His face darkened. “Aw, you bitch, you pissed in my car. I should slit your fucking throat for that. Get out.”
She tried to pull herself to her feet, but her legs gave way. She did not even have the strength to scream as he hauled her out by her hair.
She slumped onto hard asphalt.
“Now sign that fucking paper or I’ll rip your fucking head off.” He gobbed off to the side, a thick lump of green phlegm that anger had released from his throat.
Through the blur of her tears, she tried to make sense of the single word.
VENGEANCE.
What did it mean? But it was pointless asking. She was going to be killed. Maybe by signing she could leave a message to her parents, let them know she had remained defiant to the last. She almost choked a laugh at the thought. How could she even think that, when she wet herself with every spurt of fear?
She gripped the pen, signed beneath the single word.
Mo, she wrote. That was all.
He snatched the paper from her, stuffed it into his pocket.
She felt herself freeze as he reached behind him. He was going for his knife. That was where he kept it. In a leather sheath on his belt. She stared at the bushes, or what she had mistaken for bushes. Now morning was dawning, the old stone wall and the headstones behind it had taken shape. And the oddest thought coursed through her mind.
A cemetery seemed such an appropriate place in which to be killed.
“ANDY. IT’S PETE Small. You tried to reach me?”
Gilchrist dug his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. “Ronnie Watt,” he said. “He’s not one of yours. Is he?”
“You know I can’t talk about that, Andy. Is that why you called?”
Gilchrist caught the anger in Dainty’s voice. The man might be small in stature, but that did little to lessen his presence. “There used to be a time when we worked hand in hand.”
“Don’t play with words, Andy. You know the rules.”
Gilchrist stared at Leighton’s printouts on his desk. He’d been reading his way through them for the last four hours, but come up with nothing. “Watt knows Chris Topley. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“They were seen having a drink together. Does that not interest you?”
“I’ve had the odd pint with a criminal or two. So has half the force.”
Gilchrist could not argue with that. “Where did Topley get the money to start his business?”
“Topley’s clean. We’ve checked him out. He might have an eponymous agency, but it’s part of a larger holding group. Some international company with too much money.”
“Does it have a name?”
“W something Holdings International.”
“Can you find out?”
“Can do.”
“And where it’s based?”
“Can do. Why?”
He had no clear idea why his interest was piqued, other than his sixth sense telling him something did not ring true. “Just a hunch,” he said.
Dainty grunted, then said, “One other thing.”
Gilchrist caught the bite in Dainty’s voice. “I’m all ears.”
“A body was found in a farm lane on the outskirts of Castlecary, off the M80 on the way to Stirling. Male, early thirties, throat cut. Being treated as murder, obviously.”
“Anyone we know?”
“Kenneth Finnigan. Wee Kenny to his friends. But for the last two or three years was Jimmy Reid’s goffer.”
Jimmy Reid? Why was Dainty telling him this? Reid? Then Gilchrist felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stir. “Bully’s brother?”
“The one and only.”
Christ. “What does Jimmy have to say about it?”
“Jimmy’s shot the crow. We raided his house this morning, but he’s packed up and left. Spain, probably. Has a villa there. We’ve already been onto the airlines and the Spanish Police.”
Gilchrist could tell from Dainty’s tone that Jimmy’s disappearance was not the crux of the matter. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Wee Kenny’s car was discovered twenty miles away, burned to a shell.”
“A Jaguar?”
“Right first time.”
“How badly burned?”
“Nothing left of it.”
Gilchrist knew they would not be able to tell from the paintwork if the boot of the Jaguar had been patch-painted. But they might from the metalwork. “The boot,” he said. “Any damage done to it?”
Dainty chuckled. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
And neither do you, Gilchrist thought.
“Repaired pockmarks were found on the boot. Possible bullet holes. Six in total. Which might suggest an old-fashioned revolver.”
“For an old-fashioned gangland war.”
“Could be. Jimmy was involved in some turf war about eight years ago.”
“About the time Bully was put behind bars?”
“Some time after that. Rumour had it he was looking after the family business.”
Bully had been sent down on charges of manslaughter. Fifteen years, with no chance of parole—supposedly. Was it possible he was still pulling the strings from behind bars?
“Bully’s still in prison, right?” Gilchrist asked.
“Bar-L. The one and only.”
“He’s not getting out any time soon, is he?”
“He’s hired one of the top legal firms in town.”
“Meaning?”
“They’re pushing to have him out in maybe two years.”
“You’re joking.”
“Afraid not.”
The Jaguar. Burned to a cinder. Kenny Finnigan. Dead in a farm lane. Ronnie Watt. Back in Fife. Maureen. Vanished. Jimmy Reid. Gone to Spain. And Bully. Getting out in two years. Did it add up to something Gilchrist should be able to see? He hated to say it, but only one person was available to him. “I need to talk to Bully,” he said. “Can you set it up for me?”
“This afternoon do?”
“Perfect,” he said, and closed his mobile.
Gilchrist had once prayed that he would never have to face hatred like Bully’s again. Now he had arranged to meet with the psycho. Just the thought that Bully might be involved with Maureen’s disappearance had his heart racing. Christ, anyone but Bully.
But he knew Bully was involved. Bully would always be involved.
He did not need his sixth sense to tell him that.
For years he had dreaded this day coming.
Now it had, he prayed he was up to the task.
Chapter 28
GILCHRIST REMEMBERED IT as if it were yesterday.
He closed his eyes, saw spittle splutter from Bully’s mouth as he was dragged away, handcuffed, screaming a vindictive diatribe that had Sheriff MacFarlane thumping his gavel with the energy of a piecework blacksmith.
Fuck you, Gilchrist. Fuck you. I’m going to have you for this. D’you hear, you fucking cunt? You’ll regret this, Gilchrist. To your dying fucking day you’re going to regret this. D’you hear?
Gilchrist heard all right. He had turned away as Bully was led from the dock. Had he shown weakness by doing so? Should he have stared the man out, smiled and mouthed Goodbye? And here he was again, after all these years.
He pulled his Roadster into the car park that fronted the stone monolith of Glasgow’s Barlinnie Prison. He had not set foot in the Bar-L for ten years, when he had visited Donnie Crawford, a petty crook serving twenty years for murder. Accompanied by Donnie’s court-appointed solicitor, Gilchrist asked specific questions that had proven Donnie’s innocence. He remained proud of his efforts that day. Donnie had joined the Army six months later, ending his life of crime before it started in earnest. The last Gilchrist heard, Donnie had married and was now the father of two young daughters.
But Bully was a different animal altogether, animal being the operative word. Bully was beyond salvation. And had been ever since the murderous age of ten.
Gilchrist signed in and was
escorted through a series of steel-barred doors, along a corridor with breezeblock walls painted prison-grey, and into a square room furnished with one table and two chairs opposite each other.
He sat.
The sour smell of urine filled his senses. He found his hands patting his pockets for his cigarettes, recalling that when he first came up against Bully he’d been smoking thirty a day. Christ, he could do with one right now. He forced himself to focus on why he was there. If Bully was somehow involved, he might be able to glean something from him, some tiny detail that could lead him to Maureen. Bully’s cockiness had been his downfall in the past. It could be again.
The door opened.
There stood Bully, six-foot-one of him, street-fighter-thin and prison-hard. He paused at the doorway before being pushed into the room, arms and legs shackled. The guard manacled the chains to a metal ring on the floor.
“Sit.”
Bully sat. Sweat glistened his brow. A yellow tint in the whites of his eyes hinted at a prison illness. Gilchrist found himself surprised by an odd reluctance to lock eyes with the man. Even after eight years.
The guard stood with his back to the door.
Bully broke the verbal standoff.
“I’ve been expecting you.” His deep voice echoed off the block walls, thick with the guttural accent of a Glasgow hard-man grown old.
Gilchrist focused on his hands on the table. He wanted to give Bully the impression that his words had slipped over his head.
But he had heard. And he understood.
I’ve been expecting you. Why?
Because I knew you would work out who was behind Chloe’s death.
Gilchrist looked across at Bully, at eyes that sparkled with the anticipation of revenge. “Why?” was all he said.
Bully chuckled.
Gilchrist caught the stale scent of sweat from pockmarked skin. His rationale was screaming at him—Bully must know. But did he know? Gilchrist forced himself to control his voice. “Why were you expecting me?”
Bully’s eyes flickered with a crazed look. “You think I know where your daughter is,” he said.
“Who told you she was missing?”
“Word gets around.”
“So you know where she is.”
“That’s for you to find out.”
“I’m not here to play games.”
“You’re free to leave.”
“You don’t want me to leave.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
Gilchrist felt the tiniest of tremors take over his left leg. Fear. Of all the criminals he had come up against, Bully was the only one who scared him. All of a sudden he was not sure he could tackle him about his daughter. But, Christ, he had to.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Gilchrist? Are you thinking playing games might not be such a bad idea?” Bully laughed, a dry chuckle that sounded forced.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t like that game.”
“Where is she?”
“Don’t you want to play?”
“Where is she?”
Bully’s face deadpanned. “Do you think I’d tell you?”
“So you know.”
“Hah.” The word was barked. Spittle formed at the corners of thin lips. “You’re not a stupid man, Mr. Gilchrist. But you’re coming across as one.”
“Where is my daughter?”
“I haven’t the fucking foggiest.”
“So why were you expecting me?”
Bully seemed lost at the snap question, but Gilchrist wanted to keep the momentum going.
“I can have you charged with complicity in murder.”
“You’d never fucking prove it.”
No denial. Was that as good as a confession?
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Bully said. “I’m inside.”
“You are indeed.”
Bully glared at him. “I told you I’d get even with you.”
“No you didn’t. You said I’d regret it.”
Bully looked confused for a moment, then revealed white teeth that looked at odds with the hard-man image. “You always were the cocky cunt.”
“Well now’s your chance to make me regret it.”
Bully tilted his head. “Look at you,” he said. “The best of gear. What’d the leather jacket sting you? Four hundred? Five? More? Yeah, I bet it was more. And the shirt.” He tutted. “You’re spoiling the image without a tie.”
“You’re spoiling my day, Bully. And talking shite.”
Bully seemed unfazed. “You must be worth a few bob.”
Gilchrist struggled to hold Bully’s eyes. Was he hinting at a ransom? But money was not the object of Bully’s exercise. Getting even was. Hitting Gilchrist where it hurt the most. Not his pocket—his family.
“And look at poor old me,” Bully pressed on. “Dressed in the best of prison rags.” Anger shifted like ripples in his jaw. “You put me here.”
“You put yourself here,” Gilchrist snapped. “If you hadn’t massacred that family, you and I would never have met.”
“They were asking for it.”
“What’s your point?”
“You wanted to see me.”
“And you’ve been expecting me. Why?”
Bully glared at him. “D’you know what pleasures I have in life now?”
Silent, Gilchrist waited.
“Writing.”
“Sold anything to the Beano yet?”
Bully tried a grin, but his eyes died. “I could fuck your life like that.” He snapped his fingers with a hard flick.
Gilchrist pushed his chair back. “You’re wasting my time.”
“Got things to do? More criminals to put away?”
Gilchrist nodded to the guard who moved towards Bully.
“Missing your princess?” Bully hissed.
Ice fingered Gilchrist’s spine. He raised his hand to the guard. “What did you say?”
Bully side-nodded. “Get rid of the monkey.”
They had discussed this possibility, Gilchrist and Bully being left alone in the same room. The Prison Director had not liked it. But Gilchrist had insisted. He gave a tiny nod, and the guard stepped from the room.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me, sir.”
Gilchrist waited until the door was closed, then said, “Talk. Or I’m walking, and you’re never going to hear from me again.”
“You’re a brainy bastard,” Bully said. “And you’re smart.”
Gilchrist had no idea where Bully was going, so he waited.
“But I’m smarter. I’m smarter than you. I’m smarter than ape-face out there. I’m smarter than the whole fucking lot of you piled together.”
Gilchrist said nothing. He sensed Bully was leading the conversation to what he wanted to talk about, what game he wanted Gilchrist to play.
“Wee, sleekit, cowerin, timorous beastie.” Bully’s smile darkened his face and warned Gilchrist to beware. “Oh what a panic’s in thy breastie.”
Cowering? Timorous? Panic? Was that Bully’s game? Was he trying to sow the seed of fear into Gilchrist’s mind? If so, he needn’t bother. Fear was well and truly planted where Bully was concerned. “Didn’t know you were a Burns aficionado,” he tried.
Bully chuckled. “You shitting yourself yet?”
Not quite. “What’s your point?”
“His knife see rustic Labour dight, an’ cut you up wi’ ready slight, trenching your gushing entrails bright.”
Gilchrist had been to enough Burns Suppers to know Bully was reciting from To a Haggis. But the reference to gushing entrails had him worried. He tried to redirect the flow with, “You’re talking in riddles.”
“I’m talking in poems, Mr. Gilchrist. Father of Jack. Protector of Maureen. Poems.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s what makes me smarter than the rest of the bozos in here. Poems.”
Gilchrist tried again. “Why did you ask if I was missing my princess?”
“That’s what you called Ma
ureen when she was young. Your little princess.”
Gilchrist felt his breath leave him. Hearing Maureen’s name being uttered from the mouth of a convicted killer hit some point deep within him. How did Bully know Maureen was his princess? She was five when he called her that. Time to go to bed, my little princess. Then he would lift her up and carry her upstairs—
“Inhuman man! Curse on thy barb’rous art, and blasted be thy murder-aiming eye.”
The words sounded like Burns, but they were unfamiliar to Gilchrist.
“May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart.”
More unfamiliar verses, but he could not fail to catch the emphasis on cruel. Was Bully talking about himself, or suggesting something else? Inhuman man! That would certainly describe Bully.
As if reading Gilchrist’s confusion, Bully said, “Do you know what’s good about being in this place?”
“You not being outside.”
“You always were a cheeky bastard. But I’m too old in the tooth to rise to your petty baiting now.” Bully narrowed his eyes. “Honesty,” he said. “That’s what you get when you’re in here. Honesty.”
Gilchrist puzzled at the words. He could not think of a more dishonest bunch of souls than those incarcerated in Barlinnie. “Now you’ve lost me.”
Bully chuckled, a hacking cackle that came from deep inside his lungs. “No one tells lies in here,” he said. “Why should they? They’ve got nothing to lie for. Not like the world you live in.”
“So you’re trying to tell me that you’ve seen the error of your ways?”
Something dark shifted behind Bully’s eyes at that moment. “Three lawyers’ tongues turned inside out,” he growled, “wi’ lies seamed like a beggar’s clout. Three priests’ hearts, rotten, black as muck, lay stinking, vile in every neuk.” Bully’s lips parted in an ugly smile. “Even back in Burns’ day, lawyers and priests were the same lying fucking shites they are today.”
“And your point is?”
“I would have thought a brainy bastard like you would work it out.”
Work what out? The verses? The reference to lawyers and priests? The lies? The truth? What? But what Gilchrist had worked out was that Bully was behind Maureen’s disappearance. Of that he was certain.
He tried again. “Where is my daughter?”
Hand for a Hand Page 19
