by T F Muir
The camera zoomed in for a close-up of DeFiore’s white smile and polished skin. With his cropped black hair, red silk tie and crisp white collar, he looked more the City banker than detective chief inspector. His Edinburgh accent purred with unchallenged authority as he spoke of teamwork, commitment and results. Then he brought the press conference to an unambiguous end with ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, ladies and gentlemen,’ and switched off the microphone.
The camera pulled back to capture a confounded Patterson before the screen switched to a woman with a microphone in her hand.
And that was that.
Gilchrist cleaned off his pint, tipped a finger to his forehead and said, ‘Catch you later, Eddy.’
On his way out, he glanced at the corner table.
Maggie huddled close to her dark-haired friend, their lips frozen for the moment of his passing. Then he was out the pub, his mind playing out the ramifications of Old Willie’s snippet.
CHAPTER 11
Gilchrist cut up Logie’s Lane to Market Street and remembered he should return Jack’s call. He had not spoken to either of his children for almost two weeks, having managed to track Maureen to her mother’s home a week last Saturday. Gail had answered, but she still had nothing to say after the needless acrimony of their divorce. He had hung on for a full minute before Maureen picked up, breathless and full of apologies for not keeping in contact more often. She sounded pleased to hear from him but was rushing for a date, couldn’t talk, and promised to call back in a few days.
‘Why don’t you come up for a weekend?’ he had offered. ‘It’s only an hour’s drive. Bring Stephen with you.’
‘I’d love to, Dad. It’s just, you know ...’
‘Pressure of work?’
‘Yeah.’
That was eleven days ago and Gilchrist had rationalized her silence by telling himself she was busy, exams were close, boyfriends were hounding her, she was a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old with a life of her own. But deep in his heart he knew if she really wanted to talk to him, all she had to do was pick up the phone. And that was what hurt the most.
But Jack was worse. Jack almost never called.
An artist, he spent much of his life hanging around the bars in the West End of Glasgow drinking beer. And Pernod and ice, for God’s sake. And throwing sloppy concrete at walls under the misnomer of art.
Gilchrist had seen some of Jack’s art, splattered on the wall of one of the local pubs, an ugly mixture of hessian, wood and God knew what else, swilled in concrete that looked as if it had been plastered there by mistake.
‘What do you think of the mural, Andy?’ Jack had asked.
‘Not quite sure yet,’ Gilchrist had replied. ‘Maybe if it was a little more colourful?’
‘That’s the whole point. Everybody thinks they have to see the world through rose-tinted glasses. Life isn’t like that. Life is real. It’s unattractive. It’s dull. It’s brutal. It forces us to look inside ourselves to find our own colour, our own reality. Outside, we’re all the same. Grey, bland, uninteresting.’
Gilchrist nodded, asked for a pint, while Jack lit up.
‘Hope that’s all you smoke.’
Jack crossed his heart and hoped to die and swore he had never smoked dope. Gilchrist had simply prayed that his son was mature enough never to get hooked on the hard stuff.
He opened his mobile. After ten rings, he was about to disconnect when a woman answered.
‘Hello?’
For an instant he thought he had dialled the wrong number. ‘Is Jack there?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘His father. Returning his call.’
‘Oh ...’ Then a voice whispered, ‘The old man.’
A clatter like a dropping phone, then, ‘Hey, Andy. Long time. How’s it going?’
‘Don’t they have phones in Glasgow?’ he replied, and listened to the infectious rush of Jack’s laughter, a staccato chuckle that had stayed with him since he was a boy.
‘Hey, I heard on the news that the Stabber struck again last night.’
‘That’s right,’ said Gilchrist, remembering with a spurt of disappointment that the last time Jack had called was when the Stabber’s third victim had been found.
‘And the Scottish Crime Squad’s been pulled in, too. Is that normal?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘So where does that put you?’
‘Out the loop.’
‘As in fired?’
‘Not quite. Suspended. And don’t sound so happy about it.’
‘Shit, Andy. No, I’m not. Shit, man. That’s a bummer.’ A pause, then, ‘Hey, listen. How about you come down for a visit? I’ve got a project on at the moment that’ll blow your mind.’
‘Maybe I’ll take you up on that.’ But Gilchrist knew he had no intention of travelling to Glasgow. ‘Of course, you and eh ...’
‘Chloe.’
Chloe? ‘You and Chloe could come up here for a weekend. It’s been a while since we’ve had a few beers together. I’d love to meet her.’
‘Sounds great, but I think you should come down here first.’
It was not like Jack to be so persistent to see his old man. Gilchrist shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’
The line hung in electronic silence for a long second, then Jack said, ‘Has, uh ... have you heard from Maureen?’
‘No.’ And it struck Gilchrist that this was the real reason Jack had called, the Stabber’s most recent murder only an excuse to make contact. ‘All right, cough it up.’
‘It’s Mum.’
‘What about her?’
A pause, then, ‘She’s got cancer.’
Something tight clamped Gilchrist’s chest. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s bad.’
Gilchrist felt his lungs empty. When had he last talked to Gail? What had she said? How had he felt? Had she been ill then? He took a deep breath, tried to keep his voice level. ‘Has she had a second opinion?’
‘And a third. And a fourth. You know what Mum’s like.’
Gilchrist searched for something to say, but his mind seemed lost in a mental smog.
‘It’s the pancreas, Andy. There’s no doubt. And no hope.’
‘How long does she have?’ he heard someone ask.
‘Three months. Six at the max.’
‘I can come down and ...’
‘That’s why I’m calling.’
Gilchrist squeezed the phone.
‘Mum doesn’t want you to come.’
Jack’s words reverberated in the depths of his brain, the cruel truth of his failed relationship with Gail. Mum doesn’t want you to come. My God, did she hate him that much? What had happened between them? When had they changed? He could still remember her telling him she would love him for ever, and later, when ...
‘I think you should.’
‘Come again?’
‘I don’t agree with her. I think you should come down. You owe her that.’
It was on the tip of his tongue to remind Jack he owed Gail nothing. Instead, he tried to imagine giving Harry, her new husband, a hug of support when they met. But it was a bit like trying to imagine Bush hugging Bin Laden. ‘What about Harry?’ he asked.
‘Harry? He’s a wanker.’
‘A wanker he might be, Jack, but he’s still her husband.’
A quick snort, then, ‘So what do you say?’
Gilchrist stared along Market Street. Images of Gail and him and their kids marching along that same cobbled street on their way to the East Sands stirred in his mind’s eye. That I’ve failed you as a father? he wanted to say. That I wish Gail had never left? That I still love her? ‘What the hell do you expect me to say?’ he grumbled.
‘I take it that’s a yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great. Hey, listen, Andy. Got to go.’ Something rustled in the background and Gilchrist realized Jack was still in bed. ‘I’ll get back to you and let you know what’d be
a good time to come down,’ Jack added. ‘All right?’
‘Sure.’
They said their farewells, Gilchrist pleased he had at least forced a promise from Jack to call again. But images of Gail now flickered through his mind like an old movie. When she left six years ago, he had been devastated to the point of not wanting to live. Suicide seemed such an easy way to end the pain, but the thought of how that might affect Jack and Maureen had kept the lid on the pills. Then, when Gail left St Andrews, feelings of helplessness had risen inside him, reminding him of how he felt when his mother had told him his older brother, Jack – he had named his own son after him – was not coming back.
Gilchrist had been twelve. Jack, eighteen.
She had pulled him to her, hugged him close.
‘When, Mum? When?’
She never told him.
The police never traced the hit-and-run driver. Or the car. It hurt to know that his brother’s killer had escaped justice for causing the death of a teenager, a young man who had the promise of the brightest of futures. Gilchrist had always wondered if it had been that single failure of the police that had driven him to join the Force in the first place. Now, the Force was the only thing he had to live for. Other than his kids, of course, whom he seldom saw ...
Presents. He should take them presents.
He glanced at his watch. Almost six.
He retraced his steps.
Although quieter than Market Street, some of the shops on South Street remained open until six. This and That sometimes stayed open later. The shop’s wooden sign hung on chains and swayed in the breeze, the name painted in red and gold swirls.
It had been a while since he had last visited, but the window display seemed oddly familiar to him. Would Jack like the Art Deco CD rack? Probably not. How about the wooden marionette with the painted face for Maureen? He guessed not. She would likely see it as another instance of her father treating her like the child she no longer was.
He gripped the door handle and pushed inside.
The air smelled as thick and quiet as a library. Music murmured in the background. He recognized Sade, heard her husky voice whisper to him, ask if he thought she’d leave him when he was down on his knees. No, she wouldn’t do that.
He walked to the counter and said to the top of a blond head, ‘I’m looking for a couple of great-to-see-you-again gifts for two troublesome youngsters.’
Beth looked up with a strained expression that made him think she was expecting someone else. Then she smiled. ‘Andy. What a surprise.’
He smiled back. ‘A pleasant one, I hope.’
‘The less said about the past, the better.’
Gilchrist felt a flush creep to his cheeks. ‘You look great,’ he said, and meant it.
‘Don’t be fooled. Old Man Time is beginning to do his stuff.’
‘If you ask me, I’d say he’s passing you by.’
‘Always the charmer,’ she chuckled. ‘Great-to-see-you-again gifts? Are Maureen and Jack coming up?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m going down to visit.’
‘Special occasion?’
‘Not quite.’
Beth seemed to give his words some thought, then said, ‘I heard about it, Andy. It’s just awful.’ For one confusing moment, Gilchrist wondered how she could know about Gail’s cancer, until she said, ‘That’s six now. How many more people have to be murdered before they catch this killer? Are you any closer?’
Despite not wanting to, Gilchrist found himself telling her he was off the case. ‘The powers that be thought it better if someone else led the investigation,’ he added.
‘Oh. Andy, I’m so sorry.’
He smiled, which he hoped hid the truth.
‘Hi, Andy.’
‘Hi, Cindy,’ he said, and nodded at the pile of cardboard boxes balanced up to her chin. ‘Keeping you busy, is she?’
‘Nought but a slave-master. Or is it slave-mistress?’
‘Somehow that doesn’t sound right,’ said Gilchrist, but Cindy had stooped and was laying out the boxes on the floor behind the counter.
He turned back to Beth. ‘You look troubled,’ he said.
Her smile was as quick as a nervous tic. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Of course.’
‘In private.’
‘Your place or mine?’
Beth looked away, and Gilchrist felt annoyed at having made such a lame joke.
‘We’re going through to the back,’ Beth called to Cindy. ‘Can you get ready to lock up?’
‘No problem.’
Gilchrist followed her into a tiny office that smelled of dust and flowers. A wooden desk and fabric chair seemed to choke the room. A tower computer hummed on the floor by the side of the desk, and a monitor squeezed in beside a keyboard doubled as a window onto outer space through which stars flashed past at the speed of light.
Beth backed onto the edge of the desk. Then off again. She locked her gaze on the monitor for a long moment, then gave an ugly grimace. ‘Someone fouled the shop entrance today.’
‘Fouled?’
‘Masturbated over the door handle then ran away.’ She pressed a hand to her lips. ‘It dripped onto the tiles. It was on the glass. I had to clean it up. It was disgusting.’
Gilchrist kept his tone level. ‘He ran away?’
She nodded.
‘Did you see him?’
She nodded again.
‘Did you report it to the police?’
‘I just did.’
It took a full second for the meaning of her words to reach him. ‘So you’ve not filed a formal complaint?’
She shook her head.
‘Have you told anyone else?’
‘Only Cindy.’ She lowered her eyes, then whispered, ‘I think he came into my shop.’
Think? ‘When was this?’
‘Later in the morning.’
‘He came back?’
‘I think so.’
Gilchrist let his silence do the asking.
‘He pretended to be interested in the model Harleys.’
‘What do you mean, pretended?’
‘He didn’t look the collector type. Cheap clothes. Poor hygiene. Fingernails like, uh.’ She shuddered. ‘He knocked something over and swore out loud then almost ran from the shop when Cindy ordered him to leave.’
‘Did you get a good look at him?’
‘Just his hair and his filthy fingernails.’ She shuddered again. ‘And he had a cut on his arm.’
‘What kind of cut?’
‘A scratch, maybe.’
‘Was it bleeding?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘No blood dripped on the floor?’
‘No.’
‘And Cindy ordered him to leave?’
‘You know what she’s like. She was in his face.’
Gilchrist nodded. Cindy might be able to give a good description. He made a mental note to talk to her, but not now, not while Beth was close to tears. He fought off the urge to reach for her hand. But it had been a while, and he was not sure how she would respond.
‘Beth,’ he said, and tried a smile of reassurance. ‘From what you’ve told me, he sounds like one of those perverts who does it for shock value and nothing more.’ Her lips tightened and he knew his words were having little effect. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
She sniffed. ‘It sounds stupid, I know, but I feel as if I’m being targeted or stalked or something.’
‘After what’s happened, that’s normal.’
She shook her head. ‘Why would he come into the shop? I keep asking myself. I don’t know. It’s just this feeling I have. Like a sixth sense, or something.’
Gilchrist knew all about sixth senses.
‘I’m frightened, Andy. I can’t help thinking something else is going to happen.’ Her eyes welled with tears. ‘I’m frightened he’s going to come back.’
CHAPTER 12
After leaving Beth’s shop, pangs of hun
ger reminded Gilchrist he had not eaten that day. He decided to have a beer and a bite in the Dunvegan Hotel, close to the Old Course.
But first, he had to call the Office.
He asked for Sa and declined to give his name, adding that it was a personal call. Being suspended meant no one was supposed to talk to him. Strictly speaking, of course. But as long as Patterson didn’t find—
‘This is Sa.’
‘Andy here.’
‘Are you trying to get me fired?’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ He heard Sa curse under her breath and added, ‘I’d argue I’m on leave of absence.’
‘Wouldn’t work.’
‘At the worst, I’m suspended.’
‘That’s not what Patterson’s saying.’
Gilchrist gritted his teeth. Patterson was already greying the black and white of the truth. Another week and it would be set in stone that Gilchrist had handed in his notice.
‘He’s been sucking up to the ACC,’ Sa continued. ‘Rumour has it McVicar blew a fuse.’
Archie McVicar. Fife Constabulary’s assistant chief constable. If Patterson was successful in bending McVicar’s ear, Gilchrist’s career was over. ‘Listen, Sa, I need your help.’
‘I should’ve known.’
‘Beth’s had a bit of an incident at her shop.’
‘I thought you two split up ages ago.’
‘We did.’
‘Is it back on?’
‘Quit the interrogation for a minute, and just listen.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Gilchrist told her what Beth had told him, but Sa could confirm only that his complaint was noted and would be looked into once manpower was freed from the Stabber case. All as expected. For the time being, he could do no more.
He walked down Mercat Wynd, his thoughts on the reasons for his break-up with Beth. The magnitude of his sin had been blown out of all proportion. He worked too hard. Simple as that. They had talked about it, but he got snarled up in yet another case and failed to make a dinner engagement. It still hurt to think how readily she had replaced him with Tom Armstrong, a businessman whom Gilchrist never believed was her type.
In the Dunvegan a crowd of golfers, replete with beer and whisky, their weather-beaten faces ruddied from the cold November wind, hogged the space in front of the bar, forcing him to squeeze past and claim a seat at a table in the corner. He laid his gift-wrapped presents on the chair next to him and slipped off his jacket.
