It was the truth. Kinny Gilchrist had been as good as his word, as Dickens might have said. Immediately after our meeting with his father adjourned, he’d identified the man in the photo with Hailey. Well, sort of.
“I don’t ken him exactly,” he said. “I ken his cousin, though.”
“His cousin, then? Who’s his cousin?”
“Cousin’s Rob Roy Moffett, innit?”
“Where can I find him?”
“Naw far. Between here and Edinburgh.”
“Can you take me to him?”
He lifted a bony shoulder nearly to his ear. “Naw tonight, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are naw visiting hours after dark.”
“He’s in hospital?” Ashdown had asked.
The kid shook his head. “HMP Shotts.”
With that the kid had motioned to Zoey, who nodded and followed him upstairs.
I looked a question at Ashdown, who frowned.
“Shotts is a maximum-security prison,” he said.
Chapter 21
TWELVE YEARS AGO
Can’t sleep. Neither can Tasha. Now that we’re lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, it seems foolish to have thought we might drift off.
In the darkness Tasha says softly, “This is the first night Hailey and I are apart. The first night since she was born.”
What do I say to that?
Seconds pass. I know the longer I remain silent, the longer she’ll dwell on that fact and the longer she dwells on it, the more pain she’ll feel.
Hell, maybe that’s what I want.
“We are going to find her,” I try.
I don’t know why I use the word we. We are not going to find her, not Tasha and I. We’re not even allowed to leave the house. At least that’s how we’ve been made to feel. If anyone’s going to find Hailey it’s Rendell and West or one of their people.
But Rendell and West went home for the day.
They’re sleeping, Special Agents Rendell and West.
I glance at the digital clock on my nightstand. It’s five A.M. Rendell and West have been sleeping for hours already. Maybe West had some difficulty. Maybe she rolled out of bed to check on her children once or twice. Maybe woke her husband to do it. Maybe she even invited her youngest into their bed as Tasha is wont to do when either of them is feeling frightened or sad or lonely. Maybe she eventually surrendered and swallowed a pill.
Maybe.
But she’s asleep by now, West is. In her bed. Head sunken into her soft pillow. Maybe dreaming. Maybe warding off nightmares. Nightmares of stolen children like Hailey. Nightmares of the ones she’s found; in her subconscious gone missing again. Nightmares of the ones she never found; in her subconscious found tortured or dead.
“Rendell will find her,” I say in order to silence my thoughts. “Rendell and West, they’ll find Hailey. I know they will.”
Quietly, Tasha scoffs. “They don’t even know Hailey.”
I force my eyes shut. “They know their job.”
“That’s not enough. They’re looking…”
I open my eyes. “They’re looking … what?”
“They’re looking in all the wrong places, Simon.”
I glance at her in the darkness, probably the first time I turn my head in her direction in hours. I can’t look at her in the light. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but it’s the truth. I can’t stomach to look at her. I can’t stomach to look at my own wife.
“What do you mean, ‘they’re looking in all the wrong places?’”
Not only am I ashamed but I’m afraid. I don’t want to hurt her. But for the first time in my life, I’m not sure I’ll be able to control the words that come out of my mouth. I’ll say something. Something subtle at first. And she’ll catch it because Tasha’s many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. And if she doesn’t catch it, I’ll keep at it, I know I will. In time I’ll openly blame her for Hailey’s disappearance. Because any way you look at it, it’s her fault, isn’t it? It’s Tasha’s fault Hailey is missing. Tasha’s fault my daughter’s not sleeping under my roof tonight. Tasha’s fault Hailey was …
Hailey was what?
Taken?
“All this bullshit,” she says softly, “about the abductor being someone we know, someone who lives in the area, it’s just statistics, right? And for the feds that’s just a safe zone. What else are they going to say? I mean, the abductor being someone we know, that’s the only way we’ll possibly get her back, isn’t it? If it’s someone we don’t know…” Her voice cracks mid-sentence. “If it’s a complete stranger…”
She doesn’t finish the thought. Doesn’t need to. Stranger abductions are a completely different animal. We both understand that.
She’s right, I think. It’s no one we know. Because I’ve thought of everyone we know and ruled out each of them, one by one.
“They never reached your father,” Tasha says, seemingly out of the blue.
It takes me a moment to catch her meaning. “They talked to a nurse at his practice,” I say. “He’s away on vacation.”
“Which is oddly coincidental, don’t you think?”
I turn toward her a second time, maintain the calm in my voice. “No. No, I don’t think. It’s May, for Christ’s sake. He always goes away in May. He hates crowds, he hates heat.”
He hates everything, I think but don’t say. Everything and everyone.
Tasha digs in. “And the fact that his nurse says he went to Virginia Beach?”
“He owns a timeshare,” I tell her. “He goes every year.”
Is she serious, I wonder, or is she grasping for straws?
Or is she trying to get under my skin?
“Besides,” I add, “Virginia Beach is over four hours from here.”
She hesitates. “They weren’t able to reach him at the timeshare either.”
“Not yet,” I say as casually as possible. “Which means nothing. He works hard all year, he takes a week off, remains in complete isolation.”
“He’s a doctor.”
“So?”
“He can’t be reached in case of an emergency?”
“He’s not that kind of doctor, Tash. He’s not a cardiologist or a neurosurgeon. He has a general practice and he has another doctor covering for him. A doctor he’s known for more than eleven years.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then: “I don’t believe in coincidences, Simon.”
She is serious.
“Well then, you should pay more attention.” My voice rises despite my efforts to control its volume. “Because the world’s fucking full of coincidences.”
There it is, I think. I said it. Subtly. Out of context. You should pay more attention. I knew it would happen.
From the resulting silence, I know she’s caught it.
In the immediate aftermath, I ponder why the hell I’m lying here defending my father anyway. Why?
Because Alden Fisk’s a complete waste of Rendell’s time.
A complete waste of Hailey’s time.
A complete waste of mine.
“My father is a piece of shit,” I say, “but he’s not a kidnapper.”
Silence, and I think that’s the end of it. I close my eyes. Listen to the twittering of the first birds of morning. Their chirps are soon drowned out by the huff and puff of a sanitation truck laboring up the street.
Once the truck’s chugging is reduced to a faint grumble, Tasha mutters something under her breath. Three words, each as sharp as knives—and true.
“He kidnapped you,” she says.
Chapter 22
Ordinarily, visiting an inmate in a maximum-security prison wouldn’t have proven much of a hassle, at least not for me. As a U.S. Marshal, I’d spent plenty of time escorting violent prisoners to and from federal courthouses for their hearings or proffer sessions, their depositions or trials. But here in Scotland, I had a bit of a problem. Well, two problems actually.
For one, I was wan
ted by the Scottish Police for questioning in the deaths of Ewan Maxwell and Sean Turnbull, the late friend of Kinny Gilchrist whose body had been found splattered along the sidewalk near the alley on Mollinsburn Street.
Secondly, there was the issue of Tavis Maxwell, the so-called Last King of Scotland, who’d apparently put a contract out on my head worth one million British Pounds Sterling, which worked out to roughly $1.6 million U.S.
But I wasn’t about to let any of that stop me from talking to Rob Roy Moffett at HMP Shotts this morning. Because finding Hailey continued to be a race against the clock. Last time Ashdown had spoken to D.I. Colleen MacAuliffe in Dublin, she’d told him that the Guards had positively identified the victim at the Stalemate as Elijah Welker and that visits to his home and office in London were imminent.
While MacAuliffe interviewed Welker’s widow, a team of investigators would be working with New Scotland Yard to learn as much as possible about Welker’s private investigation firm, especially with respect to the case that brought Welker to Dublin. It wouldn’t be long before the Yard’s computer geeks located the photos Welker had e-mailed to himself. Once they recognized Hailey, they would follow the same trail that led us here, searching for the man standing with Hailey in the photos. Only they’d have the distinct advantage of being able to contact the Scottish Police Service, which could well lead them directly to the man we’d already spent the better part of a day trying to identify.
We arrived at HMP Shotts a little after nine o’clock in the morning, after ditching Ashdown’s rented Nissan crossover in favor of a black Jeep Grand Cherokee leased under the name of one of the Chairman’s more legitimate businesses. Head-on, the exterior of the prison looked like a state-of-the-art library on a fancy university campus back in the States. One circular building (which I assumed held the prison’s administrative offices), was flanked by two long rectangles encased in black bulletproof glass and red brick.
A couple of hours ago, while we were eating a hearty breakfast (of bacon, eggs, sausage, scones, fried mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, and hot porridge) in Gerry Gilchrist’s kitchen, he gave us a rundown of the prison.
“Shotts is midway between Glasgow and Edinburgh, almost to the mile. The prison houses over five hundred of Scotland’s most dangerous inmates, more than half of whom are serving life sentences for murder.” He turned to Zoey. “Are you sure that finding your mate from rehab is worth this much trouble, love?”
“We were close,” Zoey said in a way that sexualized the relationship. “Very close. And I fear she’s prone to relapse.”
Nonplussed, Gilchrist’s eyes drifted toward the second floor, where his son had fed Zoey herself a buffet of drugs only hours ago.
“Unlike myself,” Zoey added, “she can’t handle her drugs. Especially when she’s on her own. Without me, she’ll OD. And when she does, I know I won’t be able to live with myself.”
He finally nodded his understanding. “So you want to bring her back to London with you.”
“That’s the plan.”
“All right, then,” he said. “But let me give you a little background on Rob Roy Moffett. Because he’s naw your average prisoner. He’s naw even your average killer.”
We pulled up to the second of two security gates and Ashdown presented our passports. The guard took a stroll around the Grand Cherokee, took down the plates, then circled again with a mirror that allowed him to inspect the undercarriage.
Once he was satisfied we weren’t there to facilitate a prison break, he returned to his station and lifted the gate.
Ashdown, who insisted he’d interviewed hundreds of Moffetts in his career, graciously offered to meet with this Moffett on his own. But I declined to send a proxy. With the stakes this high, I needed a face-to-face with Rob Roy Moffett, and I wouldn’t settle for anything less.
“Better if you don’t come in with me, Detective,” I told Ashdown as we pulled into the visitor’s parking lot. “I don’t want to make it look like we’re ganging up on him. Besides, you’d be much more useful lying low here in the lot in case the Maxwell boys are planning an ambush.”
“As you wish,” Ashdown said, glancing in the rear of the Grand Cherokee, where Zoey again lay sprawled out, sleeping. “The princess and I shall await your safe return.”
I stepped out of the Grand Cherokee and squinted into the moody silver sky. Then I hiked across the parking lot and was welcomed through the front door like a guest of honor at a royal ball. I scanned the lobby and discovered that the interior of the prison was every bit as modern as the exterior.
At the front desk, I was greeted all around by smiles. No doubt on account of my perceived association with Gerry Gilchrist, who’d arranged the meeting with Rob Roy Moffett at the prison earlier this morning.
“Let me give Whitehead a ring,” he’d said after warning us of Moffett’s nature. “The warden owes me a few favors, doesn’t he?”
Ashdown’s eyebrows rose. “The warden owes you a few favors, eh?”
The Chairman offered up a mirthless smile. “Of course he does. Don’t be so daft, you bloody used car salesman.”
* * *
After breezing through security, I was escorted to a small room with walls so immaculately white they nearly blinded me.
A nice place, I thought, for a prison. Hell, maybe getting pinched for Ewan Maxwell’s murder wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But my arrest would have to wait until I found Hailey and got her the hell out of Europe. In which case, I’d probably never return to the United Kingdom anyway. At least not by choice.
After waiting for all of six minutes, a large man wearing more chains than the ghost of Jacob Marley was led into the room by a pair of guards.
The Chairman had described Moffett as an absolute maniac, but Moffett certainly didn’t look the part as he stood before me awaiting instructions. He looked like he might be heading out to fix your neighbor’s cable box.
“Have a seat,” I said.
He sat on an orange plastic chair positioned directly across from me.
When I asked the guards if Moffett could be unshackled for the visit, they looked at me as though I’d just asked if I could light a doobie in front of the Queen.
“You do ken who he is, don’t you?” one of the guards asked.
I nodded.
The other guard laughed. “We let him out of those shackles, we may as well call you a priest right now so’s that he can get here in time to administer yer last rites.”
I ignored him. Waited for the guards to leave the room but soon realized they weren’t going anywhere.
I said to Moffett, “Don’t trust you much around here, do they?”
“They’re a mistrusting lot,” he said affably. “Must be in their nature.”
Moffett’s shaven head was large and as round as a melon. His skin was glowing and red, as though he’d just stepped out of a piping shower. Only he wasn’t wet; except for a pair of watery eyes, he appeared to be dry as a bone.
I studied his clothes. A light blue polo with the logo of the prison, HMP Shotts, over khakis. Again I flashed on a university back home.
“What’s HMP stand for?” I said, trying to make small talk in an effort to make him comfortable around me.
“Her Majesty’s Prison, innit?” His voice was soft, his tone formal as though he was interviewing for a job.
“How old are you?” I asked him.
He shrugged a massive shoulder. “Twenty-nine, right?”
“And how long a sentence did they give you?”
“Twenty-five to life.”
“For?”
“You mean the charges?” He had a thick Scottish accent like Doc’s from the night before, so that charges sounded a hell of a lot more like chairges.
“Sure,” I said. “What were the charges?”
“Double murder, then. One attempt. Kidnapping. Torture.” He rattled off his convictions with all the gravitas of an English nanny reciting a grocery list.
I bowe
d my head in thought. “Quite a list.”
“It is, innit?”
I lifted my eyes to meet his. Moffett’s calm was beginning to unnerve me. This was one sadistic prick for sure, a psychopath all the way. Yet he expressed himself like an accountant a week past tax day, perhaps following a few Reef Runners and tabs of Ativan poolside in Barbados.
“You were a drug dealer, I was told.”
He smiled. “A wee bit of one, yes.”
“And the two murders,” I said. “What happened?”
The smile didn’t budge. “One, he fell off a bridge.”
“And the other?”
“The other, he just died, didn’t he?”
I widened my eyes, feigning surprise. “Just died, huh? How?”
“Choked.”
“On his food?” I said lightly. “Maybe some haggis?”
Moffett laughed. “Naw on his food, mate.”
“You gave him some help, then?”
“Maybe.” He chuckled. “I gave him the rope, see. Helped him put it round his throat. Tightened it a wee bit. Next thing ya ken, his eyes are popping out of his skull.”
“A bad guy?” I said, expressionless.
He shrugged. “He was my cousin. And I don’t like to talk badly about family, you understand.”
“And the dead?”
“Especially naw of the dead,” he said, smiling. “But, truth be told, my cousin dinnae pay his debts.”
“Drug debts?”
“Aye.” Following a few seconds of silence, he added, “I gave him a choice though.”
“A choice?”
“His life or his cock.”
I swallowed hard, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Which did he choose?”
“Neither.” He waited a few ticks. “So I chose for him.”
“You chose to take his life.”
He smiled again. “Well, when you think about it—I mean, really think about it—what am I going to do with a cock, right?”
I nodded, waited for my pulse to slow.
“You had a score to settle with this cousin of yours? Aside from the drug debts?”
“Naw really. It’s just something that happened, innit?”
“Just something that happened.”
Gone Cold Page 9
