by T F Muir
Out into the marbled vestibule, the door closed behind her with a heavy click like a vault locking. At the bottom of the granite steps, she hesitated, and turned to her side as if to check the weather. Although the window was too high for her to see inside, she managed to catch sight of the back of an oil-slicked head, hair black and thick as a metal helmet, before two bodyguards as muscled as WWF wrestlers nudged her towards the pillared gate at the foot of the driveway. One of them gripped her arm, and she shrugged it free with, ‘Get the fuck off.’
Together, the three of them marched down the driveway.
At the entrance gate, she saw no sign of the shorn-headed bodyguard, and an image of him walking the lengths of the boundary walls and fences like a daytime sentry brought a wry smile to her face. From the look of him, Jock Shepherd had no more than a few weeks to live, maybe even days. Yet here they were, guarding the place as if the Queen herself was about to pay a visit. She knew she had just witnessed something big, almost gate-crashed some private event, a major underworld clan gathering that could change the fundamentals of how crime in the city of Glasgow, maybe even Scotland and beyond, would be managed.
She walked to her car, unlocked it, then slid behind the steering wheel.
She inserted the key into the ignition, surprised to see her hands shaking.
CHAPTER 41
‘What do you make of it?’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist grunted in frustration, then turned his attention to the handwritten note again. As he read the simple words, he had no way of knowing if they’d been written by Shepherd or one of his minions. But more troubling, he had no way of knowing if he was being set up for a fall or being given a lead to an imminent crime. No matter what, the note was not what he’d expected in exchange for Christie’s logbook.
Jessie had returned from Glasgow late that afternoon and handed the envelope to him, unopened, still sealed. She told him she hadn’t opened it in case she did something she might have later regretted.
‘Like take the law into your own hands?’
‘Exactly.’
But the opening of the envelope and removal of its contents – a short note the size of a Post-it – turned out to be the epitome of an anti-climax. No name of Tommy’s killer. Just a time, a date and a place – Wren’s Garage in Pittenweem that evening at 7 p.m., to be exact. The note wasn’t signed or dated, and the penmanship could have been that of a ten-year-old.
Gilchrist glanced at Jessie, and shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he said, ‘other than – we’re running out of time.’
‘Which is probably why Shepherd put the three o’clock deadline on the exchange.’
‘Any later,’ Gilchrist agreed, ‘and we would miss this evening’s event. Whatever the hell it is.’ He reached for his jacket and was about to stride to the door when Mhairi blocked his way. Her hair was ruffled, as if she’d just risen from bed, and her drawn face reminded him of how he looked after spending the night trying to work out some insoluble puzzle.
‘Sorry, sir. But I’ve been going through these from Harvey Kenn.’ She held out a pile of computer printouts.
‘Give me the short version,’ Gilchrist said.
Mhairi grimaced. ‘Harvey dug into each of the accounts you gave me this morning, and none of them belong to anyone with a criminal record, sir.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, sir. But each of them has had revolving funds over the last year, mostly in the high six figures. And in one account the transactions topped two million in August.’
‘These are high numbers to be moved through legitimate bank accounts,’ he said, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. ‘I mean, who has that amount of money floating about? Tens of thousands, maybe, but not millions.’
‘They’re company accounts, sir.’
That stopped him, but only for a moment. ‘So they’re operating accounts for large businesses?’
‘That’s what we’re supposed to think, sir.’
He caught the smile at the corners of Mhairi’s mouth. ‘Supposed to think?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I checked Companies House this afternoon, and made a list of all the directors and company secretaries for each of them, and found that one person, a woman, is listed as the Chief Financial Officer in all four companies.’
A woman being at the centre of it all surprised Gilchrist. He’d expected Maxwell’s name to have crawled from the pile by now. But instead of his investigation narrowing, it now seemed to be expanding. Still, you never could tell where any lead would take you.
‘An executive,’ he said. ‘So we might find her signature on issued cheques.’
‘I don’t think we’d have any luck there, sir. It seems that all transactions were done by BACS transfer.’
Online banking was becoming the norm now, but if every transaction went through the Bank Automated Clearing System, that would create a digital trail, which they should be able to follow. ‘What’s the woman’s name? The CFO?’ he asked.
Mhairi referred to her notes. ‘Lesley J. W. Duncan, sir.’
The name meant nothing to him, and the echo of Dainty’s words rattled through his mind – Maxwell’s slippier than an eel in a barrel of oil.
‘Lesley could be a man’s name,’ he tried.
‘Not how it’s spelled. It would be Leslie ending in i-e if it was a man. Besides, the J is for Jennifer. But I can’t find a Lesley J. W. Duncan listed in any electoral rolls.’
‘Did you try searching with an i-e?’ he asked. ‘Just in case.’
‘Yes, sir. Same result.’
‘How about tax records, National Insurance number?’
‘Nothing, sir. She doesn’t appear to exist.’
‘Except that she does,’ Gilchrist said. ‘At least on paper anyway. What about other directors? Are they imaginary, too?’
‘They seem legitimate, sir, in the sense that they appear to exist, I mean. Although I haven’t spoken to any of them in person yet, sir.’
He thought for a moment, then said, ‘J for Jennifer. What does W stand for?’
‘Wren, sir.’
Gilchrist jolted. He glanced at Jessie and saw that she’d picked up on it, too. The note from Shepherd referred to Wren’s Garage, which seemed too much of a coincidence. But if you didn’t believe in coincidence, where did that put it? Smack dab in the middle of his investigative sights came the answer.
He said to Mhairi, ‘Get Jackie to find out everything she can about Wren’s Garage in Pittenweem.’
‘Do you have an address, sir?’
‘No. But when Jackie finds it, call me with it.’ He nodded to Jessie. ‘Grab your coat.’
Outside, black clouds dulled the sky and a cold wind was stirring. Sunset on the Fife coast in the second half of March normally fell around seven o’clock. But with rainclouds low enough to touch, night-time could be less than an hour away. He clicked his remote fob, took his seat behind the wheel, and glanced at the clock on the dash – 17:46.
Which didn’t give them much time.
To make matters worse, spots of rain splashed on the windscreen, which seconds later turned into a squall that shook the car from the force of the wind. Pittenweem was about ten miles due south of St Andrews, but at that time of day, the town would be busy. And from the North Street Office, driving on country roads slickened by a downpour, it could take twenty minutes to drive there. The trouble with April showers in March was that they often carried the threat of snow, and by the time Gilchrist eased through the pend that led from the car park the streets were turning white from hailstones.
The wind was doing what it could to slow them down as he drove up North Street, the buildings either side funnelling the storm, creating a bottleneck through which the squall whistled. He flipped on his wipers, but they barely cleared the screen.
‘What is it about this place?’ Jessie complained. ‘It’ll be the middle of summer in three months for crying out loud.’
Gilchrist’s phone r
ang at that moment, and he put it through the speaker system. ‘Yes, Mhairi.’
‘Got the address for Wren’s Garage, sir,’ she said, then rattled off a street name and number. Jessie entered it into his car’s GPS system.
‘Who owns the property?’ he asked Mhairi.
‘Streetspace Ltd, sir.’
He’d never heard of it, didn’t have any idea what it did for money, other than the fact that it owned the property on which Wren’s Garage sat, and was probably banking a monthly rent. ‘It’s a limited company,’ he said. ‘So it’ll be registered with Companies House. Check it out. For all we know, this Lesley Duncan might be the CFO for that, too.’
‘Already done that, sir, and she is.’
Mhairi’s comment did not surprise him, as if he’d already known that Ms Duncan was at the heart of the matter. But who she was, and what the matter was for it to have a heart, he was none the wiser. ‘Get Jackie onto it,’ he said. ‘Find out who this Duncan is. She must exist somewhere.’
He ended the call, and accelerated past the cathedral ruins.
Heading south on Abbey Walk, he phoned Dainty. ‘Got a name for you,’ he said. ‘A Ms Lesley J. W. Duncan. You heard of her?’
‘Can’t say that I have,’ Dainty said. ‘What’s it in connection with?’
The purpose of calling Dainty was to find out information, not give it. And Gilchrist was conscious of Smiler’s recent low profile in the Office, with rumours rearing that she was meeting with McVicar on some important business. Not that a DCI was normally made privy to such high and mighty matters between chief superintendents and chief constables, but it did seem to Gilchrist that he was being deliberately kept in the dark about something big that was about to break. And Fife Constabulary was not necessarily the focal point of whatever was going on, but was being contacted for support and advice – all of which was above and beyond Gilchrist’s pay grade from the looks of it. Well, that’s what he thought. Of course, Jessie’s report on the criminal gathering at Shepherd’s mansion only added to his suspicions.
Sometimes the only way to get an invite to the party was to gate-crash. With nothing to lose, he thought he’d give it a shot. A long shot, he knew. But if you didn’t ask, you didn’t get. ‘Her name popped up on a PNC search,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d run it past you in case she was a player in this major drugs bust that’s about to happen.’
The silence on the line told Gilchrist he’d hit the nail on the head, maybe not smack dab on the middle, but close enough. After a few beats, Dainty said, ‘You’re fishing, Andy.’
Nothing much slipped past Dainty, and experience had taught Gilchrist that honesty often pulled more from the man than deceit. ‘I am, yes.’
‘Why?’
Which was typical Dainty. Straight to the point. Might as well respond in kind, so he said, ‘Jock Shepherd’s dying. He’s probably only got days to live. And we’re guessing that he wants to go out on a high note.’
‘Guessing?’
‘Educated guessing. Hence the drugs bust.’
A pause, then, ‘And you want me to tell you what?’
Jessie was staring at the phone system as if trying to read the spoken words. She glanced at Gilchrist, her eyebrows raised in question. He had no idea where this next question would take him, but it struck him all of a sudden that Shepherd’s note might have already given him the answer.
‘Tell me when it’s happening,’ he said. ‘And where.’
‘And what do I get in return?’
Gilchrist couldn’t guarantee anything, of course, and didn’t know if Shepherd was sending him on a wild errand or not. Maybe it was just a ploy of Shepherd’s to keep Gilchrist out of the way of whatever big something was about to break. But again, he chose honesty.
‘Truth be told, I don’t know if I’ve got anything to give you.’
‘Well, I can’t help you, Andy. Sorry. But that’s the way it has to be on this one.’
This one. Again, the reference to something unique, something big. Well, if Dainty wouldn’t tell him directly, perhaps he could do so indirectly. ‘Is Pittenweem close to the centre of anything?’ he tried.
‘Pittenweem? On the Fife coast?’
Gilchrist already knew from the tone of Dainty’s voice that he was on the wrong path, that big Jock Shepherd really had sent them on a blind chase. But he said, ‘The one and only.’
‘You’re way off, Andy. Way off.’
‘And you’ve never heard of Lesley Duncan?’
‘Never.’ A pause, then, ‘I’m sorry, Andy. I can’t help you.’
But Gilchrist wasn’t finished. He had one last dart to throw, a wild shot that could miss the board altogether. Shepherd didn’t have long to live, and hosting criminal gatherings was not something you did for a farewell party. But if you thought about it logically, if Jock Shepherd really was trying to keep Gilchrist from interfering in this big something, then his handwritten note had to be correct on at least one point.
‘So everything’s in place for tonight?’ he said.
His words could have frozen time, short-circuited the digital ether, for it took Dainty all of six seconds before he hung up.
Which gave Gilchrist his answer.
CHAPTER 42
By the time they arrived at Pittenweem’s shoreline, the March squall had settled into full storm mode. Fishing boats anchored in calm waters seemed to come alive from the force of the wind. Ropes as thick and hairy as wrists strained on rusted anchor rings. Wooden hulls rolled and creaked as if in complaint. Beyond the relative quiet of the harbour waters, waves exploded over the stone pier with bursts of spray that swept landwards like spindrift.
On Mid Shore they found the address and name – Wren’s Garage – painted on the inside wall of a narrow pend that led to the back of a row of terraced properties that fronted the harbour. Gilchrist slowed as he approached the entrance, snatched a quick glance through the pend, but saw nothing that looked like an ongoing business – no workshop, no cars, no mechanics with grubby hands and greased overalls – just a wooden building that looked like the ramshackle garage his parents’ neighbours used to keep their car in.
He drove on and reached the end of the street, did a three-point turn and parked by the kerb. He switched off the lights, but kept the engine running and the fan on to keep the windscreen from steaming. With the wipers on slow intermittent, passers-by could think the car was empty.
Despite the rain, and the darkening night, Gilchrist had a clear view along Mid Shore and the mouth of the pend that led to Wren’s Garage. A glance at the dash told him they had less than forty minutes until seven, at which time … well, who knew what would happen then? Probably nothing, if his mounting doubts were realised.
After ten minutes of waiting and watching, Jessie said, ‘Looks like no one’s around.’
‘If they’re here, they could be in the back.’
‘Having a cup of tea in the garage?’
Gilchrist looked seawards. Black clouds hugged the horizon. ‘Looks like this is on for the night.’
‘So what’s new?’
‘It’s not as bad as it was.’
Jessie glared at the horizon. ‘It’s just pissing down, you mean? Instead of torrential?’
Under such a blanket of dark clouds, you could be forgiven for thinking that night had settled early. Even so, Gilchrist said, ‘Let’s give it another ten minutes.’
‘You think the rain’s going to go off by then?’
‘I think it’ll be a bit darker.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she said, and stared out the windscreen. ‘It’s miserable, this place.’
‘Pittenweem?’
‘No. Scotland. Who would be stupid enough to emigrate to here?’
‘Scotland has a lot to offer.’
‘Sure, it does. If you’re a wellington boots and umbrella salesman. Oh, and raincoats.’ She grunted, shifted in her seat. ‘I knew someone who moved up to Glasgow from England. Born and bred somewhere south of Londo
n. She was here for two days before she bought a raincoat. Said it was the first raincoat she’d ever owned. Pissed off back south the following year. What does that tell you?’
‘That she should’ve bought an umbrella instead?’
Jessie chuckled. ‘Should’ve bought an umbrella as well, you mean.’
Gilchrist switched off the fan, then the engine. ‘You ready?’
‘No umbrella, so the jacket’ll have to do.’
Outside, the wind hit them with renewed strength. Rain lashed in from the east, cold as ice and stinging like hail. Waves thumped the harbour wall, but something in the way the spray exploded told him that the worst of the storm was behind them.
They strode side by side along Mid Shore, and turned into Wren’s Garage pend like a choreographed dance act seeking shelter.
‘Jesus,’ Jessie hissed. ‘I’m soaked through.’
‘Need to get yourself a waterproof jacket.’
‘It is waterproof.’
‘Showerproof.’
‘What?’
‘Your jacket’s showerproof only.’
‘And where did you get your sartorial degree?’
‘Check the label.’
‘Aye, right.’
In the shelter of the pend, Gilchrist raked his fingers through his hair, blew into his hands to take the chill from his fingers. Then he walked to the far end of the pend, and eyed the deserted back area. Rainwater splashed onto the cobblestones from a broken downpipe. Runoff flowed past his shoes like a small burn. The garage, if it could be called that, looked larger than he’d first thought, and abandoned. But a curved mark that ran from the bottom of the right-hand door glistened like a scratch in the cobbles where the wood had scraped stone. The door had been opened recently. The padlock, too, shone as shiny as steel, and was large enough to suggest that whatever was being stored inside was of value and worth safekeeping.
Gilchrist looked at the area around him. The terraced buildings offered respite from the wind, and the downpour seemed to have lost its intensity. Wren’s Garage – if that’s what the wooden building was – overlooked a small yard hemmed in on three sides by eight-foot-high brick walls. The garage sat in one corner of the yard, and Gilchrist noted ruts in the gravel and dirt forecourt that hinted of vehicular access and turning. In his mind’s eye he pictured a van driving through the pend, doing a hard turn to the left, then reversing up to the garage door. From there it would be a straight drive back through the pend.
