“Maybe.” But he thought it odd that they found nothing computer-like—no discs, no software, no electrical leads. A more careful search under the bed uncovered two deep fitted-drawers either side, which he had mistaken for part of the bed-frame. With the fitted sheets and valance on, the drawers were hidden.
Nance was almost right. Maureen did have a laptop, but not with her. He found it in the under-bed drawer next to the headboard end, and a filing box that held a number of CDs. He read Maureen’s scribbled label on one—Short Stories.
And on another—Mystery Novels 1 & 2.
It surprised him that Maureen would write not just one novel, but two, and he felt dismayed that he knew nothing about her literary efforts. Other CDs confirmed she had written six novels. Was she published? Was that how she could afford this flat?
The feeling that Maureen was so far removed from his life rushed through him in a warm flush. She wanted little to do with her father. She was growing up, had grown up, and wanted a life free of parental ties.
He plugged in her laptop, struggling to smother the feeling of guilt that he was about to violate her privacy. What right did he have to read her personal writings? The hard-drive hummed alive. If her laptop was password-protected he would have to take it to the experts, the computer geeks who would—
The screen flickered, went blank, then recovered to settle at Maureen’s desktop.
Well, he was in, which pleased him in one way, but disappointed him in another. Maureen might be wise to many things in life, but personal security was not one of them.
He clicked start, moved the cursor to—
“You want me to report the break-in?”
Strictly speaking, Maureen’s flat was a crime scene. Removing her laptop and CDs was a serious violation of scene of crime protocol. But what would Strathclyde Division find? Better that he explained it to Dainty directly, he thought.
“Let’s get out of here first,” he said to Nance, and powered down the laptop.
They drove to Pitt Street, but Dainty was tied up in a major interrogation and could spare only a few minutes, time enough for Gilchrist to tell him about Maureen’s flat and the Mini Cooper, but nothing about her laptop and CDs. Dainty ordered Gilchrist to write a full report, then assigned a scar-faced detective to the case, who introduced himself as Tony and insisted he be given a blow-by-blow account. Once Tony was dealt with, Gilchrist took over a desk and two phones.
The remainder of the day was a mess of phone calls and paperwork.
In amongst all the calls, Gilchrist called Watt on his mobile several times, before concluding that Watt must have removed his SIM card or powered it down. Had his own calls to the number on Watt’s records alerted the man? He surprised himself by getting through to Watt on the Office phone.
“I hear you started an Office sweepstake,” he said to him.
“So?”
“And you guessed—”
Watt hung up.
Gilchrist tried again, but was informed that Watt had left the building, which had Gilchrist promising himself he would fire Watt on the spot the next time they met.
He would take his chances with Greaves.
Meanwhile, the Mini Cooper was found abandoned in St. Enoch’s carpark, doors unlocked, keys in the ignition, all surfaces wiped clean. And Stan confirmed that only three criminals put away by Gilchrist had been released within the last year, none of whom could be involved in Chloe’s murder. One had died four months ago from a heart attack; one was in a hospice waiting to die; and the third was in Portugal lapping up the sun and the booze.
By 8:00 p.m. they were no farther forward.
“My stomach’s rumbling,” said Nance. “Fancy a bite?”
Gilchrist tried to remember when he had last eaten, and thought a pint and a bite might uplift his spirits and re-energise his sense of detection.
“We could go out for your favourite,” Nance pressed on.
“Which is?”
“A pint of real ale?”
“And a bridie, chips and beans. With HP Sauce?”
“I know just the place.”
THE HORSESHOE BAR in Drury Street—a narrow lane running between West Nile and Renfield Streets—was one of Glasgow’s more famous pubs. The bar itself, shaped more like a circle than a horseshoe, had once been listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the longest in Great Britain at one hundred and four feet.
Gilchrist ordered two Eighty-Shillings that came still and creamy with a hint of spillage. He lifted his glass to Nance’s, took that first mouthful, cold and smooth, and could have purred with pleasure.
The bar buzzed with the hubbub of a Glasgow evening. A powerful fragrance of second-hand smoke tainted with the faintest aroma of cooked meat filled the air. Gilchrist eyed the crowd. It felt good to be out, to let his mental powers relax and recover, if only for an hour or so.
“How did you know about this place?” he asked Nance.
“Spent two years at Strathclyde studying biology.”
“I never knew that,” which had him thinking that he also seemed not to know much about Maureen. Or even Gail. His thoughts darkened as his mind cast up his parting image of his ex-wife, teary-eyed and pale, and bitter beyond reason.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she said.
Gilchrist was not sure how to take that remark. Nance had a reputation as a bit of a teaser, but had kept all relationships off her own doorstep, so to speak. But the beer was hitting the spot, so he said, “Like what?”
“What would you like to know?”
“Why give up biology and join the police?”
She almost sneered. “Biology gave me up. I lost interest. Spent too much time in places like this. Met the wrong guy. Failed my exams. More or less in that order. Give or take the odd shag or three on the side.”
All of a sudden, Gilchrist felt unsure of himself. Nance seemed different, as if being in a bar in Glasgow gave her thoughts of re-enacting her student days, guzzling beer and screwing men. She had developed a devil-may-care attitude in the space of one pint, and a hint of sexual mischief sparkled in her eyes, which had him trying to shift his own thoughts. He eyed the black and white framed pictures, the massive mirrors on the back wall, thought the motif on one of them looked like a horsewhip twisted into the shape of an S.
“You wouldn’t happen to know what that letter S stands for?” he tried.
“Scouller. The original owner in the late eighteen-hundreds. He also owned another couple of bars named after horsey stuff. The Snaffle Bit was one. And The Spur.”
Gilchrist tipped his beer. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I have a good memory. That’s all.”
He nodded to other initials. “And JYW?”
“John Whyte, I think. He took over in the early nineteen-hundreds.” She glanced at him, her pint poised at her lips. “And no,” she said, “I don’t know what the Y stands for.”
Letters. Gilchrist sipped his pint, troubled by his thoughts. Letters defied time. A century ago, two pub-owners, Scouller and Whyte, immortalised themselves in Glasgow’s pub-lore by having their initials imprinted on bar memorabilia. Was that what would happen to Chloe’s case? A hundred years from now, would someone browse through police records and come across the words Murder, Massacre, Bludgeon, Matricide, then the letters M, A, U, R, and ridicule the SIO for his inability to jump-start such an obvious case? Which thought brought with it the need to find out what was on Maureen’s laptop.
He downed his pint with a rush.
“Hold your horses, Andy,” Nance said, and had a twenty-pound note in her hand.
“I’m getting these,” he protested. “This is my treat.”
“Your treat comes later,” she replied with a wink, and ordered two more pints.
Gilchrist knew it was a mistake not to leave. He tried to convince himself he would not be tempted, that he was mature enough to resist, had done so in the past. Not with Nance, but with others. But two pints later
, with not too much to eat, they traipsed into Drury Street.
In West Nile Street Nance slipped her arm through his, and Gilchrist let her, telling himself it would be rude to pull free. Besides, it was cold. He could feel her body shiver, as their breaths puffed in unison in the damp air. As they crossed St. Vincent Street her thigh bumped against his, and he caught her fragrance as she swept her free hand through her hair. And all of a sudden it struck him that without discussing it they seemed to have decided to spend the night together.
Not so fast, he thought.
He considered driving to St. Andrews. But the earlier adrenaline rush from searching for Maureen, plus three pints in under two hours, had left him far from his brightest. A night in Glasgow would have to do. Besides, he had Maureen’s laptop to go through.
He clicked his remote. The Merc’s lights blinked. Like the gentleman he knew he should be, he held the passenger door open as Nance slid inside. He was conscious of her eyes on him as he sat behind the wheel and slipped the key into the ignition.
As he eased into traffic, Nance said, “Where are you taking me?”
Even though four weeks had passed since Beth ended their relationship once and for all, he said, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“No one’s forcing you.”
“I have a spare key for Jack’s flat,” he said. “It’s a bit rough at the edges, but at least it’s got two beds.”
“Good,” she said. “Then that’s settled.”
• • •
JIMMY SQUEEZED WEE Kenny’s shoulder.
Wee Kenny looked at the hard hand only inches from his neck.
“You look worried, wee man.”
Wee Kenny shook his head. “No me, Jimmy.”
“You done a good job there.”
Relief flooded through Wee Kenny in a rush so strong that for one crazy second he thought he was going to piss in his pants. “I done my best, Jimmy.” He tried to force a laugh, conscious of the fingers digging into his collarbone, but it fell flat.
“It’s looking good.”
Wee Kenny eyed the Jaguar’s boot lid. He had never spray-painted a car before, and paint rippled like orange peel in parts where he’d sprayed it too thick. But overall, he thought he done a good job.
“It’ll be dry for the morra,” he said.
Jimmy took a deep draw of his cigarette. Thin cheeks pulled thinner. Eyes as dark as coal closed for a moment’s pleasure. Smoke curled from nostrils thick with hair that leaked into a dank moustache. In the dim light, Wee Kenny thought Jimmy’s mouth looked like one more scar on a face creased with scars.
Jimmy kept a permanent week-old growth to hide his scars. Black stubble, a quarter of an inch long, hid the worst of them, a jagged welt that ran from the corner of his right lip to the lower jaw, the result of a broken bottle to his face. And Wee Kenny remembered what happened to big Archie Chalmers, the punter who done it to him.
It was years ago. Jimmy was fifteen. Not much more. Archie in his early twenties, a small-time thug making a name for himself as a hard-man to be reckoned with. Even though Jimmy still had the stitches in his face, he and his big brother, Bully, goes to see Archie at his home on the fourteenth floor in Red Road. Jimmy stands out of sight while Bully knuckles the door. Archie’s mother opens up. Bully smiles and asks for Archie. But when Archie turns up, Bully steps back, Jimmy steps in, open razors slashing up and down, left and right, like a drummer gone wild. The story goes that the slashing was so bad, even Bully almost threw up.
One slash cut Archie’s left eyeball in half. Another almost had his nose off. Bully had to stick the head on Jimmy to stop him cutting Archie to death, and ended up with sixteen stitches himself from a cut that opened his palm. From that day on, no one messed with the Reid brothers.
But Bully was now in the Bar-L serving fifteen years for manslaughter. The charges should have been murder, but even the Procurator Fiscal seemed too afraid to go for the max. The Bar-L should have been enough to keep Bully out of the picture, but he was keeping busy behind bars, having Jimmy do his legwork.
And rumour had it that something big was about to break, and that Bully was filing an appeal. But Wee Kenny knew better than to ask Jimmy what it was. No way would he ask.
If he did, that would be the end of him.
Chapter 18
GILCHRIST STUMBLED ACROSS Jack’s makeshift cocktail cabinet on the bottom shelf of the food cupboard—a Glenfiddich single malt that looked tempting enough, but contained less than an inch of whisky; or a ten-year-old Longrow, which he remembered gifting to Jack on one of his infrequent visits. He removed it from its burgundy gift box and confirmed it was almost half-full. Perfect.
He picked up a tumbler and walked along the hall to Jack’s bedroom, the bottle of Longrow in hand. As he passed the bathroom he heard the rattle of glass and the sound of running water.
“Goodnight,” he called out.
Nance did not reply.
In Jack’s bedroom, he poured himself a large one and powered up Maureen’s laptop. He double-clicked My Documents, and a screen flashed up with a list of Folder icons entitled Novels, Letters, Research, Databases, and the last one, Spreadsheets. The toilet flushed, and the bathroom door opened and closed with a quiet double click. A shadow drifted by the gap at the bottom of the door like a spectral image, then vanished as the hall light was switched off. He clicked his bedside lamp off and took a sip of whisky, feeling its fiery warmth work through his system. The only light in the room came from the laptop’s screen. He took another sip then clicked on Letters.
The screen flashed up a fresh page that contained a list of files with names such as royalbank—12-01-03, dkerr—29-09-02. He double-clicked one to confirm the simple filing system. jstevens—11-02-03 was a letter to Joyce Stevens dated 11th February 2003. He dug deeper, did an automatic search for files that contained the title rwatt, but found none. He tried rearranging the lists alphabetically, then checked the Rs for Ronnie, the Ws for Watt, but came up empty, which pleased him.
Next, he clicked his way into the Novels folder to reveal more Folder icons entitled by novel. He clicked on Novel 1 to find yet more folders and files that contained research notes, character traits, synopses, and even one that listed titles. He clicked on Correspondence and spent the next twenty minutes discovering that Maureen had written to over thirty literary agents in London and sent another twenty query letters to agents in the States.
He felt as if his daughter was a stranger to him. How long had she wanted to be a novelist? Why had she never mentioned it to him? And what about her photography? Had she given that up? He took another sip of whisky, worked his way out of Correspondence, and jerked his head to the side as the bedroom door clicked open.
Light from the front lounge cast a faint glow along the hallway, exposing Nance in the doorway. A blanket draped around her shoulders hung almost to the floor. Her feet and ankles were bare. “I can’t sleep,” she said.
“That makes two of us.”
She eased into the room. “Do you mind?”
Gilchrist tilted his glass to her. “Like a half?”
“You rat,” she said. “Where did that come from?”
He eyed her over a pair of imaginary spectacles, and said in a ridiculous German accent, “I haf my sourses.”
Nance flitted towards him like a shrouded ghost and sat on the edge of the bed. The laptop lay between them like some tech-age chastity belt. She eased the tumbler from his fingers and took a sip.
From the way her lips puckered, Gilchrist could tell she was not a whisky drinker.
“Like it?” he asked.
“The occasional sip.”
He finished the glass and poured another. Three pints and two large measures was not the recipe for feeling great in the morning, but sometimes stuff happened. Besides, alcohol helped his powers of deductive reasoning. Or so he told himself.
“Any luck?” she asked. In the faint light, her cheeks looked sunken, her chin square. Her ey
es lay hidden in pools of shadow, as if shielding her thoughts from him.
“Most of it is innocent enough,” he said. “Daily correspondence. That sort of thing.”
“Know what you’re looking for?”
“Any connection to Ronnie Watt for starters. But I haven’t found it yet.”
“You hate him, don’t you.”
“Oh, much worse than that.”
“Care to tell me why?”
“Not really.”
Nance reached for the glass again. Her fingers wrapped around his as they clutched the tumbler together. She leaned forward, took a sip, and the blanket fell away, just sufficient for the blue-white light of the computer screen to reveal the round swell of her right breast, the nipple hidden in shadow. “That tasted better,” she said, and pulled the blanket back around her as if warding off a light chill.
Gilchrist felt something shift deep in his groin. Nance had removed her make-up. In the glow from the laptop her face looked pale and smooth, her eyes dark and large, as if the absence of all things unnatural allowed her own beauty to shine through. But the alcohol and long hours were finally taking their toll, and he felt a wave of sleep fold over him. Or maybe it was Nance prying into his hatred of Watt that had him wanting to end the day.
“I’m done in,” he said, and powered down the laptop.
“Me too.”
“I thought you couldn’t sleep.”
The room fell into darkness. Light glowed from the open doorway.
Nance lowered the laptop to the floor, then stood, the blanket hugging her body. She removed the tumbler from his grip and laid it on the bedside table.
“I was enjoying that,” he said.
The blanket slipped to the floor.
Other than the briefest of knickers, she stood naked, her body a grey silhouette against the soft light from the hall. Her pubic mound, hidden in shadow, lay level with his face and acted like a magnet to his eyes. He forced himself to look up, and in doing so, scanned the length of her.
Even in the dark, as naked as she was, he could see she was slim and fit. Her pinched waist made her hips look large, her thighs long and lean. She stared off to the side, and he caught a glint in her eyes that told him she was pleased to see her body excited him.
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