“No. We drank.”
“More red wine?”
“Gin.”
Maureen liked the occasional gin and tonic, so Topley was telling him a mixture of lies and truth. “Then what?”
“We went back to her place and fucked each other senseless.”
Nance giggled, God bless her. She shook her head, slapped her notebook shut. “In your dreams, big boy.”
Topley seemed not to have heard. He glared at Gilchrist, his eyes like blue burning beads. “She likes it up the arse. Hard and fast. She swears when she’s getting fucked. Did you know that? She swears like a trooper. Fuck me harder, Chris baby, she says. Go on. Deeper. Harder. Fuck me. Fuck me.” Topley stopped his billy-goat thrusts then, and lowered his arms. He ran the back of his hand across his lips, as if out of breath.
Gilchrist smiled. “Finished?”
Topley frowned.
“Would you like me to charge you with obstructing a criminal investigation?”
“I’m obstructing nothing. You’re asking questions. I’m giving answers.”
“You’re lying.”
“Prove it.”
“Maureen doesn’t drink red wine.”
“Do what?”
“Red wine makes her sick.” Gilchrist stepped towards the door.
“Maybe it was white, then.”
“Maybe you weren’t even with her.”
Topley’s face deadpanned.
“Thanks for your time,” Gilchrist said. “I’ve enjoyed myself.” He gripped the door handle, then hesitated. “If I were you I’d make sure my books were in order.”
“I’m legit.”
“You’d better be,” said Gilchrist, and raised his wrist. “Because in about twenty-four hours this place is going to be crawling with inspectors from the Inland Revenue and Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. Wouldn’t you say, Nance?”
Nance shook her head. “Wouldn’t think it would take them that long.”
Gilchrist opened the door. “And one other thing.” He turned to Topley, pleased in some cruel way to see his fists bunching. “Maureen’s never liked it up the arse. She prefers to be on top.”
Topley unclenched his fists, then closed them in a white-knuckled crush.
Gilchrist pulled the door shut. His stomach churned. He should not have mentioned Maureen, but he had caught an image of her turning, dismounting from Watt, and the words had slipped from his lips before he could stop himself.
Outside, Nance said, “He’s lying through his back teeth. There’s no way Maureen would let him touch her with a barge pole. And what’s with the gold fillings? Did you see them?” She shivered her shoulders. “Was it true about the red wine?”
Gilchrist nodded.
“So, what’s he up to?”
Gilchrist had no answer. Topley’s hatred had been revealed to him with such intensity that he felt the man had to be holding some grudge. He might have served time in Barlinnie, but as far as Gilchrist knew their paths had never crossed.
But one thing Gilchrist did know.
His daughter was in grave danger.
Chapter 21
GILCHRIST WAS ABOUT to step into Babbity Bowster when his phone rang. It was Dick.
“That mobile number you asked me to do a reverse check on,” Dick said. “It’s listed to a Peggy Linnet.”
“Got an address?”
“That’s where it gets complicated. According to the company’s records she lives in Dundee. In one of those high-rise flats. But the council has it belonging to a Jerry McPhail, who works as an engineer in Saudi—”
“And he hasn’t been in the country for months, right?”
“First time.”
“Renting it out?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you have someone in the Office check it out for me, Dick? Let’s try to find this Peggy Linnet.”
“Will do.”
Gilchrist hung up. Who was Peggy Linnet? And why did Watt call her at such odd times of the day and night? He could confront Watt, have it out with him, then thought it better to have some facts first.
At the bar, he removed a passport-sized photo from his wallet. A young woman, fiercely attractive, the fire of defiance burning her dark-brown eyes, looked as if she was daring the camera to take her picture.
He held it out to Nance. “Maureen with her hair short.”
“She looks angry.”
“She has Gail’s temperament.”
“Ouch.”
Gilchrist offered the photograph to the barman. “Have you seen this woman in here recently?”
The barman glanced at it. “I’m only part-time.”
“That’s not what I asked. Take a good look.”
The barman eyed the image, shook his head.
“What about the others?”
The barman turned to a skinny guy stacking glasses. “Hey, Brian. Someone wants to speak to you.”
Brian slid the last of the glasses onto the shelf and walked from behind the bar, drying his hands on his apron. A silver ring in his left eyebrow looked tarnished. He eyed the photograph and nodded. “She’s a regular.”
“Define regular.”
“Comes in every other day or so. Mostly early, doesn’t stay long.”
“Like after work?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Sometimes she’s with someone.”
“Male? Female?”
“Both.”
Gilchrist exhaled. He was getting nowhere, confirming only what he already knew, that Maureen had the occasional after-work drink in one of her local pubs, sometimes by herself, sometimes with a work associate, male or female.
“When did you last see her?” Gilchrist asked.
Brian shook his head. “Couldn’t say.”
“Have a guess.”
“Last week, maybe.”
“But not since?”
Brian shrugged. “She could have been here and I might not have noticed.” He stared at Gilchrist for several seconds, then said, “Look, I’m sorry. I get paid to work here. Not eye the talent. When this place gets busy, it’s heaving. Know what I’m saying?”
Gilchrist was about to slip the photograph back into his wallet, when he said, “Do you know Chris Topley?”
“Who doesn’t around here?”
“What’s he like?”
“Spends cash like it’s going out of fashion.”
“Wealthy, is he?”
“Loaded.”
“And?”
“And he shows off. Fancies himself as the brain of Britain, too. Always giving his opinion about this and that. But he’s thick as shite. Don’t tell him I said that.”
“Did you ever see him with Maureen?”
“With who?”
“The girl in the photograph.”
“I thought you didn’t know her name.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“He’s her father,” Nance said.
“Did you ever see her with Chris Topley?” Gilchrist pressed.
Beads of sweat glistened on Brian’s forehead. He blinked once, twice, as if his brain was having trouble coming up with an answer.
Nance flashed her warrant card.
“You’re police?”
“Why don’t you let us ask the questions?”
“Is she in trouble?”
“You’re not listening.”
Brian’s lips tightened.
“She’s missing,” Gilchrist said.
“That’s why we’re asking the questions,” Nance followed.
“Look,” Brian said. “I only know Topley because he comes in here now and again. He’s Mr. Big around here. His friends come and go. You don’t see them for months on end, then in they come, all grins and cash and fancy cars.”
“From out of town?” Nance said.
Brian sneered. “Try Barlinnie.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“That’s the pub scoop.”
Brian ran t
he back of his hand under his nose, then sniffed. And that simple action told Gilchrist what Brian’s problem was. He took drugs. And Topley supplied him.
“Did Maureen ever take drugs?” he asked Brian.
Brian tried to hide his surprise, but failed. “No.”
“I thought you didn’t know her.” It was Nance.
“I don’t.”
“But you know she doesn’t take drugs?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
Gilchrist and Nance said nothing, just waited for Brian to continue. It worked.
“She doesn’t look the kind,” he continued. “Know what I’m saying?”
“What kind does she look like?” Nance again.
“She’s classy.” He risked a glance at Gilchrist. “She’s way above the likes of Topley and his hangers-on.”
Hearing those words sent pride surging through Gilchrist. Maureen did not do drugs and was perceived as classy, and someone who would not associate with the wrong kind of guys. Which did not explain why she was employed by Topley. Was it for money? Over a hundred thousand pounds a year kind of money? Plus a flat as a perk? Surely she could not know about his criminal past. And once again, he felt as if so much water had passed under the bridge of his daughter’s life that he was left standing high and dry on the banks of the memories of her life.
“Look,” said Brian. “I’ve got work to do.”
“You never answered the question,” Gilchrist said.
“What question?”
“Did you ever see Chris Topley with Maureen?”
Brian shook his head. “Can’t say that I did. Look, I’m telling the truth. He’s not her type, is all.”
Gilchrist wondered why he had not thought of asking the question until then. “Did you ever see her with Ronnie?”
“Ronnie Watt?”
Gilchrist tried to hide his surprise. Brian nodded. “Once or twice.”
“Twice? Once?”
“Several times, then.”
“Like they were regular boyfriend-girlfriend?”
“Not really.”
“Why not really?”
“They didn’t look close, like. They argued.”
“Argued? About what?”
“How would I know? I work the bar.”
“You couldn’t hear them?”
“No.”
“So how do you know they argued?”
Brian shrugged. “She looked unhappy. Like she didn’t want to be in his company. And one time she just got up and left him sitting there. Know what I’m saying?”
Fuck you, Ronnie, flitted through Gilchrist’s mind, followed by, That’s my girl.
Nance said, “And did you ever see Ronnie Watt with Chris Topley?”
Gilchrist almost smiled. Nance was beginning to make jumps in logic on her own, jumps that could catch someone cold, himself included.
“Once or twice,” Brian said.
What? “When?” Gilchrist snapped.
Brian held up his hands. “Hey, man. Steady on.”
Gilchrist was breathing hard. The whole thing with Maureen and Watt was getting to him. And now a link to Topley. “Do you know what Topley and Watt talk about?” he asked. Brian shook his head.
“Think about it.” He slid Maureen’s photo back into his wallet, then handed over a business card. “And when you’ve worked it out, give me a call.”
Outside, the sky had darkened. Swollen clouds hugged the skyline, low and dark.
“Let’s try Arta.”
But after showing Maureen’s photo around the place, they called it a day. She might have been seen, she might not, she looked familiar, but then again, did not. As they stepped outside, Gilchrist pulled out his phone and searched its memory. He found the number he was looking for.
It rang four times before being answered.
Gilchrist said, “Terry Leighton?”
“Speaking.”
“DCI Gilchrist. You did some work for me last year.”
A pause, then “Oh, yes, I remember. How can I help you?”
“I have a laptop I’d like you to take a look at. I want you to print out every file in it.”
“Every file?”
“Just your common or garden Microsoft Word files.”
“Oh, I see. That should be quite easy.” A pause, then, “When do you need them?”
“I’ll be with you in a couple of hours.” He hung up before Leighton could object.
“What a pity we’re heading back to St. Andrews,” Nance said.
“Why’s that?”
“I was looking forward to another treat.”
From the look in her dark eyes, Gilchrist realised she was serious. Why would she want to get involved with someone like him? He was twenty years her senior, drank too much, spent too many hours at the Office, and seemed incapable of sustaining any relationship with the opposite sex. All she had to do was talk to Beth.
She lifted her hand to his face. “You look sad,” she said. “And vulnerable. Not like the fearsome crime-buster of legendary fame.”
“Who writes that stuff, anyway?” he said. “Come on,” he growled. “We have work to do.”
Nance shoved her hands into her pockets and strode alongside. “You can be a real bastard at times, Andy.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I wonder why.”
Gilchrist grabbed her by the arm.
She stopped, frozen in mid-step, and glared at him until he released his grip.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Anger danced behind her eyes, as if she was preparing to let him have it. Then she shook her head. “You’re an easy man to like, Andy. But a difficult man to get to know.”
“You got to know me last night,” he tried.
“Fleetingly.”
He was not sure how to take that remark. Was she letting him know he had been too selfish? Could he be blamed for that? It had been almost a year since he had last been with a woman. And with Chloe’s murder and Maureen’s disappearance, it was a wonder he’d been aroused at all. He felt something touch his hand, and looked down to see Nance’s fingers entwine with his.
“Come on,” she said. “We really do have work to do.”
He let her lead him back to his car.
Chapter 22
AT STRATHCLYDE POLICE Headquarters in Pitt Street, Gilchrist pulled in an old favour by having Dainty put out another appeal on national television. Dainty was all hard handshakes and curt commands, with nothing being too much for the search for an associate’s daughter, not even a follow up call with Chris Topley, which he seemed pleased to offer.
“It’ll keep the cheeky bastard on his toes, let him know we’ve got our eyes on him.”
“Getting too big for his boots?” Gilchrist asked.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
The appeal was set for the evening news, targeted for Glasgow and the surrounding areas. Gilchrist watched it with Nance in a bar off Charing Cross, and found himself holding his breath when Maureen’s face filled the screen. But no one seemed to take notice—Any person knowing the whereabouts of Maureen Gillian Gilchrist, twenty-three, slim-built, five ten, shoulder-length dark hair, last seen having a drink in Babbity Bowster in Merchant City several nights ago, should contact Strathclyde Police. A number was given for callers to use with anonymity.
Gilchrist pushed his unfinished pint across the bar and stomped out, Nance close behind him.
On the drive back to St. Andrews, he called Jack. Although Jack had not heard from Maureen, he sounded upbeat. Gilchrist took advantage of his cavalier mood and asked if he would call Mum, find out when she last spoke to Maureen.
Ten minutes later Jack called back.
“Mum was asleep, but Harry says he hasn’t spoken to Maureen since last week.”
“Did he mention the news? We put out an appeal.”
“He never said a
word, Andy.”
Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. This was his and Gail’s daughter, Jack’s sister, Harry’s step-daughter, for crying out loud, and no one seemed to—
“I tried Jenny again, on the off-chance. But she hasn’t heard from her either.”
“Jenny?”
“Jenny Colvin. A friend of Chloe’s.”
At the mention of Chloe’s name, Gilchrist felt his lips purse. He had not told Jack about the left arm. Now was not the time to bring it up.
“Jenny saw Chloe last year. Way before Christmas. We would sometimes go out with her.”
“You and Chloe?”
“Sometimes Maureen, too.”
“I didn’t know you and Maureen went out together.”
“Not often. Maureen’s got her own circle of friends.”
“How about boyfriends? Did you meet any of them?”
“That’s how I met Chloe.” Things always seemed confused with Jack. “Jenny’s boyfriend knew Kevin.”
Kevin. Chloe’s boyfriend before Jack. Out of nothing comes something. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Jenny used to go out with Roddy. Roddy knew Kevin. We went to a party in the south side. I was with Sheila. Chloe was with Kevin. That’s where we met. Me and Chloe.…”
Gilchrist caught the saddening in Jack’s tone, thought he should end the call before the conversation turned to his investigation. But he still had a couple of questions left. “Whose house was the party in?” he asked.
“Kevin’s.”
“You wouldn’t know where Glenorra is?”
“Who?”
“I thought not. Did Maureen ever mention Glenorra?”
“Not that I remember.”
Gilchrist felt powerless to lift Jack’s spirits and now regretted having called. “Listen, Jack, I’ve got to go. Call you later.”
“Yeah.” And with that, Jack hung up.
Gilchrist sat his mobile phone in the centre console. What the hell was he doing? Have a chat with Dad and ruin your day? When was the last time he had spoken to Jack without picking his brain?
“Do you ever feel you’re losing control?” he said to Nance.
Nance placed her hand on his thigh and squeezed. “You give the impression of always being in control.”
He eyed the road ahead. Always in control? Of what? His family? His career? His life? That was a laugh. He felt as if he was hanging on by his fingernails while the stallion of life galloped off like some untamed beast. And Nance’s hand on his thigh had his thoughts reverting to other problems. If Greaves found out, he would—
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