“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he tried, but his heart wasn’t in it.
She leaned down, pulled the cover from his light grip. Her breasts hung as firm as half-melons as she slid in beside him. “You can tell me to leave anytime.”
Her feet felt as cold as ice against his legs. With a familiarity that surprised him, she turned on her side, threw a leg and an arm over his body, and snuggled in.
“You’re all lovely and warm,” she said. She kissed his shoulder, buried her head into the crook of his neck. “Do you mind if I go to sleep?” she whispered.
“You’re quite the woman of contradictions.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
For an instant, he was confused as to how to respond, then said, “No. I don’t mind if you sleep.”
“Good.” She pulled closer.
Gilchrist felt the lump of her pubis on his thigh, the swell of her breasts on his chest, the warmth of her breath on his neck. He lay still, staring blind-eyed at the ceiling, and wondered what Greaves would do to them if he ever got wind of this.
Within seconds, it seemed, sleep pulled Nance down. He felt her muscles twitch as she faded away. He turned his face to her and brushed his lips through hair as soft as merino. He felt his own fatigue overpower him and pull him down into the dark unconsciousness of troubled sleep.
Then he fell away.
Twisted images of amputated body parts swelled in his mind then manifested into the body of a female. She held her arms out to him. He recognised her, knew she was calling to him for help. He tried to fight his way towards her, but failed, trapped by a dead weight that clung to his body as she pulled away from him.
Maureen, he tried to call. Maureen.
But she could not hear him.
JIMMY EYED THE paint-job. What a fucking mess. He’d have to get someone else to sort it out. Which made up his mind for him. The wee man had to go. He took one last draw, deep and hot, felt the fire burn his lips, and flicked the dowt away.
“Fancy a pint, wee man?”
Wee Kenny cringed as Jimmy clasped his shoulder. “I’m skint,” he said.
“Consider it payment for painting the car.”
“You gonnie buy the beer?”
“A couple of pints for the job you done.”
Although Wee Kenny smiled, Jimmy seen the fear in his eyes. The wee man was thinking something was not right. In the four years since he’d took Wee Kenny under his wing as his goffer, he never once bought the wee man a pint. And even though the Jag was Wee Kenny’s, he never let him drive it. Wee Kenny paid for all the petrol, tax, insurance, repairs. It was his car after all. Well, fuck it, times were about to change.
“You drive, wee man.”
“You sure, Jimmy? I mean.…”
“I already said you done a good job.”
Without another word, Wee Kenny took his seat behind the wheel. In the mirror, he watched Jimmy walk around to the passenger side. He turned the key, gripped the steering wheel as the engine roared to life, and for one crazy moment thought of just booting it. But Jimmy would come after him. Then what? No, he would do as he always done. He would do as he was told. That’s what goffers were for.
The big car leaned to the side as Jimmy slid into the passenger seat. Wee Kenny could feel the presence of the man, the heavy heat from his body, which told him Jimmy was not well. He was sure of it. The big man looked rough as fuck some mornings. He winced as the door slammed shut with a hard thud.
“Where to, Jimmy?”
“Just drive.”
Wee Kenny dared a glance. “Like, just anywhere?”
“Don’t make me have to tell you again.”
Wee Kenny eased the Jaguar from the derelict warehouse into the unlit streets of the abandoned business park. It was too soon to take the Jag out for a drive. His paint job was too fresh. No sooner had those thoughts crossed his mind when the skies opened, and he knew his paintwork was fucked. He would need to do it all over again.
But no when Jimmy was looking.
“Drive, wee man. I’m thirsty.”
“Right, Jimmy. Where to?” He darted a glance. “I didnae mean that, Jimmy. Slip of the tongue.”
“Just drive, wee man.”
So he drove. He had no idea where to, only that he had to keep going.
“Get onto the M80, wee man.”
He did as he was told, pleased that at last Jimmy was giving directions. That usually meant Jimmy had business to attend to. Not that he ever asked what kind of business, but he heard about some stuff in the pub a few days earlier. Some punter with their head smashed in. Or their throat cut. Beads of perspiration gathered on his lips, and he ran a hand behind his neck, surprised to find it damp.
Getting your throat cut must be a right sore way to go, he thought. But Jimmy’s business was not deadly that night. He felt sure of that, because he had not seen Jimmy’s ten-inch butcher’s knife. He drove on in silence, and forty minutes later said, “Is it much further, Jimmy? It’s just that I need to fill it up.”
Jimmy twisted his head, looked out the back. “No much further, wee man,” then ahead out the windscreen. “Here it’s now. Take this exit on the left.”
Wee Kenny did as he was told.
“Turn right at the top of the hill,” Jimmy said. “Then go for about a mile and you’ll come to a bridge. Cross it and take the next left.”
“Nae bother.”
After the bridge, the road narrowed. Wee Kenny peered ahead as he searched for the next turning. The Jaguar’s headlights pierced the night rain. The skies pelted down as he pulled into a narrow lane that was no more than two wheel ruts overgrown with grass.
Fifty bumpy yards later, they arrived at a closed gate.
“Douse the lights, wee man, and give me a hand to open the gate.”
Wee Kenny stepped into the rain, and wondered why Jimmy had asked him to switch off the headlights. It would be easier to open the gate if he left the lights on.
“Over here, wee man.”
He stumbled towards Jimmy’s lean figure in the shadows.
“The key’s down there.”
“What key?”
“The key for the padlock. Fuck sake, wee man, don’t annoy me. It’s down there. Under a stone. Get it.”
Wee Kenny wondered how Jimmy knew the key was under a stone, but he stepped past him and pushed his hands into the dripping bushes.
“Where abouts, Jimmy. It’s dark.”
“Here, wee man. Let me show you the way.”
As Wee Kenny stood, a couple of things struck him—that it was more painful having your hair grabbed and your head twisted than it was having your throat cut. And having your throat cut was not sore at all, more like not being able to catch your breath. But the sound of blood spurting over the bushes confused him.
“Down you go, wee man,” as a hard hand kept a grip of his hair, and lowered his head to the ground.
The grass felt cold and soaking wet. He tried to lift his hands to feel the slit in his throat, but he had lost all strength, just wanted to close his eyes, go to sleep. He heard the Jaguar’s engine roar into life, and for a fleeting moment his world exploded with light.
Then that, too, faded, until all that was left was darkness and the sound of rain.
And his own bubbling whimpers.
GILCHRIST WAKENED WITH a start.
He lay still for several seconds, confused as to where he was and who he was with. They had turned from each other in their sleep, and he felt a shiver of surprise as his fingers found, then touched, bare skin.
Nance moaned, a soft sound that hinted of consent and compliance, and she rolled her body into his. An arm slid over his chest, a leg over his thighs. He felt the press of her pubis and the heat of her breath as her lips worked up his neck like damp fingers, searching for him.
They found each other.
His body pulled towards her while his mind flew away, as if some sensual part of him had been released from his physical being
and was floating, looking down at what was left of him. From somewhere deep in the logical part of his brain he heard a whisper call out to him, a sound that was almost indistinguishable from the rush of blood in his ear. Then the whisper took on an urgency that ordered him to stop.
He came to with a jolt.
“Nance,” he said. “I’m—”
“Sshh.” Her finger pressed against his lips. “You don’t have to say a thing.”
“I—”
“Not a thing.” She kissed him then, her lips swollen and soft, like flesh of the sweetest fruit peeling apart. Then she pulled back. “Would you like me to stop?”
Gilchrist felt his heart bound in his chest like some caged animal. Yes, I would like you to stop. But make love to me first. Please stop.
“No,” he said.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
That was how he should have answered her first question. Yes, he should have said. Yes, I would like you to stop. But now it was too late. He felt as if some part of him that had lain dormant for too long had resurfaced in all its sensual libidinous glory. He felt, too, that he was breaking the rules. Not just constabulary rules, but his own unwritten code of ethics that had guided him since his affair with Alyson Baird several years earlier. He had made a promise to himself to keep sexual relationships remote from the Office.
“Kiss me again,” she said.
Her lips tasted as moist as mango, and when he opened his mouth her tongue powered inside like some living thing driven to search out every sensual nerve of his being.
Her fingers slid down his chest. His breath caught.
Her hand found him, slid down the base of him, cupped him in its warm grip. He heard someone groan, then let himself freefall into the dream.
Was he dreaming?
She seemed to be all around him, in his mouth, against his chest, his thighs. Fingers of the lightest silk slid over him, down and under to hold him, rubbing, stretching, then up again, caressing the head of him.
Then she pulled away from him.
He lay there, confused for a moment as to what he had done wrong, then felt his desire surge to a new high as he heard the soft rustle of her thong being slipped off.
When she returned to him, she slid a leg over his thigh, and straddled him. Her fingers took hold of him, guided him, and he opened his mouth to afford her one last opportunity to stop.
We shouldn’t, his mind whispered.
She set herself down on him and he slid into the depths of her. She eased herself up, as if riding the lazy waves of a Caribbean surf. With each slow mounting, she leaned farther forward, falling closer to him, until her arms reached around his neck and he took hold of her breasts.
Her wetness ran onto his aching sac and down and over the top of his thighs. He took control then, placed his hands on her buttocks, pulled her onto him, her rhythmic surfing more frantic with each rising thrust.
Still, his personal turmoil persisted.
Please stop, he wanted to say. No, make love to me. Let me make love to you. No. You. Me. Please. No.
Yes.…
His breath caught in his throat, gave out tiny gasps that hardened as she impaled herself onto him again and again. The waves rose and fell, the seas roughened, the swell deepened, falling lower, rising higher, climbing, peaking, then crashing onto the warm shores of their drenched bodies to ebb and flow with a force that almost sucked the heart out of him.
She lay on top of him, her body writhing, squeezing every last ounce of pleasure from the moment. And Gilchrist wanted to thank her for what she had given him, but could not find the words. Instead, he drifted off and dreamed the dream of the dead.
Chapter 19
GILCHRIST WAKENED TO the whisper of rain on glass, then realised it was Nance having a shower. He raised the white-cotton Roman blinds to the pale grey of a Glasgow morning, then tried Maureen’s mobile, but got no connection. He called Dainty for an update, only to be told they had uncovered nothing overnight.
The unequivocal fact that his daughter was missing hit him like a blow to the gut. A cold sweat came over him, and he brushed his forehead surprised to see his fingers tremble. He had never felt such helplessness. He forced his mind to think, to come up with something, some intangible clue that might lead him to her, or at least point him in the right direction.
But what? And how?
He powered up her laptop, then entered My Documents and tried the Research folder, and into more subfolders, working through one branch, then back out and down another, but coming up with nothing, until an idea stopped him. Was Maureen’s laptop wi-fi enabled? Even if it was, Jack would not have wireless Internet, of that he felt certain. A short search located the Ethernet cable, but plugging it in gave him no connection, and he had to switch the power off. Within four minutes of restarting, he had an Internet connection and found himself at the BBC home page—another surprise. He typed hotmail.com and in the Sign In page entered Maureen’s email address. For her password, he typed Blackie 1980—the name of her first cat and the year of her birth—and prayed she had not changed it since she last told him. He held his breath while the screen opened to her Hotmail account.
He was in.
He read the folders listed in a column that ran down the left side of the screen, searching for something that might lead him to Ronnie Watt, until his eye tripped up on Topley. He had heard that name somewhere before. Topley. But where, he could not recall.
He opened it to a screen that contained no emails, and wondered why Maureen had emptied that folder. He eyed the column list again and stopped at Chris.
Was this Maureen’s boyfriend?
He opened that folder, surprised to find a list of emails that ran to five pages and dated back to January two years earlier.
Two years? But was Chris not Maureen’s latest boyfriend? Despite the distancing in their relationship, Gilchrist knew Maureen well enough to know that two years was too long for her to keep any romance secret. Ergo, Chris could not be her latest boyfriend.
Or could he?
He chose the most recent email, dated six weeks ago.
The screen opened to a short message from Maureen Gilchrist to Chris—no second name—titled Incoming.
As requested, written confirmation has been sought for incoming order expected to arrive within the week.
How harmless was that? It was so harmless it rattled alarm bells.
Then the Topley name came to him with a chill that iced his spine. Was the message recipient Chris Topley?
And what was the incoming order?
He clicked through several older emails, but at first glance they offered nothing more.
He exited and eyed the column of folders, this time focusing on Kevin.
The name niggled at him. He had come across it last year on a visit to Jack’s flat in Hillhead. Chloe’s paintings had struck him as not only vivid and colourful, but tempestuous and wild, verging on the surreal. Chloe told him she had painted that series to work through the sudden death of her friend, Kevin.
Didn’t Chris Topley have a brother called Kevin? He seemed to remember that. But the likelihood of Chloe’s Kevin and Maureen’s Kevin being Kevin Topley, or even the same Kevin, was almost laughable. Still, the name would not leave. He opened the folder to a single email, dated about four weeks ago, and stared in disbelief at the screen, at an untitled message from Maureen Gilchrist to Ronald Watt. Had Maureen mistakenly filed this in the wrong folder after deleting all emails to Kevin? He gritted his teeth and read on.
Hi Ron,
I’m sorry I haven’t written since before Christmas, but I’ve been busy. Work is hectic. You know how it is. And Chris can be a real slave-master. But you know that, too. I’ve missed you, and I look forward to seeing you again at Glenorra, if only to say farewell. I’m sorry things haven’t worked out between us the way you would have liked, but that’s life. You have yours, and I have mine. Let’s live and let live. And let byg
ones be bygones. Love. M xx
He was not sure if he was angered by Maureen’s feelings for Watt, or embarrassed at reading her personal correspondence. However he felt, he could not dispute the fact that she had resurrected her relationship with DS Ronald Watt, transferred from Fife Constabulary’s Crime Management Department to some outpost in the city of Glasgow all those years ago.
And now Watt was back in Fife, and Maureen was seeing him. Again.
Gilchrist seethed. This was betrayal at its worst. Maureen had lost her virginity one month after her fifteenth birthday, had since renewed her affair with the culprit, a man ten years her senior. Now after eight years, after all that time, here was written proof that she had reneged on the promise she made to her father.
He eyed the email.
I’ve missed you.
Gilchrist squeezed the bridge of his nose. Christ, Mo, what were you thinking? How could you let the man back into your life? He grimaced at the screen.
I’m sorry things haven’t worked out between us the way you would have liked.
He read that line again, then once more, and felt his heart grasp onto that slice of hope and cling to it. Watt wanted to keep the relationship alive. Not Maureen.
… let bygones be bygones.
Gilchrist clenched his jaw. How could she ever forgive the man? And in his mind’s eye, Watt pulled himself from bed and staggered to the bathroom, crumpled bed-sheets pressed to his bloodied face.
Gilchrist had moved towards Maureen then.
Stay away from me.
The words had been screamed. Even now, he flinched at the memory.
He remembered his breath rushing in and out in short hits, as if his body had forgotten how its lungs worked. He was as fit as he had ever been, but his burst of anger had carried him beyond some physical limit.
“You hit him,” she shouted. “You beat him up.”
“What did you expect?” he shouted back at her.
“Not that.”
At fifteen, Maureen had the verbal alacrity to argue with her elders. Rationale and logic were not necessary prerequisites, of course, and even Gail had a tough time withstanding the occasional verbal lashing.
Hand for a Hand Page 13
