Hand for a Hand

by T. Frank Muir

  “Are you joking, or what? How the fuck would I remember what we talked about?”

  “Try.”

  “It was a while ago.”

  Gilchrist moved closer to the desk. “Did Bully ever mention my name?”

  “Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”

  “Did he ever mention my daughter’s name?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I don’t like it.”

  Topley narrowed his eyes. “He never mentioned your daughter’s name.”

  “Did he mention any woman’s name?”

  “Sure he did. But I can’t remember them all.”

  “But you remember he didn’t mention Maureen.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did Maureen get a job with your company?”

  “Replied to an ad. The same way every other bit of skirt gets a job here.”

  “I thought some of them had a horizontal interview,” Nance chipped in.

  Topley chuckled, his eyes flashing. “Want to apply?”

  “Maureen’s a compulsive saver,” Gilchrist pressed on. “She’s kept every bit of paper she’s ever read, every letter she’s ever received, written, or just thought of. And that includes job advertisements.” He was lying now, just winging it, but sometimes you have to push. “We never found an ad for your firm in her papers. So, I’ll ask you for the last time. How did she get the job?”

  “Word of mouth.”

  “Whose mouth?”

  “Now you really are pushing the boat out.”

  “Do you know something?” Nance said. “I’m hoping you don’t answer the question, because I can’t wait to face you in court.”

  Topley glared at Gilchrist. “Ronnie Watt,” he said.

  The name stung like a slap to the face. Gilchrist struggled to keep his voice even. “What did Ronnie say exactly?”

  Topley smirked. “Said he was going out with a tidy bit of stuff, right classy looking, tight tits with nipples out to here, the kind punters love to rub their cocks over. Nice legs, too. And a muff so fine you could floss your teeth with it.”

  Gilchrist ignored the taunt. “And?”

  “And she’d do anything to get a job.”

  “So you hired her.”

  “After the interview.” Topley flashed gold at Nance. “If you get my meaning.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a year ago.”

  “By which time you’d been out of prison, what, a year, give or take a month or two?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Keep in contact with Bully, do you?”

  “What for?”

  “That’s why I’m asking.”

  “No.”

  “Spoken to him since?”

  “No.”

  “Written to him?”

  “No.”

  “Contacted him in any way?”

  “No.”

  “Not even one visit, one letter, one call, to let Bully know you’d hired Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist’s daughter?” His voice had risen in ridicule, and he struggled to smother his emotions. But he was almost asking too much of his nervous system.

  As if sensing this, Topley turned to the window, placed his hands behind his back, revealing a swallow tattooed on the inside of his left wrist. “You’re fucking fishing.”

  “I take it that’s a Yes.”

  Topley faced Gilchrist again. “N - O.” He etched the air with a pointed finger. “In huge big baby letters.”

  Gilchrist forced himself to stay calm. “What about Bully’s brother?” he asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Talk to him?”

  “Jimmy’s a nutter. Bad for business.” He hooked both thumbs under the lapel of his suit and hitched it up.

  “So who’s your go-between?”

  “Do what?”

  “Your go-between,” Nance chipped in. “You know? The idiot who runs between you and Bully.”

  “Like I said, you’re fishing.”

  “How about Glenorra?” Nance asked.

  Topley’s eyes narrowed. An arm searched for the back of his chair and rested against it in an air of casual indifference. But he would never pass an audition.

  “We know you own it.” Gilchrist again. “So be careful how you answer the question.”

  “What question?”

  “Was it ever Kevin’s?” Gilchrist asked.

  “We used to have a half-share each.”

  “After your mother died?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what?”

  “Kevin died.”

  “And left Glenorra to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So it’s all yours?”

  “You deaf or what?”

  “And the hut at the back?” Nance said.

  “What about it?”

  “You own that, too, do you?”

  “Yeah.” A bit unsure.

  “When were you last at Glenorra?”

  “What the fuck’s going on? I’ve explained all of this to that tiny fucker—”

  “Just answer the lady’s question, will you? There’s a good boy.”

  A sniff. A tightening of his grip on the back of the chair. “About a year ago.”

  “Never been back since?”

  “No.”

  “You still got a key to the hut?”

  Topley shrugged. “Could do. It’s been a while.”

  “Ever get another one cut?”

  “What for?”

  “Ever lend it to anyone?”

  “Like I said, what for?”

  “Why don’t you let us ask the questions?”

  Topley shifted his shoulders. “I never got a key cut and I never lent one out. That fucking good enough for you?”

  Gilchrist smiled. “Book him,” he said to Nance.

  “Here. Hold on a fucking minute. Book me for what?”

  “Accessory to murder.”

  “Do what?”

  “You heard.”

  “You can’t just come in here and fucking—”

  “Oh yes I can sonny Jim, oh yes I can.” Gilchrist leaned across the desk, glared hard into Topley’s tight eyes with a hatred that worried him. How much more of this could he take before he flipped? How many more lies could he listen to before he took the law into his own hands?

  He pulled back. “Book him,” he said again.

  Nance stepped forward.

  “She warned me about you, she did,” Topley complained. “Said you were a right evil fucker.”

  Gilchrist pushed Nance back on her heels, moved so close to Topley that he could see beads of sweat on the flattened nose. It would be so easy to wrap his fingers around his neck and press his thumbs into the windpipe. “Evil?” he growled. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re nothing but a crook pretending to be straight.”

  Topley’s eyes blazed. A chair bumped against the table.

  “Andy.”

  Gilchrist blinked, once, twice, as Topley’s face twisted into an ugly grimace.

  But Topley’s hatred could never light a flame next to his own.

  Chapter 33

  WEAK NOW. TOO weak to sit.

  She rolled over and her head thudded against the concrete floor.

  But she felt no pain. She felt nothing. The pain had disappeared. The cold, too.

  She fought off the urge to close her eyes, felt her body wallow in the slow motion of the moment, as if she was lying in a warm bed, or a hammock on the beach, the Caribbean, St. Maarten, where she and Larry spent a whole week, a lifetime ago. She was there again, and she turned her face to the sun, felt its rays on her face, her lips, tried to move her tongue over them. But it felt too thick, too heavy. Too dry.

  Thirsty. So thirsty.

  But it’s late now. Time to go to bed.

  To sleep. Close my eyes and just.…

  … sleep.

  So tired.…

  Just want to lay my head on the pillow, pull the sheets
over my warm skin, and fall asleep. Overhead, the ceiling fan swirls. Even with my eyes closed, I can see it.

  Turning and turning. But it makes no sound.

  It seems not to stir the air.

  So tired.…

  “I REALLY MUST object, Inspector. My client has rights—”

  “And my daughter has rights, too. She has the right to marry, the right to be a mother, the right to live her life and grow old.” Gilchrist slammed the table, splashing water from a polystyrene cup. He glared across the grey desk at Topley’s narrowing eyes. “And so help me to God I’ll have it out of you before the end of the day.”

  Jerry Foster looked as if his black pinstriped suit was about to burst. He wiped thick fingers over his lips. “That’s all very well, Inspector, but my client has repeatedly said that he knows nothing of your daughter’s disappearance.”

  “Your client’s lying.”

  Foster turned to Topley. “Are you lying?”

  “On my mother’s grave.”

  Foster looked at Gilchrist. “On his mother’s grave.”

  “His mother doesn’t have a grave. Her ashes are in an urn in the attic. Ask him.”

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  “Your client’s lying. Now ask him.”

  “As I said—”

  “Ask him.” Gilchrist was surprised to find he had almost crossed the table.

  Foster pushed his chair back. Sweat glistened on his balled face. “I don’t intend to have my client sit through—”

  “Why did you have your mother cremated?” Gilchrist shouted. He had pressed so far forward that his face was inches from Topley’s. “Why not have her buried with her husband? Why not grant an old lady her dying wish?”

  Topley grinned at him.

  Gilchrist pushed back and stood. “I’m having a coffee.” He glared at Foster. “And when I come back I expect your client to be more forthcoming.”

  Foster fingered the knot in his tie.

  At the coffee machine Gilchrist felt something touch his elbow. He turned. “What?”

  Nance tried a weak smile. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Andy.”

  “I’ve never had a daughter missing before.”

  “Go easy. Will you?”

  “Milk and sugar?”

  Nance strutted off, her legs as stiff as a mannequin’s.

  Gilchrist felt the beginnings of a headache and wondered if it was all too much for him. Was Nance right? Was he out of control? But how the hell was he supposed to behave when that bastard smiled at him and whispered in his solicitor’s ear? Dainty had taken some persuading before agreeing to provide an interview room. And Greaves, too, he had blown a fuse. Why all the fuss about jurisdiction and protocol? Could no one see the connection? In despair, he patted his pockets for his cigarettes, and gave a silent curse. Christ. Habits were hard to beat. Habits were things that made men behave like boys. Habits could—

  Not habits. Agreements.

  Silent compliance? Between Topley and Bully?

  Was that it? Had Topley been compliant, agreed to do as Bully asked, so he could score a few more Brownie points for his hero? It seemed so simple he wondered why he had not thought of it sooner. Dainty had told him of Topley’s early life, of how he had to prove his worth to Bully. Topley had been one of the tougher kids, who thought nothing of slicing off an opponent’s ear to drop at his master’s feet, a token of his worthiness.

  And of Bully’s parents, a father who ran away from a beaten life and a beaten wife, leaving her to raise six girls and two baby boys—Bully and Jimmy. What little money she mustered came from doing turns in tenement closes. She groomed her daughters, too, for the oldest profession, so that when Maggie reached twelve, money started to come in. Bully was only nine when Maggie and two other sisters ran off to London. He never heard from them again, and that seemed to signal the start of Bully’s hatred of all things feminine.

  Bully had been serving time when his mother passed away, and turned down a day on the outside to attend her funeral, a cremation at Daldowie. Which struck Gilchrist. Daldowie was the same crematorium where Topley had his mother cremated.

  Was that the connection? A crematorium? And why Daldowie?

  The closest crematorium to Glenorra was Maryhill. Not Daldowie. If Glasgow was a circle, Daldowie was more or less diametrically opposite Maryhill. So why would Topley have his mother cremated in Daldowie?

  Because Bully told him to? Because they had an agreement?

  In Bully’s world, he was the leader, everyone else a follower—sheep herded to the cliff edge and ordered to jump. Or rob. Or murder. Or cremate your mother?

  Bully the leader, the man of words, the poet.

  Oh princess, by thy watchtower be.

  Then it struck Gilchrist with a clarity that stunned him. He threw his coffee away.

  He asked a young sergeant at the front desk to check out something for him as a matter of urgency, and the instant, the absolute instant he had the result, to let him know.

  “I’ll be in Interview Room Two. Just say yes or no.”

  Gilchrist almost exploded into the room.

  Topley stiffened, mouth frozen in the act of a whisper to Foster.

  Gilchrist stepped past Nance, swept around the table, hauled Topley to his feet.

  Foster pushed his chair back. “This is—”

  “Shut up.”

  The chair hit the floor with a hard clatter.

  “I have to warn you that—”

  “And I’m warning you,” Gilchrist turned on Foster, “that if you are in any way responsible for letting this piece of shite keep information from me that could save my daughter’s life then I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  “You can’t do—”

  “Do you have children?”

  Foster’s lips tightened. His throat bobbled.

  Gilchrist secured his grip on Topley’s suit lapels, pulled the man’s muscled bulk up and over so the tips of their noses almost touched. Topley’s arms dangled by his side, as if to tell Gilchrist that he knew he would not hit him. How wrong could he be?

  “Why is your father buried in the Auld Aisle?” Gilchrist hissed.

  “Where?”

  “You heard. The Auld Aisle Cemetery. Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “The rest of his family’s not buried there.”

  “So?”

  “So why only him?” Gilchrist felt Topley shrug. “Did Bully tell you to do that?”

  “Bully?”

  “Yeah. Bully. You know, the guy who pulls the strings of puppets like you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Oh I’m just about to fuck you, don’t you worry about that.” He thrust Topley back onto his seat, turned to Foster. “I’m upping the charges.”

  “On what grounds?”

  Gilchrist faced Topley. “I’m charging you, Christopher Topley, as an accessory in the murder of Maureen Gillian Gilchrist—”

  “This is outrageous, a violation of my client’s rights.” Foster’s colour had returned along with his power of speech. Anger danced like madness in button eyes. “What murder? Maureen Gilchrist isn’t.…” He halted then, like a hunter realising he was about to set off his own baited trap.

  “Maureen Gilchrist isn’t dead?” Gilchrist said. “Is that what you wanted to say?” He felt his eyes blaze. “You forgot to add yet.”

  Foster looked away, as if law was something he no longer wanted to practise.

  “You’re a loopy one, that’s for sure,” Topley quipped.

  “Loopy or not, you’re going to jail.” Gilchrist leaned towards him, fought off the almost overpowering urge to head butt the man. Topley’s silvery suit looked out of place, as if he’d turned up at the wrong fancy-dress party. “And d’you know what Bully’s going to do to you when you get back inside?”

  Topley’s eyes flickered.

  That got your attention, thought Gilchrist.

  “Me and Bully are mates.”r />
  “I thought you hadn’t spoken to him in a year.”

  “Yeah, well, mates is mates.”

  “Bully’s not well. He’s ill.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me. I saw him.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  Gilchrist felt cheered by Topley’s slip up. “Thought you didn’t keep in touch.”

  “Yeah, well, someone in the pub told me.”

  “Got that, Nance?” Gilchrist shouted over his shoulder. “Someone in the pub told him.” He eyed Topley. “Which pub?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Which someone?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  Gilchrist looked at Nance and nodded to the door. She frowned and stepped from the room, leaving the three of them. Topley ran his hand across his top lip, and Gilchrist leaned closer, almost kissed a scarred ear. “Just you and me,” he whispered.

  Topley said nothing as Gilchrist walked away and stood with his back to the far wall, arms crossed. It took Topley several slow seconds to turn to his solicitor. “Beat it, Jer. Go on. Skedaddle.”

  “I must advise against—”

  “And don’t bill me for your fucking time, you useless twat. It’s a fucking crime what you lot charge. We’re through. Got that?”

  Foster spilled his papers into an opened briefcase, and snapped it shut. Then he eased his bulk upright, lumbered splay-footed to the door, and squeezed himself from the room.

  Topley pushed back, stretched his arms behind his neck. “Fucking wanker.”

  Gilchrist returned to his chair, eyed the recorder that lay between them, and clicked it off. He hoped Topley would catch the sincerity in his words. “I only want to find my daughter,” he said.

  “You expect me to trust you?”

  “It’s your choice.”

  Topley pressed his elbows on the desk. “Or?”

  “Or it’s back inside.” Gilchrist lowered his voice to that of a co-conspirator. “And believe me, I’ll trump up the charges so much that you’ll make Peter Manuel look like a virgin choirboy.” He smiled. “Ready?”

  Chapter 34

  IS THIS WHAT death is like?

  No sound. No feeling. No movement.

  Just stillness. Like dreaming. Like floating on air.

  She tried to sit up, move her neck, reach for the wall. But although she was no more than two feet from it, she could not find the strength to touch its roughened surface.