He rang the doorbell.
It took no more than five seconds for the door to crack open. An elderly woman with white hair as wild as candyfloss faced them. A blue housecoat stained from overuse covered a pink nightgown. Worn slippers warmed blue-veined feet as white as porcelain.
“Mrs. Hutchison?” Gilchrist asked.
“Yes?”
“We’re with the police. May we come in?”
“Is it to do with the Topley’s old house?” she asked.
“It is.”
“Well, thank goodness. You’d better come in.”
Gilchrist followed her tiny frame down a dark hall and into a dull kitchen that needed to be gutted. Cupboard doors hung from hinges long past their sell-by date. Woodchip wallpaper painted deep yellow was blackened with grease above the oven. A white tablecloth covered a small table in the centre of the room.
“Would you like some tea? I always have a pot brewing.”
“That would be nice,” Nance said.
“Do you live alone?” Gilchrist tried.
“For the last eleven years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Cancer done it. That’s what took my Tom. I told him to give up the smoking. But he never listened.” She smiled, an odd crinkling of her lined face. “It’s what I liked most about him,” she went on, “that he took no one’s advice but his own. Milk, love?”
Nance nodded. Gilchrist did likewise.
She handed Gilchrist a chipped cup with tea like melted Caramac and speckles of soured milk spinning in it like dandruff. He took a polite sip through closed lips, then said, “Why were you so pleased to invite us in?”
“The old Topley house has been empty for years,” she said. “Then all of a sudden it’s like Sauchiehall Street.”
“You saw someone go into it?” Nance asked.
“Two of them. Like tinkers. Scruffy they was.”
“Did you call the police?” Gilchrist asked.
“Oh, dear, no. I didn’t like to. I try to mind my own business.”
“Could you describe them?”
She gave Gilchrist’s question some thought, then shook her head. “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, you know. I need a new prescription.” She scanned the kitchen with a worried frown. “Where did I put my glasses?”
“Tall, small? Fat, thin? Male, female?”
“Oh,” she said. “One was tall and gangly.” She screwed up her face. “I’ve never liked that in a man. The other was small. With short legs. Like Tom.”
“Could you see what they were doing?” Nance asked.
“Doing, love?”
“Were they carrying anything?”
“I don’t think so. They were just going in and out. Making a nuisance of themselves. Slamming car doors. My sight might not be as good as it used to be. But there’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”
“And when did all this going in and out take place?”
“Last week.”
“And before that?”
She shook her head. “Oh, dear. Not for a while.”
“Did they come by car?” Nance asked. “Yes, love.”
Gilchrist was sure he was about to waste his breath. “Did you get the number plate? The make of car?”
“Goodness gracious me. No. Tom was the man for the cars. Not me. He always used to say he would buy me a big car so he could drive me to the shops—”
“Can you remember the colour?”
“Shiny. Like metal.”
Gilchrist remembered the Jaguar with the paint repair on the boot. “Silver, perhaps?”
“I think so.”
“Did it have any scratches or dents? Blotches of paint a different colour?”
“Oh, dear. I couldn’t say. I’ve no idea about that.”
Gilchrist and Nance continued to grill Mrs. Hutchison in a gentle round-about fashion, getting nowhere, learning nothing, until Gilchrist asked about Topley Senior.
“He was a strange one.” She twisted her lips as if she had bitten into a rotten apple. “And a loud drunk. Singing and shouting all those religious songs. But Betsy was nice. I don’t think John done her any harm. But I never understood why she went and married him. I think it was the children that done her in in the end.”
“Done her in?”
“Wore her out.” She shook her head. “A disappointment to her, they was. Two boys. But that was two too many, if you ask me. Poor Betsy. She lost their first child, you know. A girl. She died at birth. She’s buried in the family plot in Maryhill. Betsy used to place flowers by her grave every year. November the eighth.”
“You have a good memory.”
“I used to. I remember it well because it was three days after Guy Fawkes.” She smiled. “Remember remember, the fifth of November.”
“What were the two boys like?”
Her smile evaporated. “Horrible.”
That would certainly describe Chris Topley, Gilchrist thought.
“Cheeky cheeky cheeky. They used to break the heads off my roses. And when they kicked their football into my garden, they would just run in and pick it up. They never asked permission.” She bit into the apple again.
“And what about their father? Did you see much of him?”
“No. He died from a heart attack.”
“When would that be?”
“Ten years ago.”
“You remember it, do you?”
“It was the year after Tom. But Tom had been ill for a while.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Gilchrist.
“It was so sad when Betsy passed away.” Her face seemed to fail her then. “I went to John’s funeral. But I didn’t go to hers. Never even got a chance to pay my last respects.”
“Why not?” Nance asked.
“The boys didn’t want me to.”
“Kevin and Chris?”
“Not so much Kevin. But that Chris. Horrible, he was. He swore at me.”
“Why?”
“Called me an old cow. It was terrible what he done.”
“What did he do?”
“Betsy wanted John to be laid to rest in the family plot in Maryhill. But he wouldn’t have none of it, that Chris. He had John buried somewhere else. Betsy was in a terrible state about it. But she could never stand up to those boys. And when she died, I couldn’t believe it. They had her cremated at Daldowie.” Tears welled in her rheumy eyes. “Betsy didn’t want that. She wanted the family to be laid to rest together.”
Gilchrist decided not to mention the urn in the attic. “Do you know why he did that?”
She shook her head, tears close to the surface.
“Where’s John buried?”
“In a cemetery in Kirkintilloch. His home town.”
Gilchrist had never heard of the place, but made a mental note to check with Dainty. Not that it mattered, he supposed, but he said, “Do you know which cemetery?”
“The Auld Aisle,” she said. “I remember thinking it was a nice name for a cemetery.” Then she frowned. “But I never understood why there.”
“You said Kirkintilloch was his home town.”
“But that was years ago. When he was a little boy. Betsy told me. They moved to Milngavie at first, then bought the house up the road. All his family are buried in Maryhill. His mother and father. His brother, too. And little Betty.”
Gilchrist watched reminiscence cross her face then fade to a look of loss. For her own family, or her past, he could not say. He reached inside his jacket, felt his lips tighten as he held out Maureen’s photograph. “Have you ever seen this woman before?”
The old lady looked around her, and Nance walked to the window ledge and picked up a pair of spectacles. “Are these what you’re looking for?”
“Yes, dear. Where did you find them?” She slid them over her ears then peered long-armed at the photograph. “What a beautiful face,” she said. “Such lovely eyes. Tom always wanted a girl. It’s funny that, don’t you think? Most men want boys.
”
“Have you seen her before?” Nance nudged.
She shook her head.
Gilchrist then showed her a photograph of Chloe.
“She reminds me of my sister Aggie. Such lovely eyes. I miss her, you know.”
Gilchrist retrieved the photographs and pushed himself to his feet. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Hutchison.”
“Stay for another cup of tea,” she said. “Please?”
“We really must be going.”
At the door the old lady said, “My, that was a strange kafuffle last night.”
“Pardon?”
“With that car parked outside. I thought he was up to no good.”
“He? Can you describe him?”
“It was too dark, dear. But I think it might have been the tall skinny one.”
Gilchrist’s mobile rang, and he excused himself.
“What time last night?” Nance asked.
“After midnight. When I looked out later, the car was gone.”
“Was it the same silver-coloured car?”
“I don’t think so. It looked darker. I’m not very good with cars.”
“Don’t worry,” Nance said. “And thanks for the tea.”
When Nance turned she could tell from the look on Gilchrist’s face that the last body part had turned up. She ran after him as he jogged towards his Mercedes, and caught up as he jumped into the driver’s seat.
“It’s Chloe,” he said to her, and jerked the ignition key.
The engine started with a hard roar that had two constables looking their way. But he did not shift into gear, just sat there, eyes glazed, staring straight ahead.
After thirty seconds, she leaned across and switched off the engine.
“What’s wrong, Andy?”
Gilchrist looked away from her then. “I haven’t the faintest idea where Maureen is,” he whispered. “I hear her voice in my head. I close my eyes and I see her. But I can’t reach her. I can’t help her. I feel helpless.”
“You said it was Chloe.”
He faced her. “They found her head.”
Nance pressed her hand to her mouth. She had seen only one dacapitated head before, and the memory still stuck with her. She reached out, touched his arm, and he looked down at it, as if surprised to see it there. She wanted to ask if the final note had been found, what it said, but dreaded being told how it had been sent. Surely not branded onto Chloe’s face. Or cut into her skin like scars. No one could be that cruel.
Instead, she squeezed his arm, and waited.
“The final word is vengeance,” he finally said. “And just in case we couldn’t work it out, he had Maureen sign the note. Stuffed into Chloe’s mouth.”
Nance felt her eyes burn as her mind cast up that image. She struggled to hold back her tears. She could not cry. She had to be strong for herself. And strong for Andy.
“The bastard had Maureen sign it. Mo,” Gilchrist gasped.
Then her eyes filled as Gilchrist buried his head in his hands and cried.
Chapter 32
“I’M SORRY, JACK, but Chloe’s body won’t be released until Bert’s done.”
Jack stared out the windscreen in silence, while Gilchrist brought him up to date with the rest of his investigation. But he mentioned nothing of Maureen’s note.
Deep in his own misery, Gilchrist drove through the back streets of St. Andrews. Jack confirmed that Bully’s bastardised line was the opening line of Robert Burns’ poem “Mary Morison.” Instead of, Oh Mary, at thy window be, Bully had changed it to, Oh princess, by thy watchtower be, which told Gilchrist that Bully was responsible for Maureen’s disappearance, and that somehow, somewhere, a tower had something to do with it. Or maybe not.
Gilchrist pulled the Roadster off the road, switched off the engine. He opened the door, turned to Jack. “You offered to help? Well, here we are.”
Leighton looked tired. His jowls shivered with irritation. “It’s taken me longer than I thought it would,” he grumbled. “Even with three printers. But I’ve finished it now.” He lumbered down the hallway and into the front room.
Gilchrist and Jack followed.
Five stacks of printed paper stood on the carpet.
Gilchrist picked up two, while Jack took the rest. As they walked back outside, Gilchrist said, “Send me the bill.”
That seemed to please Leighton, for he smiled and tugged at his belt.
Driving back to Crail he said to Jack, “I’d like you to go through Maureen’s stuff. Put a Post-it at anything that references Watt, Glenorra, Topley, and anyone or anything else you don’t understand, or that seems suspicious.”
“I was dreading you asking me to do that.”
“You did offer.”
“Yeah, I suppose I did.”
GILCHRIST DID NOT find Maureen by the end of that day.
Nor by the end of the next.
Strathclyde’s Forensic teams confirmed that the discarded clothes belonged to Maureen. Blood, bone and skin tissue recovered from the butcher’s bench confirmed that Chloe had been dismembered in the shed. Chris Topley, registered owner of Glenorra, was grilled in person by Dainty for four hours, but denied being within ten miles of the house. Alibis were presented and checked, and Topley walked away as clean as his laundered suit.
Gilchrist’s search of towers in towns along the east coast—Crail, Anstruther, Pittenweem to the south, and as far as Newport-on-Tay to the north—had offered him nothing more except late nights and less sleep. At his frantic persistence Dainty had finally relented and organised a small team to investigate towers in Glasgow, beginning in Easterhouse, where Bully last lived, then stretching farther in a widening circle. But nothing came of it.
Bully was interrogated in Barlinnie by Strathclyde’s top negotiators for ten straight hours. They even hinted at the possibility of a deal. Just tell us what you know, where you’ve instructed the body to be hidden, and we’ll look to get you a pardon.
But Bully said, “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bastard,” after which he refused to utter another word. And for ten straight hours, he sat and smiled at them.
By the morning of the following day Gilchrist had come to realise that no one would find Maureen. That was Bully’s revenge. It mattered not that he had murdered a family of six, including a five-year-old child. A typical psychopath, Bully had no conscience, moral or ethical, no sense of remorse or compassion, took no responsibility for his actions, and could therefore suffer no emotional consequences for his misdeeds.
It was now clear to Gilchrist that Bully had planned to frighten him into believing Maureen was about to be served up to him in bits, and if he solved the clues he could ride in on his white stallion and save his princess. But he had not reckoned on Bully’s trump card, that he had never planned to hack Maureen into pieces, but to have her kidnapped and killed, and her body buried where it would never be found. Gilchrist thought of interrogating Bully once more. But doing so would let Bully see his pain, give him another opportunity to taunt him with his secret knowledge.
So, he decided against it.
Hammie could offer nothing more than Gilchrist already knew. Bully’s reference to Burns’ words contained nothing mystical. The message was clear for all to see in Bully’s bastardised line, Oh princess, by thy watchtower be.
According to Hammie, Bully was telling Gilchrist he knew where Maureen was, and his lips would be sealed until the day he died. And the use of the poem “Mary Morison” was significant as it was generally understood that the Mary Morison in Burns’ poem was Alison Begbie, whom Burns dated when he was in his early twenties, but who refused to marry him. The psychological parallel being that where Burns had failed in his quest for a wife, so too would Gilchrist fail in his search for his daughter.
The other verses were nothing more than smokescreen.
Gilchrist had a different opinion, convinced that Bully had given him a clue, strong in his own twisted belief that he was smarter than everyone. But Gilch
rist knew that Bully’s ego would be his downfall. That was the flaw in his miserable scheming.
So, he went to see Chris Topley again.
Nance came with him.
Topley entered the room in a suit that looked like silver shards of herring-bone. It glittered like foil when he walked by the window. He stood on the opposite side of his desk, and gave Gilchrist a gold-toothed smile. “Nice jacket,” he said. “Leather suits you.”
“Wish I could say the same about your suit,” Nance said.
Topley smiled at her. “Want me to throw you out now? Or fuck you later?”
“Try throwing me out now.”
Topley widened his gold smile. “Maybe we’ll just fuck later.”
“You wouldn’t get past Go.”
Topley lowered his eyes and stared at Nance’s crotch.
“Now we’ve got the foreplay out of the way,” Gilchrist said, “I’d like to ask a few more questions.”
Topley lifted his prurient gaze. “I don’t feel like answering any questions today.”
“Like us to arrest you instead?”
“I’d be interested to hear the charge.”
“Attempted rape.” Nance again.
“Do what?”
Nance stepped forward. She stood a couple of inches taller than Topley. “Believe me,” she said, “my story will stick. If DCI Gilchrist hadn’t arrived in the nick of time and pulled you off me, I do believe you might have scored.”
“You wouldn’t fucking dare.”
“You’d better fucking believe it. Now answer the nice man’s questions, or you’re going back to your cage in the Bar-L zoo.”
“Maybe I should call my solicitor.”
“That’s your prerogative,” Gilchrist said. “But we can be out of here in a few minutes, or we can take the long road. Your choice.”
“I’m clean,” Topley sneered. “Let’s have it. Anything to get rid of you lot.”
“You shared a cell with Bully Reid,” Gilchrist said. “For how long?”
“About a year.”
“I heard eighteen months.”
“If you know the answer, why ask the question?”
“To make sure you’re telling no lies.” Gilchrist caught a flush of anger wash across the hard face. “What did you and Bully talk about?”
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