by T F Muir
Even though Gilchrist was staring at Izzy’s house, his thoughts were miles beyond it. Here was another link to Jock Shepherd – the fiver stuffed into the mouths of those killed; the list of small-time crooks who were all employed by him. And now Griff Sinclair, involved in loan collections – just like Stooky, it struck him – and hardman tactics against those who fell behind.
‘Has he killed anyone?’
‘It’s not in big Jock’s interests. Can’t get money from a corpse. Best to beat them up a bit to remind them what they owe. All fucking part and parcel of big Jock’s loan enterprises. God help you if you had to borrow money from Shepherd. Exorbitant interest rates. Miss one payment, and you’re on catch-up for the rest of your miserable fucking life.’
Gilchrist pinched his nose. He’d never been one to run up debt. Always paid by cash or debit card, and refused to fall behind in payments. He used to have credit cards, but made a point of bringing the balance current at the end of each month. But nowadays, it seemed that millions of people lived on credit, racking up bills they would be saddled with for life. How soul-destroying it must be to end up being buried in debt with no hope of clearing your feet. And then to be preyed on by the likes of big Jock Shepherd and his minders. Christ, it didn’t bear thinking about—
‘Why’re you asking?’ Dainty said.
‘Better that you don’t know. At least for the time being.’
‘Understood.’
A thought flashed into Gilchrist’s head. ‘Would Victor Maxwell know Sinclair?’
‘Now that’s a fucking quantum leap.’ Dainty chuckled. ‘Can’t say that he does. But funny you should bring it up …’
Gilchrist turned up the speakers.
‘Just heard that Maxwell had the balls to bring in big Jock for questioning today. He’s had to let him go, of course. But you don’t fuck around with someone like big Jock and expect to walk away without being hurt.’
‘What did Maxwell have on him?’
‘Fuck all, as it turned out. But it does make you wonder.’
Yes, it did, thought Gilchrist, as another memory squirmed from the recesses of his subconscious. A date in Tommy’s notes. This Monday, the nineteenth of March, as it turned out.
Anybody might think it was all a matter of coincidence.
But if you didn’t believe in coincidence, where did that put you?
Smack dab in the middle of something big, if you thought about it.
CHAPTER 34
By 7 p.m., Gilchrist was no further forward.
Jackie’s search for account details turned up nothing – a big, fat zero. The sort codes were correct, and the accounts did exist. But none of them matched any names in Tommy’s notebook. Every account was under a different name, and all appeared to be normal everyday accounts for paying domestic bills or keeping savings. The largest sum in any was just over eleven thousand pounds in a savings account in the name of a Mrs Martha Sciplin, a widow in her nineties who lived in the outskirts of Glasgow.
He pushed himself to his feet and walked to his office window.
What was he missing? What the hell was Tommy’s notebook all about?
Were the accounts nothing more than a con by Tommy to get him and Izzy into the witness protection programme? But that was pointless. Tommy would have known that if he fed the Constabulary faked accounts, then he could kiss goodbye to Thailand and a safe house beyond the reach of Victor Maxwell. What he’d provided with these accounts wouldn’t get Tommy out of bed, let alone flown to Asia courtesy of the UK government.
It just didn’t make sense. He had to be missing something.
But what, he had no idea.
Outside, night had already fallen. Beneath him, the car park lay as black as asphalt, his car hidden in the shadows of the boundary wall. Lamplight muted by curtains and blinds dotted the buildings beyond. His shoulders felt stiff, and an ache that throbbed at the back of his neck was threatening to turn into something more serious – the result of being seated in front of his computer screen for hours.
He felt a yawn take control of his jaw, and he stretched his arms, tried to nurse some life back into his tired body. But he would have to call it a day, take a break, get some sleep then tackle the problem in the morning with a fresh mind and new ideas. He shut down his computer, and had just closed his office door when his mobile rang – a number he failed to recognise, but with a 0141 prefix he knew was Glasgow.
He took the call as he walked down the stairs. ‘DCI Gilchrist.’
‘It’s been a while, Mr Gilchrist.’
The timbre touched some long-forgotten memory but, try as he might, he couldn’t pull it up. ‘Who’s this?’ he said.
‘Let’s just say that you’re dipping your toes into waters where you don’t belong.’
The name Victor Maxwell flashed into his mind. But he’d never spoken to the man, so how could the voice sound familiar? He pushed through the door into North Street. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Well, don’t get lost tomorrow,’ the voice said. ‘King’s Arms. Ten o’clock. And don’t be fucking late this time.’
The connection died.
Gilchrist realised he’d stopped walking. He eyed his mobile, and called back the last number only to reach a recorded message – the number you called does not exist. Of course, it doesn’t exist. That was how you survived a life of crime for so long. It had been the name of the pub that sparked the neural connection – the King’s Arms – an eclectic working-man’s pub in the heart of Dundee. Gilchrist had been in it once before, at the behest of Glasgow’s crime patriarch, big Jock Shepherd.
And it was big Jock who wanted to meet him there again.
Back then, the meeting had gone reasonably well, with Gilchrist being handed enough evidence to put an up-and-coming criminal behind bars for the remainder of his life. The fact that this criminal had been one of big Jock’s competitors, and that by dobbing him in to the cops, big Jock had strengthened his own business interests, was neither here nor there. To avoid out-and-out warfare, there had to be a certain equilibrium in the criminal underworld, and as long as big Jock remained at the top of his side of the equation, there was no need to upset the balance, so to speak. But this recent spate of deaths could mean an attempt was being made by some underling to take over Shepherd’s empire.
Gilchrist slipped his mobile into his pocket and turned into Muttoes Lane, one of the many walkways that connect St Andrews’ three main streets – North, Market and South. As he walked, his mind crackled with questions, coming up with answers that seemed only to open up more questions.
Why would Shepherd want to meet Gilchrist? Did he have more evidence to give him to use against his competitors? Why had Victor Maxwell pulled big Jock in for questioning, only to let him go hours later? Was it just a warning for big Jock, to remind him that no one – and certainly not Jock – was bigger than the law of the land? Or was there something more sinister going on? Had Strathclyde’s investigation into Stooky’s murder scratched through the surface of Glasgow’s underworld to expose one of the city’s other criminal families? Had Maxwell attempted to strike a deal with Shepherd?
Too many questions, not enough answers.
Gilchrist exited Muttoes Lane and crossed Market Street, destination the Criterion. By the time he turned the corner into South Street he was ready for a pint. He pushed through the Saturday-night crowd, all the more rowdy and merry from Premier League football being shown on the pub’s TVs. He recognised West Ham United, or was it Aston Villa? – he never could tell the difference between their strips – but lost interest in the game when he noticed Colin – lead SOCO and one of the best Scenes of Crime Officers in the business – standing at the end of the bar, having a pint with Mhairi.
Colin caught his eye and nodded, which caused Mhairi to look his way, too. He thought Mhairi looked embarrassed at being caught drinking in a bar with a working associate – although strictly speaking, they weren’t – so he nodded t
o the beer taps, a silent invitation over the evening din to buy the pair of them a drink.
Colin lifted his pint and mouthed ‘Cheers’, which Gilchrist took as a yes. He caught the eye of the bartender, a spiky-haired blonde girl with a white stained T-shirt and frayed denim shorts over black woollen tights – wasn’t it still winter? – and ordered a Caledonian Eighty. ‘And the same again for that couple,’ he said, nodding to Colin. ‘Whatever they had before.’
He paid for the round, lifted his pint and chinked it in Colin and Mhairi’s direction, then stepped back from the bar and eyed one of the TV screens. He’d never really been into football, had played it now and again as a child – sweaters or scarves rolled up and laid on the grass for goalposts. But without fail he would be one of the last to be selected for the random teams, and always found himself playing in goal. Over the years, he’d developed into a fairly decent keeper, until he tried to block a shot and fractured his wrist. A roar went up from a ruddy-faced group in the corner, the video replay confirming a penalty had just been awarded against Man City—
‘Thank you, sir.’
Gilchrist turned to face Mhairi, struck by how different she appeared with her brown hair tied back and a touch of mascara adding a subtle hint of kohl to her eyes. She seemed so young and vibrant, with a smile that set off white teeth and a flawless skin. He’d never paid attention to how attractive she was. It seemed as if DC Mhairi McBride had matured into a striking woman behind his back.
He glanced at the corner, and she said, ‘Colin’s gone to the loo, sir.’
He nodded. ‘When we’re off-duty, it’s Andy, not sir.’ He chinked his glass against hers – gin and tonic, maybe, or vodka, he didn’t know. He’d just paid for the round, without asking what they were drinking. ‘Haven’t seen you in here before,’ he said.
‘I don’t normally drink, sir … Andy.’
‘Just Andy. Not Sir Andy.’
She chuckled at his silly joke, and he was saved by Colin pushing his way through the crowd to put an arm around her.
‘I’ve put one in the pipe for you,’ Colin said.
‘You didn’t need to, but that’s good of you.’
‘Never let it be said.’ Colin eyed the TV. ‘Do you know the scores? Aberdeen were playing Celtic this afternoon. Probably got gubbed out the park.’ Colin gulped a mouthful of beer, almost draining his glass, and Gilchrist came to understand that Mhairi’s embarrassment could be due to Colin having had more alcohol than he could handle.
Well, it was a Saturday night.
He was about to move to the bar to allow Mhairi and Colin some time together – they wouldn’t want to spend their evening chatting to the boss – when Colin said, ‘Did Cooper get hold of you?’
Gilchrist sensed a revelation of sorts, and said, ‘About?’
‘About DS Fox wanting her to release the body asap.’
Gilchrist frowned, not clear on what the problem was. ‘DS Fox is with Strathclyde Police,’ he explained. ‘Who are now in charge of the murder investigation.’
‘Yeah, but she’s refused.’
‘Why?’
‘Wouldn’t say naught to little old me. But I bet she would speak to you.’ He finished his pint. ‘Would you like another?’
‘No, thanks. Keep it in the pipe. I’m driving.’
Colin turned to Mhairi. ‘You ready for another?’
‘I’ll pass.’
‘Wrong answer. It’s the weekend.’ And with that, he turned to the bar, almost pushing an elderly man off his stool in his efforts to squeeze through.
‘Looks like he’s been enjoying himself,’ Gilchrist said.
Mhairi gave a grim-faced nod in response.
He placed his empty glass beside others on an adjacent table, and said, ‘I’m heading off. See you Monday.’
‘Do you need me for anything tomorrow, sir?’
Gilchrist had spent most of his professional life working too many hours. He didn’t feel he had the right to encourage others to do the same. His team worked more hours than was good for their health, each and every one of them.
He shook his head. ‘Enjoy your weekend.’
Outside, the cold hit him anew. He pulled up his collar, and called Cooper.
She answered with, ‘I really can’t talk at the moment.’
He ignored her, and said, ‘You refused to hand over Stooky Dee’s body to Strathclyde Police—’
‘And my files.’
‘Your files?’
‘That’s the problem. They don’t want any evidence of my PM report to be filed anywhere in Fife.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Andy. Sometimes you’re just so … so … bloody naive.’
The call ended.
He frowned, puzzling over her comment.
He wouldn’t say he was naive. Not at all.
Nor would he say he was gullible. Far from it.
But he would say one thing; he would say he was inquisitive. And when anyone tried to feed him crap, he would turn over hell and earth to find out why.
He slipped his mobile into his pocket, and strode back to his car.
CHAPTER 35
Morning arrived to the rattling hiss of rain on glass.
Through the bedroom skylight it could still be midnight.
Gilchrist pulled himself from bed, and groaned from the effort. He stumbled to the bathroom, trying to remember how last night ended. Had Jack called, and they’d argued? Or was that just part of a bad dream? Cooper’s voice snapped away at his memory, too. Had he phoned her again? He stared at his grey face in the mirror and asked himself why he hadn’t yet learned not to drink late at night, and particularly not whisky. Maybe it was time to cut it out altogether. When you can’t distinguish dreams from memories, then that really was the start of the terminal slide.
A hard scrub with his toothbrush did little to remove the coating from his tongue, and a piping hot shower barely worked its magic. But a teapot’s worth of strong tea and two slices of toast and banana helped settle his stomach. He chastised himself for drinking on an empty stomach, but if the truth be told, he hadn’t been hungry last night.
Morning was still this side of eight o’clock. The rain had stopped, the wind had died and the sun was doing what it could to brighten the skies. He removed a carton of cat food from a cupboard, then stepped outside into the early morning chill. At the end of his garden he cleaned the cat’s bowls with the garden hose, topped one with water, the other with dried food. He tried, ‘Here, puss puss,’ a couple of times, but Blackie was either not hungry or had decided she’d had enough of his inconsistent feeding regimen. He’d missed a day, or maybe two, he couldn’t remember, and made a silent promise that he would be less forgetful in the future – if Blackie ever turned up again, that is.
Back inside, his living room looked like someone had partied the night before. His jacket lay crumpled over the back of a chair, his shoes kicked underneath the table. Ripped-open envelopes, the backs of their contents covered with scribbled notes and lines scratched from this circled number to that, littered the sofa and carpet in an indecipherable mess – his attempts last night to make sense of the innocent bank accounts. A half-finished bottle of The Arran Malt – his birthday/New Year present from Maureen – sat on the coffee table with the cork off. At its side stood a tumbler filled with melted ice the colour of weak whisky. Had he poured himself a wee deoch an doris – a last one for the road – and not finished it? Or had he staggered off to bed once he’d finally worked out why the account numbers had seemed senseless at first sight?
It really had been quite simple in the end, although coming up with the right solution now was more or less impossible. It had been the memory of Dainty telling him that Maxwell was as slippery as they come, which did it for him. Of course, the bank accounts in Tommy’s notebook existed. He had no doubts about that now. None at all. But the numbers had to have been encrypted – of course they had – for Tommy to have written t
hem down. The troubling question was – had they been encrypted by Tommy, or had he copied down numbers already encrypted by someone else?
That was the point last night in the unwinding of his convoluted logic when Gilchrist had said, ‘Fuck it,’ and gone to bed. As he retrieved his scribbled notes from the floor, in the sobriety of a new day another answer bubbled to the fore. Rather than try to work out how the account numbers had been encrypted, why not work it out in reverse?
To do that, he would have the banks provide him with a printout of accounts through which large sums of money passed, but which were in the names of little-known companies or individuals. Once he had these numbers, they might see some pattern by comparing them to the accounts in the notebook. With fresh eyes on the problem, and not so much alcohol flowing through his system, he’d now convinced himself that the encryption would have to be simple, so simple that anyone – Victor Maxwell, he kept returning to – could readily read the correct account number from an encrypted one. It could even be as simple as adding 1 to each of the numbers, or deducting 1 from them.
Or … it could be much more complicated.
Which really brought him back to the beginning.
A glance at the time warned him that he would have to get a move on if he was to be at the King’s Arms in Dundee for 10 a.m. He grabbed his jacket, his mobile, a couple of biscuits from a cupboard – Oaties to give him something for his stomach – then his car keys from a hook behind the kitchen door.
On the drive to Dundee, he phoned Jessie to run his latest thoughts on the account numbers past her. He valued her no-nonsense approach, but knew that his reverse encryption idea would be a tough sell.
Jessie did not disappoint. ‘Do you have any idea how many accounts there are in the Bank of Scotland alone?’ she said.
