Jack breathed hard through his nostrils. “I’m not mistaken,” he said. “It’s Chloe.”
Gilchrist said nothing. Christ, what would he give for a cigarette at that moment? Fourteen years since he last had a smoke, and the need still hit him like an unscratchable itch deep in his gut. “Why don’t you stay here for a couple of days?” he said. “I’ll be instructing Forensics to examine your flat.”
Jack turned to him, eyes burning. “You don’t think I had—”
“No, Jack. I don’t. It’s standard procedure. We need samples of clothing, hair from Chloe’s hairbrush, stuff like that, to check her DNA.” He looked away, felt Jack’s eyes on him. Christ. He had the scar, the crushed knuckle. They would lift Chloe’s fingerprints from Jack’s flat. How conclusive did identification have to be? He gave Jack’s shoulder a quick squeeze, not sure if he was trying to be strong for Jack or himself.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m truly sorry.”
Gilchrist watched his son walk to the car. Part of him was aching, too, for Chloe, for Jack. But his own pain seemed smothered in dread. The killer was clever. They would not find the rest of the body intact, Gilchrist knew. He knew that with certainty. All he could do was dig harder, look deeper, try to find some lead to work on. But his heart told him they were just waiting for the next body part to turn up.
And he was not sure he could take that.
Chapter 9
GILCHRIST CONTACTED DAINTY Small with confirmation of Jack’s ID, and asked if Dainty could have someone keep an eye on Maureen for him.
“Bloody hell, Andy. We’re stretched thin as it is. But I’ll see what I can do.”
Strathclyde Police visited Chloe’s parents and informed them of their suspicions, always suspicions, nothing definite until they conclusively matched the DNA results or the fingerprints. He drove to Glasgow and assisted Forensics with their search of Jack’s flat. Three pairs of Chloe’s knickers were removed from the laundry basket and samples of her hair from a hairbrush in the bathroom. They also took tubes of oils from her studio and lifted a perfect set of fingerprints from a coffee mug on a table by her easel.
By 10:45, and back in St. Andrews, Gilchrist had done all he could, and drew his day to a close. He drove to Fisherman’s Cottage, and arrived home this side of midnight to find Jack crashed out on the settee, TV still on, and a half finished bottle of Glenfiddich standing upright on the coffee table. He decided not to waken him, and went to bed, his heart torn for Chloe and hurting for Jack.
He slept in confusing fits and sweating starts, his mind firing images of Gail in tears, only to morph into a waif-like Chloe who turned away to swirl paint onto an upright canvas with handless stumps. He pulled himself from bed at 5:00 and checked on Jack, pleased to see he had made it to the spare bedroom, and the bottle of Glenfiddich still at half-mast.
On the drive to the Office, he called Forensics who confirmed the fingerprints from the coffee cup matched those of the amputated right hand, and an appeal for information on Chloe’s whereabouts went out on the national and local news that day. Strathclyde Police had a young PW put on Chloe’s clothes—black jeans, top, shoes, jacket—and walk from Jack’s flat down to Byres Road then on to Great Western. Without knowing which route Chloe might have taken, they tried several. By the end of the day no one had come forward. It seemed as if Chloe had stepped from Jack’s flat and vanished in broad daylight.
To make matters worse, Bertie McKinnon, a local hack with a pathological distrust of Fife Constabulary, and Gilchrist in particular, stirred up local discontent with a passion. The incompetence of the Crime Management Department was spread across the front pages for all to see, with photographs of Gilchrist, the hapless SIO, in an assortment of unflattering poses. One inflammatory photo showed him standing alone on the sixteenth fairway, looking at his feet, scratching his head, under the headline WHAT TO DO? Another caught him stepping out of Lafferty’s with the caption MURDER’S THIRSTY WORK.
In support of Strathclyde’s efforts, teams of plain-clothed detectives and uniformed constables from Fife Constabulary were dispatched throughout the east coast. Farms on the outskirts of St. Andrews were searched. Gardens, outhouses, sheds, huts, barns, stables, even pig sties and a child’s tree-house were all turned over.
But they found nothing.
And nothing could be made of the two notes. It was a mathematical impossibility to find a sequence from only two words. No fingerprints were evident, as if the notes had been first cleaned then slipped between lifeless digits. Only Watt’s fingerprints were found on the scrap of paper pulled from under his windscreen wipers. And Watt still maintained that he removed it without thinking, believing it to be nothing more than an advertising flyer.
By the end of the third day, the investigation appeared to be stalling. All they seemed to have was a list of names and addresses of artists and students, parents and cousins, shop owners and paint suppliers.
But no suspects. Not even close.
Although Gilchrist would never say it, he was praying the killer would feed them another body part with another note, just so he had something to go on. So, when Greaves called him into his office, he expected the worst.
Newspapers lay scattered across the surface of Greaves’ desk.
Gilchrist closed the door with a firm click.
“What the hell’s wrong with this bloody fool, McKinnon?” Greaves slapped the back of his hand across a front page photograph of the SOCO van on the sixteenth fairway. Three SOCOs, coverall hoods pulled back to reveal smiling faces, sipped tea from a silver flask and ate sandwiches. The caption TEE BREAK summed it up.
“He hates the local police,” Gilchrist said.
“But you in particular, Andy.” Greaves lowered his head, eyed Gilchrist over the rim of some imaginary specs. “What have you done to the man, for God’s sake? Skipped your round? Buy him a pint. Buy him a dozen. Just get him off our backs.”
“Not as simple as that.”
“Quite.” Greaves picked up a newspaper folded open to the photograph of Gilchrist stepping from the Dunvegan Hotel. He smacked the image with the back of his hand, as if clipping Gilchrist around the ears. “This does not present a good image of Fife Constabulary, Andy. I have to tell you that.”
“I was interviewing Tam Dunn again.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“It was eleven thirty at night, and I wasn’t exactly celebrating.”
“That’s not the point. The public doesn’t expect to open their newspapers at the breakfast table and be confronted with photographs of Senior Investigating Officers looking like they’re out on the town when we’ve got such a bloody gruesome case to solve. Makes us look like the Keystone Cops, for God’s sake.”
“I really don’t—”
Greaves held up his hand, as if stopping traffic head on. “I don’t want excuses, Andy. I want results. And I want results now.”
Gilchrist eyed Greaves. They were getting down to it, and he did not like where it was heading.
“And we can’t have you and Watt bloody well squabbling in public.”
Greaves was referring to an incident at the University yesterday where Gilchrist had grabbed Watt’s arm and pulled him back from a heated interview with a student. The depth of Watt’s anger had surprised him.
“Are you any further forward?” Greaves demanded.
“I would be lying if I said yes.”
“Bloody hell, Andy. McVicar’s been on the phone twice today. Heat’s been turned up. Bloody flame’s turned from orange to blue, and aimed in my direction. I don’t like it, let me tell you.” He leaned forward. “Tell me something I want to hear, Andy. Give me something to calm the man down.”
Big Archie McVicar, Fife Constabulary’s Assistant Chief Constable, was a staunch supporter of Gilchrist. But there had to be a limit to the man’s patience. Gilchrist needed more than a pair of amputated hands and an army of police officers scouring the countryside. Like Greaves, he needed a resu
lt.
“Anything?” Greaves tried.
Gilchrist grimaced. Fabricating nonsense would help no one. “Nothing,” he said.
“What the hell am I supposed to tell him, Andy?”
“That we’re looking to increase manpower?”
“We’ve no one else to put on the bloody thing, for God’s sake. We’re stretched to the bloody limit as it is.”
“Chloe Fullerton lived within the jurisdiction of Strathclyde Police. I would think a call from the ACC—”
“Don’t,” snapped Greaves. “The answer’s an emphatic No.”
Gilchrist had anticipated no support on the touchy subject of requesting assistance from outside sources. He had tried the back door himself. But even Dainty had given him a body-swerve, saying he was up to his oxters in alligators of his own. Police units throughout the nation had their own tight budgets to meet. “We’re doing what we can,” he said, “but without the rest of the body we can’t expect much.”
“Well, do something, Andy.”
It was on the tip of Gilchrist’s tongue to ask for Watt to be replaced, but he thought better of it. “We’re widening our search,” he said, “but the body’s nowhere near here.”
“Where then?”
Where indeed? “Glasgow,” he said.
“You have proof?”
Gilchrist shook his head. “Just a hunch.”
“For God’s sake, Andy. I need more than just a hunch. I need evidence. I need results. I need.… Oh for God’s sake, just get bloody well on with it, will you? I’ll think of something to tell Archie.”
Gilchrist felt his face flush as Greaves reached for his phone.
The meeting was over.
Outside, an easterly chill swept in from the sea and seemed to funnel its way along North Street. Overhead, gulls fought with the night storm, wings flashing white as they tumbled and swooped in the stiff gusts.
Gilchrist pulled his collar around his neck and walked towards College Street. The proverbial shit was piled at the fan and splattering through the system. First, ACC McVicar. Second, CS Greaves. Next, DCI Gilchrist, acting SIO in a case stacked against him. His name was printed on a note, and the press were baying for results. Thoughts of having it out with McKinnon surged through his mind for an angry moment, then he glanced at his watch.
Just after 8:00. To hell with it. He needed a pint.
He reached the corner of College and Market Streets and veered left into the Central Bar, promising to have greater willpower in matters of import. If McKinnon photographed him once more with a pint in his hand, well, that was just too damn bad.
The bar was redolent of cigarettes, beer, and warm food. The air swirled thick and blue under a high ceiling. Piped music competed with raucous laughter. High in the corner a television screen showed a muted football match. Rangers and Hibs, it looked like.
He found a vacant spot at the bar, close to the till, and managed to catch the barmaid’s eye. She mouthed, With you in a moment. While he waited, he dialled his own home number to talk to Jack, but was shunted into voice mail. He left a message, telling Jack he would be home shortly, and keep your hands off the Glenfiddich. He glanced up to see Nance waving at him from the opposite end of the bar.
When he joined her, she said, “Caught.”
“You or me?”
“Both of us.”
Gilchrist smiled. Nance was hardworking and thorough. If she wanted to have a drink at the end of a day’s shift, then who was he to question her?
“Pint?” she asked.
“You talked me into it.”
She laughed, a staccato chuckle that almost took him by surprise. It had been some time since he had seen Nance happy. He had heard she had split from Gregg, her partner of eighteen months.
Nance ordered two pints of Eighty-Shilling.
“On your second already,” Gilchrist said. “Must’ve been a hard day.”
“Hard partner, more like.”
“How are you getting along with my favourite DS?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
Gilchrist scanned the faces around the bar. “He’s not here, is he?”
Nance shook her head. “He’s checking out a lead.”
“Taking the dog for a walk?”
Nance chuckled. “I’ve stopped asking,” then tipped the remains of her first pint to her lips. “Cheers.”
Gilchrist did likewise, loving the beer’s smoothness as the first mouthful slid down his throat. He returned his glass to the counter, ran his fingers across his lips. “Boy, was I ready for that.”
“Have you heard about the sweepstake?” Nance asked.
“What sweepstake?”
“Watt’s started a sweepstake on when the next body part will turn up, and which part it will be.” She grimaced. “He’s one disturbed human being, let me tell you.”
An image of McKinnon writing a scathing article on Fife Constabulary’s gambling over murder enquiries burst into Gilchrist’s mind with the force of an electric strike. He felt his teeth clench. Watt had to go. The man was a liability. He made a mental note to have it out with him first thing in the morning and have all bets forfeited and the monies deposited into the charity box. Then the slimmest of ideas shimmered before him.
“Did Watt put on any money?” he asked.
“He led the way.”
“Which body part?”
“Leg.”
“Left or right?”
Nance looked at him as if he had sprouted horns. “I don’t know.”
“And when does he bet this leg is going to turn up?”
“Tomorrow,” Nance said. “You’re not suggesting.…”
“Not really. But it’s an interesting thought all the same.”
Gilchrist lifted his pint. He had not heard from Martin Coyle about Watt’s phone records. Maybe Coyle could turn an interesting thought into something worthwhile.
“HAUD ON THERE, big man,” said Wee Kenny. “Watch what you’re doing.”
Jimmy Reid grimaced. “Just hold the fucker steady. Is that too much to ask?”
Wee Kenny scowled as Jimmy placed the red-hot poker flat against the skin. Black smoke curled into the air as he pressed down and rolled his wrist to ensure a deep brand.
“What’s the matter, wee man? Never smelt burning meat before?”
Wee Kenny put a hand to his mouth. “That’s fucking honking, so it is.”
Jimmy returned the poker to the brazier, slid grimy fingers across his forehead and licked the sweat from them. He seemed always to be sweating now. He had a touch of the flu. That was all. He hawked phlegm from the back of his throat and spat a gob of green into the brazier where it hit with a hard hiss then bubbled and popped. Then he removed a flat tin from his pocket and fingered tobacco onto a strip of Rizla paper. He evened it out, rolled the paper, ran his tongue along the edge. He pulled the poker from the fire and held it to his face. As he drew on his cigarette, acrid smoke forced his eyes to water, and he slapped the poker back onto the skin.
Wee Kenny jumped, but kept his grip.
Jimmy held his cigarette in one hand, stirred the poker in the brazier with the other. Cigarette smoke shifted in the still air. He half-closed his eyes. The heat from the brazier felt as hot as the Spanish sun. He hated the sun. The sun was no place for a man to sit out in. He stabbed the poker at the coals. Sparks flickered then died in the night air. He felt a sudden need to just get on with it, and drew the tip of the poker across the skin in a curve.
Curling fingers of black smoke rose into the darkness.
“What’s it say, big man?”
For a moment, Jimmy thought of pressing the poker to Wee Kenny’s face. That would shut the fucker up. But he gobbed again and worked in silence, laying the poker on the skin, twisting and branding, taking pleasure from Wee Kenny grimacing from the stench of burning skin and putrescent meat.
When it was done, he eyed his handiwork.
Wee Kenny squinted at it. “Blood-what?”
he asked. “Is that how you spell blood?”
“It’s not blood.”
“I thought it said—”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid,” he snarled. “Just wrap the fucker up.”
Wee Kenny pulled a polythene sheet from the box and did as he was ordered.
Jimmy took a final drag, the short stub crimped between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. He sucked in hard, felt the dowt’s burning heat, then flicked it into the brazier.
Wee Kenny glanced up at him, then returned his frightened gaze to the poker, staring at the handle sticking out of the red coals, at the tip glowing white-red. He knew Wee Kenny was scared of him. That was the way it should be with goffers. Wee Kenny had seen him in action before, seen him with his brother, Bully. He told Wee Kenny that you could never tell with Bully. But you could never tell with himself either.
You just never knew the minute.
Wee Kenny hugged his gruesome parcel to his chest. “Is that us?”
Jimmy hawked another gob onto the brazier. “That’s it, wee man. Let’s go.”
Chapter 10
GILCHRIST PEERED AT the digital display.
5:01. Bloody hell. He reached for his mobile phone and pressed Connect.
“Gilchrist.” He tried to sound awake, but his voice betrayed him.
“We’ve got another body part, sir. Report’s just come in.”
Gilchrist slid his feet from under the quilt. “Whereabouts?” he growled.
“Near the Golf Museum.”
“On the Old Course?”
“No, sir. By Golf Place.”
Opposite the R&A clubhouse. Not a bunker in sight. “Who’s at the scene?”
“PW Lambert, sir. She called it in about a minute ago.”
Dorothy Lambert. Dot to friends and colleagues. “Which part is it this time?”
“Leg, sir.”
Gilchrist grimaced as Nance’s words came back at him. Watt’s started a sweepstake. “You called anyone else?” he asked.
“Not yet, sir.”
“Have Nance meet me at the scene,” he growled. “And don’t call Watt until.…” He glanced at his watch. “… 5:45. On the button.”
Hand for a Hand Page 6
