Hand for a Hand

by T. Frank Muir

  “Who are they to and from?”

  “DI Ronald Watt. You know him?”

  Detective Inspector. Watt had lied to Maureen about his position, probably lied to her about the job. Watt had conned her, made up some bullshit story that had her drooling at the jowls, and in the end put her life in danger.

  Watt would not have wanted correspondence mailed to his office. That would have blown his scheme. He would also have known Maureen kept a copy of all her emails on her computer. Which explained why her flat had been broken into.

  “Does it say which division she was working for?” he asked.

  “Strathclyde. And get this. The Drug Squad.”

  Gilchrist stopped walking. All of a sudden, a whole new line of reasoning opened up to him. “Don’t let anyone see these letters, Jack. You got that?”

  “I hear you.”

  Gilchrist was almost twitching to have it out with Watt. But phoning Watt first would steal his thunder, so he called the Topley Company, and got through to Topley on the first try.

  “Maureen doesn’t work for you, does she?” he growled.

  “Mr. Gilchrist. Nice to hear from you—”

  “Does she?”

  “If that lovely daughter of yours doesn’t show her tits around here any time soon, she won’t be working for me any longer.”

  “Did you know she worked for Ronnie Watt?”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  Gilchrist thought he caught the tiniest of hesitations. Surprised? Or lying? Gilchrist decided to go for it. “In about thirty seconds,” he said, “Bully’s going to be told you grassed on him to the Drug Squad.”

  “Is that supposed to scare me?”

  Gilchrist eyed the SOCOs. The bags were stacking higher. Just how much cocaine did a coffin hold? “This afternoon,” he said, “we found about thirty million pounds’ worth of cocaine. All wrapped up in neat little bundles.”

  “Who’s a lucky Detective Inspector then?”

  “Buried in your old man’s grave.”

  A pause, then, “I know fuck all about that.”

  “But you know Maureen worked with Watt.”

  “No chance. I swear. On my mother’s grave.”

  Gilchrist could almost hear Topley sweating. “You’ve been seen talking to Watt.”

  “So?”

  “Watt’s with the Drug Squad.”

  Silence, as Topley put two and two together.

  “How do you contact him?” Gilchrist asked. He listened to the digital ether fill the line, and an image of Topley trying to manufacture his next lie swelled in his mind.

  “He’ll know it’s come from me,” Topley said.

  “Your choice. Bully or Watt. I really don’t care.”

  “Look. If I tell you, you’ve got to help me.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “We have a deal?”

  “Just cough it out, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  It took so long for Topley to answer, that Gilchrist thought he had lost the connection. When Topley’s voice came back at him, it growled low and guttural, letting him know there could be no compromise. “You didn’t hear this from me. All right?” Another pause, then, “He drinks in the Dreel Tavern.”

  Gilchrist knew the east coast. “Anstruther?”

  “Most nights between nine and ten.”

  “Who does he meet? I need a name.”

  “I don’t know. I swear.”

  “No name, no deal.”

  “Fuck you, Gilchrist.”

  “No,” Gilchrist snarled. “Fuck Watt. I need a name.” He pressed on. “Give me a name, and it’ll go no further. You have my word.”

  It took a full ten seconds before Topley said, “Bootsie. Real name’s Joe Cobbler. But everyone calls him Bootsie.”

  Bootsie. Joe Cobbler. Joe. The same Joe who stole Peggy Linnet’s phone?

  “Got an address?” Gilchrist said.

  Surprisingly, Topley did.

  Chapter 36

  WATT’S FACE DISPLAYED stubble that had not yet reached the curled stage. Another week and he would have a full beard. Gilchrist waited until Watt’s fingers wrapped around his pint before he joined him.

  “Mine’s an Eighty.”

  Give Watt his due, he never so much as flinched. “An Eighty over here,” he said to the barman. “Pubs in St. Andrews shut, are they?”

  “You tricked Maureen,” Gilchrist growled. “You tricked her into thinking she was working undercover for the police.”

  “Where do you get off?”

  “Oh I’m staying on to the bitter end, you’d better believe it.”

  Although Gilchrist had not raised his voice, Watt picked up on the change in mood. He took a sip of beer. “If you must know,” he said, “Maureen begged me to hire her.”

  The word begged did not conjure up an image of Maureen. He slapped a hand onto Watt’s arm with a force that splashed beer over the counter and stopped the barman from pulling his pint. “She’s missing,” he hissed. “And you know who’s behind it. You’ve known all along. But made no attempt to stop it. Why?”

  Watt scowled until Gilchrist relaxed his grip. “Crap like that can get a lad like you hurt.”

  “Are you denying it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Bootsie isn’t coming tonight,” Gilchrist tried.

  “Who?”

  “The Bootsie you used to phone first thing in the morning and last thing at night.”

  “Fifty quid says you never had a warrant to pull my phone records.”

  Gilchrist realised his attempts to call the number on Watt’s records had succeeded only in alerting Watt. “You knew someone was onto you,” he said. “So instead of calling Bootsie morning noon and night you meet him here.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Bootsie says so.”

  Watt sipped his beer like a lonely man.

  “And Bootsie also says you’re sniffing around the east coast waiting for some drug shipment from Europe. That’s why you finagled a reassignment to Fife.” Gilchrist leaned closer. “But there is no drug shipment.”

  Watt faced Gilchrist. “Says Bootsie? Bootsie knows the square root of fuck all.”

  “This didn’t come from Bootsie.”

  Watt’s eyes livened. “You always were a right cocky bastard.”

  Gilchrist struggled to hide his anxiety. Did he have it wrong? He had spent thirty minutes interrogating Bootsie, cutting it short to catch Watt before he left the Dreel. But now Watt was giving off the wrong signals. Had Bootsie told him a rat’s nest of lies just to get rid of him? Nance was still interrogating him, and Gilchrist found himself wishing she was with him now, helping him pierce a way through Watt’s deception.

  “Maureen, Topley, Bully, Jimmy, you,” Gilchrist said. “Took me a while to piece it all together. Bit of a Chinese puzzle, really. But it was the drug shipment that helped me work it out.”

  “And here was me thinking you were good at puzzles.”

  Gilchrist clenched his jaw. He had still not worked out the puzzle of where Maureen was. Bootsie had not been able to help them either. “Well, how’s this for a puzzle?” he said. “How about I charge you as an accessory to murder?”

  Watt smiled. He really smiled. “The Lone fucking Ranger,” he growled. “That’s you. You always get your man.” He chewed imaginary gum, and something told Gilchrist that the worst was yet to come. “That’s why Maureen hated you.” Watt’s teeth flashed a grin. “The most successful DCI in Fife Constabulary, but an abject failure as a father.”

  Something cold washed over Gilchrist then, and he had to look away.

  He knew he had failed. He had failed as a father, failed as a husband. If he had been there for his wife, there for his children, would they have left him to live in Glasgow? In his mind’s eye he watched the door open, the empty hallway appear before him, heard the thud of the door behind him as he stepped inside to his new life, all alone.

  But Maureen hated him?
>
  That could not be. Hate was too strong a word. No, it was Watt who hated him. And with that thought he saw it was time to tighten the screws.

  “Bootsie’s ready to tell all,” he said.

  “Fuck Bootsie. One wrong word from him and I’ll put him away for life.”

  “Funny. That’s what Bootsie said about you.”

  Watt’s jaw ruminated, and Gilchrist knew his words had hit home at last.

  Then Watt picked up his pint, downed it, and turned from the bar.

  Gilchrist grabbed his arm. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Bootsie’s safe and sound. Leave now and the next time you see him will be from behind bars. Not his. Yours.”

  Watt tugged his arm free.

  Gilchrist could almost see Watt’s mind trying to work out what he had over him. But in reality, Watt had little to fear. Gilchrist needed him to fill in the gaps. He could not let Watt leave. Not just yet.

  He turned to the bartender. “Same again,” and waited until a glass was shoved under the tap before he said, “Talk to me, Ronnie. For Maureen’s sake, talk to me.”

  Gilchrist thought he understood Watt’s dilemma. Watt had a soft spot for Maureen, maybe even loved her in his own way. But nothing could come of their relationship because of the past. And behind his back Watt had resurrected their affair by tricking Maureen into working for him. Now she was missing and might never be found, Watt could deny it, talk his way out of it, lie himself clear. But Gilchrist suspected that Watt was up to his neck in unofficial police work, straddling the fine line between working inside or outside the law.

  It would probably not take much to put him away.

  “If Maureen dies,” Gilchrist said to him, “I’ll make it my life’s mission to make sure you never see this side of a prison wall as long as you live. You got that?”

  Watt’s eyes blazed for a long moment, then softened. He took another sip of beer, and said, “That body they found?”

  “What about it?”

  “Bootsie says it’s Wee Kenny.”

  Gilchrist remembered Dainty mentioning Wee Kenny, but the name meant nothing to him, so he waited.

  “Bootsie used to live in Glasgow,” Watt went on. “Left to start a new life. But some losers never change. With Bootsie gone, Jimmy Reid was looking for a new goffer.” Watt returned his pint to the bartop. “So what’s this about there being no drug shipment?”

  The question threw Gilchrist, but he was not yet ready to give anything out. “Why the east coast?” he asked.

  “Jimmy’s ill.”

  Watt’s answer made no sense to him, but he said, “Flu, cold, what?”

  “Cancer.”

  Gilchrist felt a flush warm his face. His mind leapt to Gail, and he had to blink once, twice, three times to clear the image. “Terminal?”

  “Word is he’s got less than six months.”

  “So he’ll be dead and buried by the time Bully’s out.”

  “All his life he’s lived in Bully’s shadow. Even with Bully inside Jimmy still played second fiddle. But he can’t wait for Bully to come out. He wants to reap the benefits of a life of crime before he dies.” Watt took another sip of beer. “Jimmy’d been coming up this way several times a week. I figured he was getting ready to handle one final shipment.”

  Now it made some sense. Watt had assumed that Jimmy’s visits to St. Andrews were to set up that final shipment. But he had it all wrong. The final shipment had already arrived, hidden in a coffin in the Auld Aisle Cemetery where it would remain until Bully got out of Barlinnie, or Jimmy shifted it before he died.

  “Jimmy’s made three trips to Spain this year alone,” Watt said.

  “Setting up his retirement villa?”

  Watt nodded, sipped his beer.

  According to Bootsie, he had told Watt when and where each body part was going to turn up, alerting Watt to Jimmy Reid’s visits to St. Andrews so he could keep his eye on him. What Gilchrist could not rationalise was that Watt had known Jimmy Reid was involved in Chloe’s murder, but had turned a blind eye for the sake of the discovery of a drug shipment.

  “So how did Bootsie know when Jimmy was going to make a trip to St. Andrews?” Gilchrist asked.

  “Wee Kenny.”

  “Jimmy’s goffer was grassing on him?”

  “Without realising it. Wee Kenny told Bootsie that Jimmy was about to hit pay dirt. And Bully’s putting it about that he’s going to be out in two and retire to Spain. I’d been keeping my eye on Jimmy for some time. He’s a right bad bastard. Some say he’s even worse than Bully.”

  Now it was beginning to make sense. With Jimmy dying, the key was the next six months. For Bully to take his revenge on Gilchrist, what better way than to have Jimmy take care of it while he was still in prison? What did it matter to Jimmy if he killed a few more? But where was he now? In Spain? Hiding in Scotland? Waiting for the final shipment—

  “You still haven’t told me why you think there’s no drug shipment,” Watt said.

  “We found it,” Gilchrist said, and puzzled at the look of distress that passed over Watt’s face.

  “You found it?”

  “All thirty million. Give or take a few.”

  “Where?”

  “The Auld Aisle Cemetery. In Topley Senior’s grave.”

  Watt placed his glass on the bartop with practiced calm, then faced Gilchrist. “Two years,” he hissed. “Two years we’ve had our eye on that. Two years watching and waiting for the right moment.”

  For once Gilchrist’s sense of logic left him. “You’ve lost me, Ronnie.”

  “The drug shipment was never coming from Europe. It was going to Europe.”

  Now Gilchrist understood. Topley’s grave was being used as a holding spot.

  “Two years I’ve been monitoring the European connection.” The muscles on Watt’s jaw rippled across his face. “Two years flushed down the toilet, all because of you and your fucking daughter.”

  Gilchrist hit him then, a straight-fingered punch to the solar plexus that had Watt gritting his teeth and gasping for breath. He caught the bartender’s alarmed look, but Nance stepped to the bar and held up her warrant card.

  “Mine’s a pint of Eighty,” she ordered.

  The barman seemed relieved to oblige.

  For a confusing moment, Gilchrist wondered what Nance had done with Bootsie, then he pressed on with Watt. “So, with Jimmy’s visits to St. Andrews you thought the shipment was about to be moved.”

  Watt straightened himself, tried to act as if nothing was hurting. But from the grey sheen around his eyes, Gilchrist knew he was struggling. “Through Topley’s company.”

  Part of a larger holding group. Some international company with too much money.

  “And you had Maureen spy on Topley and report back to you.” Watt almost smiled.

  “You put Maureen’s life at risk, you pompous prick. For what?” The strength of his anger stunned Gilchrist. For sixpence, he could rip Watt’s heart from his chest with his bare hands. “Did you not think of telling her the danger she was in?”

  Watt turned on him. “I tried to get her out,” he growled. “But she was having none of it. She refused to meet me. What the hell could I do? I ended up pleading with her on the phone about a week ago.”

  The sixteen-minute call. “And?”

  “She said she thought something was about to break.”

  “Damn it, Ronnie. You should have got her away—”

  “You still don’t get it.” Watt’s eyes burned. “It was Maureen who terminated our arrangement. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen. In the end she told me to fuck off.”

  Gilchrist knew there was more than a hint of truth to Watt’s words. Maureen was like her mother—stubborn beyond reason. Surely her obstinacy had not got her killed.

  “She wanted to write crime novels.” Watt tried a laugh. “Wanted firsthand experience, for fuck sake.”

  Christ. All Maureen had to do was ask her father. Was he so far o
ut of her life that she could not ask him for help? He focused his mind, intent on keeping the pressure on Watt. “But you needed someone on the inside,” he said. “So, you let her walk into the lion’s den.”

  “She jumped at it.”

  “Didn’t you tell her about Topley’s criminal background?”

  “Of course I did. That’s why she fucking jumped.” Watt tried a smile, but his lips seemed not to work. He pushed his beer away and covered his eyes, and it took Gilchrist a full ten seconds to realise Watt was struggling to hold back his tears. He glanced at Nance, but she looked as puzzled.

  He gave Watt a moment before saying, “What aren’t you telling me, Ronnie?”

  Watt came to, stared at his pint. “Oh, she was a natural,” he said. “She had them all fooled. Topley never suspected a fucking thing. The hours were long. Which was part of the cover. No one would notice her working late, digging up shit. I thought she was safe.” He shook his head, lifted his beer. “I loved your daughter.”

  Gilchrist felt his heart stutter at the past tense.

  “And I’ll always wonder if I could have done more to prevent her being killed.”

  Gilchrist gripped Watt’s arm. “What do you mean?”

  “Mo’s gone, Andy. Bully’s closing shop. No one’s ever going to find her. Ever.” He tugged his arm free and turned to his glass. “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

  Chapter 37

  GILCHRIST THOUGHT HE kept his emotions in check, but his stomach burned as if the beer was acid. Something flashed in his mind’s eye, an image of Watt’s bloodied face, Maureen’s tortured grimace, her lips pulling back in a silent curse. She hated him then, at that instant, at the moment of his discovery. Had she died with those thoughts?

  He pushed away from Watt and stepped from the bar.

  “Andy.”

  Nance’s voice came at him as if from a distance. Fingers gripped his arm, tight as talons. He looked down, then up, then off to a picture on the wall, the window. Darkness outside. Another night. One more night without Maureen. In his life? Or in this world? Was she dead? Was Maureen really dead?

  “Andy.” Fingers on his chin, turning his face.