about money, not justice. A man had been killed last night, brutally murdered, for fuck sake, and money shouldn’t come into it.
But it did, and he really had no option.
‘Don’t waste any more time on it, Mac. I’ll get back to you if we come up with something else.’
The second call that morning had come from Smiler. ‘I’ll be at the Office in twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you there.’
And she had.
She knuckled Gilchrist’s door and entered without introduction.
Gilchrist had never seen the Chief Superintendent in anything other than her uniform. But that morning, being the weekend, she was wearing thigh-hugging bootcut chinos and a white silk blouse that did what it could to hide striking cleavage – where had that come from? He found himself struggling to maintain professional eye contact as she stood before him, legs astride, arms crossed.
‘Morning, ma’am.’
‘I’ve been advised that a known criminal by the name of Tommy Janes was murdered in Guardbridge last night.’
Gilchrist nodded. ‘That’s correct, ma’am.’
‘And I’ve been told he was DS Janes’s brother.’
Well, so much for professional condolences. ‘He was, yes.’
‘I’ve also been told that you and DS Janes had scheduled to meet this Tommy Janes last night, but that he was murdered before you got there.’
Gilchrist nodded. ‘Correct.’
‘Mind telling me what the purpose of your meeting was?’
Nothing like going straight to the point. Even though he and Jessie had their stories straight, now the question had been asked, he realised it wasn’t going to be any easier trying to bend the truth. ‘Of course not, ma’am.’ He took a moment to focus his mind. ‘Tommy Janes was a lifetime criminal,’ he said, ‘who met a woman and decided it was time to get out of his life of crime. And to do that, he was prepared to give evidence against a number of major criminals in exchange for witness protection.’
‘And had you discussed granting thi
s lifetime criminal witness protection with anyone other than DS Janes?’
‘No, ma’am. It was early days. And it took some persuading to get him to agree to meet at all. But I needed to know what information he could provide that would justify the effort and expense of assigning him to the witness protection programme.’
She nodded. ‘I see. And did you not think that DS Janes meeting with this lifetime criminal, her own brother, was a violation of police protocol?’
‘I did, ma’am, yes. But it was the only way Tommy Janes was prepared to meet us.’
‘So you went ahead, regardless.’
‘Without DS Janes present, ma’am, there would have been no meeting. So, yes, we agreed to meet him, but regrettably he was killed before we did. So now that we have a new murder investigation initiated, I’ve removed DS Janes from my team. As you said, having her involved in the investigation would be against protocol.’
‘I see.’ She unfolded her arms and stared at some spot on the wall behind him, as if giving thought to her next question. Then her eyes settled on his. ‘I’m expecting the Chief Constable to put forward an argument for pulling in Strathclyde Police again.’
‘I’d be happy to share whatever we—’
‘No,’ she said. ‘To take over the investigation.’
Gilchrist struggled to hide his surprise. ‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that Tommy Janes’s and Stooky Dee’s murders are connected.’
‘More of a coincidence I would say, ma’am.’
‘You really think so?’
The sneer in her tone did not go unnoticed. Like Gilchrist, it seemed that Smiler did not believe in coincidence. If two separate things happened around the same time, then they were related, plain and simple. It was clear to Gilchrist that Tommy’s murder was connected to Stooky Dee’s, but exactly how was another question. The answer lay within Strathclyde Police, he was sure of it. McVicar meeting with Smiler to confirm he handed over all files to Strathclyde didn’t just speak volumes, it roared. Some other investigation was underway, a case so big that the Chief Constable had become personally involved. But having a team from Strathclyde Police trying to commandeer another investigation away from Gilchrist was not going to work for him. Not this time.
He had to play this long. So he lied.
‘I do believe it’s coincidence, ma’am, yes.’
‘Explain.’
He didn’t like the way she seemed intent on making him pay for breaking protocol. But as he held her look, he came to understand that she was not grilling him in the hope he would shoot himself in the foot, rather she was looking for him to provide answers she might need herself when she had to stand up for him and his team, not to mention the Constabulary itself.
So he decided to take a chance, a wild one, and took her into his confidence.
‘If I was ever questioned by the Chief Constable,’ he said, ‘I would tell him that the investigation into Joe Christie’s disappearance and his suspected murder three years ago has turned up some unusual connections.’ He didn’t want to mention the logbook, because it had still to be logged in as evidence. So he said, ‘We found an old business card in Joe Christie’s belongings, which had the name V Maxwell hand-printed on it.’
‘You never mentioned that.’
‘It’s in the reports,’ he lied. ‘But before jumping to the conclusion that the name was that of Chief Superintendent Victor Maxwell of Strathclyde, who incidentally was questioned by Complaints and Discipline with respect to a double murder in Glasgow last year, I thought it wise to first talk to someone who had evidence of criminal intent, which might … and it’s a big might … help us solve Joe Christie’s murder.’
The quantum leap in logic from Maxwell’s name to Christie’s murder was a stretch to say the least, but he hadn’t wanted to point the finger directly at Maxwell in case it backfired. Dainty had warned him that Maxwell was as slippery as they come, and if Smiler presented that convoluted argument to McVicar, and it was later proven to be wrong, then it wouldn’t just be his head for the chop, but Smiler’s, too.
‘We’re at the start of our investigation into Tommy Janes’s murder, ma’am, and until we have a better understanding of why he was murdered, and what information he might have been able to provide us, I would suggest we play our cards close to our chest.’
Smiler’s eyes held his in an unblinking stare. Then she took a deep breath and let it out. ‘Bloody hell, Andy. Did Janes tell you anything before he was killed? Anything at all?’
‘Other than what we’ve already handed over to Strathclyde?’
‘Of course.’
He grimaced in silence.
Her lips mouthed a silent curse – for fuck sake – then she shook her head. ‘So you’re telling me you have absolutely nothing new.’
Well, it was difficult to deny that. So he said, ‘Which is exactly what Strathclyde would have if they took over the case, ma’am.’
‘Hardly.’
Again, he could not fail to catch the sneer in her tone. ‘Give me to the middle of next week,’ he said, trying not to plead.
‘And if the Chief confronts me before then?’
He shrugged. ‘You have to do what you have to do.’
She offered a dry smile. ‘He’s already asked me to give him a call.’ Then she turned and strode from his office.
Well, there he had it. Pushed to the side again. No way out now.
She stopped in the doorway and faced him. ‘I’ll see if I can stall him, Andy.’
He thought it best not to comment.
‘Don’t let me down.’
‘I’ll try not to, ma’am.’
She frowned, as if she found his answer disappointing. Then she gave him the tiniest of nods, and walked off.
CHAPTER 30
At 1 p.m. on the dot, Gilchrist’s mobile rang – ID Jack. He answered with, ‘Can I call you back, Jack? I’m up to my ears.’
‘You always say that. Listen, you want to meet for a quick pint and a pie?’
Gilchrist blew out his breath. He didn’t want to meet Jack for a pint and a pie, quick or otherwise. But his mind was clouding over with reading too many reports, and he really was getting nowhere. Maybe a breath of fresh air would do him good. But the memory of Smiler’s earlier comments warned him that he had to press on.
‘I really am tied up, Jack.’
‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’
‘Forgotten what?’
‘See?’
Sometimes Jack could be as irritating as Maureen, which made Gilchrist realise with a spurt of regret that he hadn’t phoned her as he’d intended to. ‘OK, what’ve I forgotten?’
‘I’ll tell you when we meet for a pint.’
‘Thought we were going to have a bite.’
‘That, too.’ The line scratched as if a hand was being dragged over the mouthpiece, then Jack came back with, ‘The Central in five. Can you make it?’
Oh, what the hell? ‘Sure,’ he said.
The line died, and he pushed to his feet, feeling stiff. Maybe he was too old now for all that clambering around a fishing boat. As if to prove Jack’s point, his stomach rumbled, and he reached for his jacket and strode from his office.
He entered the Central Bar from the College Street entrance, and squeezed into the post-midday crowd. The world was supposedly in a global recession, but from the buzzing throng you’d think they must be referring to some other planet. He almost missed Jack seated at the bar with Kris, both wearing what looked like new black leather jackets. Maybe Jack’s paintings were selling well. Or Kris was his sugar mummy. A couple of half-finished drinks sat on the bar in front of them. He tapped Jack on the shoulder.
‘You’re either a fast drinker, or you’ve been here a while.’
Jack slipped off his stool, and surprised Gilchrist with a hug. ‘Hey, Andy. What you having?’
Gilchrist recovered from Jack’s grip. ‘Nice jacket.’
Jack slipped his t
humbs under the collar, tugged the leather. ‘A present from Kris.’
Gilchrist glanced at Kris, but she gave him a blank stare in return. ‘So what’s the occasion?’ he asked.
Jack smiled at Kris. ‘See what I mean?’
Kris nodded, picked up her drink – a revolting-looking purple – and said, ‘Cheers.’
Gilchrist said nothing, just smiled with compliance at their secret joke, until Jack said, ‘It’s my birthday.’
Shit, and bugger it. Of course it was. How the hell could he have let that slip? He tried to keep a straight face. ‘Well, I suppose the drinks are on me, then.’
Jack guffawed, chinked his glass against Kris’s, then drained it. ‘Don’t bother getting me anything. I’m getting too old for that now. It’s just good to meet up in a bar.’
Gilchrist smiled at that. Not meet up for a pint, but meet up in a bar. So, his son must really be off alcohol, which was one positive thing about dating an older woman who bought leather jackets for birthdays, he supposed.
‘Right,’ Jack said. ‘How long can you stay?’
‘I can’t stay long. I’m sorry. I’ve got a busy day ahead.’
‘Jesus, Andy. What is it with you and work? You’ve got to ease up. I’m always telling you. It’s Saturday, for crying out loud. What’s so important that you can’t take an hour or two off to have a pint or three with your only son on his birthday?’ He caught the bartender’s eye, made a swirling motion with his hand, and said, ‘Same again.’ Then to Gilchrist. ‘What’re you having? A Deuchars?’
Gilchrist nodded in defeat. ‘Go on then. You’ve talked me into it.’
Jack ordered a pint of Deuchars, and as if as an afterthought, said, ‘I’ll have the same. And a vodka shooter on the side. Grey Goose.’
‘Thought you weren’t drinking.’
