by T F Muir
‘Got held up,’ Tom had said as he pulled out the seat opposite. ‘You know what it’s like.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What’s that, pet?’
‘I don’t know what it’s like to get held up.’
He picked up the menu. ‘Fancy a starter?’ he asked, and flagged down a waitress. ‘Double Grouse, miss. No ice. No water. And a bottle of Chianti.’ He eyed the tight fit of her skirt as she walked away. ‘What a day I’ve had. It’s dog eat dog out there.’
Beth stared at him.
‘How was your day?’ he asked. ‘Busy behind the counter?’
From his glazed look Beth could see he’d already had a few. Maybe more. ‘Not good,’ she said, and tried to catch the waitress’s attention.
‘Did you want something else, pet? Why didn’t you say?’
‘I’m saying now.’
‘Same again?’ He nodded to her glass. ‘What’s that?’
‘The usual.’
‘White wine?’
‘Dry white wine. With soda. And a slice of lime. Not lemon.’ The waitress caught her eye, and Beth tapped the rim of her glass and mouthed, Same again.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘We’re in the non-smoking area.’
‘Had a meeting with the bank this afternoon,’ he said, lighting up. He took a deep draw then exhaled. ‘Talk about tough.’
All of a sudden, the futility of it all overwhelmed Beth. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said.
‘What? You look fine. Have another wine.’
‘No, Tom. I’ve had enough of us.’
He blinked, took another heavy pull.
‘I’m sorry, Tom. It’s not working.’
Smoke powered from his nostrils. ‘Have another wine,’ he said again. ‘You’ll feel better.’
Beth looked down at her handbag, stunned by the gap between them. She snapped the clasp shut then, as if seeing him for the first time, took in his ruddied face, his blotched skin, his shirt collar that seemed too tight for his thick neck.
‘I don’t want another wine,’ she said as she pushed back her chair. Her parting memory was of hairy fingers crumpling a long stub into the ashtray.
Refreshed from her bath, Beth had a bowl of bran flakes with home-made tropical fruit salad. The forecast was scattered showers, so she grabbed her umbrella from the stand in the entrance porch.
Outside, she took four steps and stopped.
At first she thought the scratch on her car was a chalk mark, then she placed her hand to her mouth and whispered, ‘Oh, my God.’
Up close, she saw the cut had not just scraped the surface of the paint, but had gouged exposed metal. She read the writing scratched on the boot.
The hot sting of tears nipped her eyes as she dug into her bag for her mobile. It barely registered with her that she had not forgotten his number.
‘Andy?’
‘Beth? What’s up?’
‘He’s come back.’
A frisson of ice ran the length of Gilchrist’s spine.
‘Where are you?’
He had his leather jacket over his sleeve and his car keys in his hand by the time she told him.
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
He found Beth still standing by her car, and was surprised when she hugged him. Her body shivered, from cold or fear, he could not say. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he whispered.
She did, then he called the Office and listened to Stan tell him that every man, woman and child who worked in Fife Constabulary and beyond had been assigned to the Stabber case. All leave had been cancelled, and DeFiore was really a slave-master in disguise who loved to whip his staff to death.
And he’d been there only one day.
As Stan moaned on, Gilchrist studied the passers-by on either side of the road. They all seemed oblivious to the act of vandalism on Beth’s car. In the end, all Stan could promise was to run a quick computer check on the Sex Offenders Register.
Gilchrist slipped his mobile into his jacket and held Beth’s hands. She seemed unable to hold his gaze.
‘It’s him,’ she whispered. ‘He’s come back.’
He had nothing with which to contradict her. He did not believe in coincidence. If two seemingly disparate events occurred within a short period of time, they were connected. Simple as that. All he had to do was work out how, why and who. But first, he had to help Beth.
‘Give me your car keys,’ he said, ‘and I’ll get an estimate for your insurance.’ He took her by the arm and opened the Merc’s passenger door. ‘Come on. You’ve got a business to run.’
‘I know it was him,’ she whispered to him. ‘I knew he’d come back.’
Gilchrist shook his head. ‘It’s more likely an act of random vandalism,’ he assured her, ‘completely unrelated to the incident in your shop.’ But as he said his silly words of comfort, he knew that her prediction had come true.
Gilchrist spent over an hour obtaining estimates for the repair to Beth’s car, which ranged from £1200 to a more reasonable £450 at a small garage next to a betting shop, then returned the car to the open area at the side of her flat. By the time he pulled up at Jack’s it was two minutes before midday.
He stepped into the damp Glasgow air, overnight bag in hand. The sandstone tenement building stood timeworn grey in the dull city light. The front door had been painted since he’d last been there six – or was it nine? – months ago. The wood shone black and wet. Grey city. Black door. No wonder Jack’s art was morbid.
He buzzed the entrance intercom, and Jack’s voice said in quick response, ‘Hey, Andy. In you come.’
The door clicked, and he entered a cold stone close with green and red tiles like glossy wainscoting that ran all the way to the concrete staircase. His footsteps echoed like hammer hits in a tunnel.
Jack’s flat was on the third floor. A shape as grey as a ghost moved beyond the frosted glass. Then the door opened.
‘Andy, hey, man. In you come, in you come.’
Jack surprised Gilchrist by giving him a hug that crushed the air from his lungs. Then Jack looked him up and down, arms out by his sides, and Gilchrist feared he was going to be crushed again.
‘Hey, you look great, man. On a diet?’ Jack stooped. ‘Here. Let me take that.’
Gilchrist tightened his grip. ‘I can manage.’
Jack chuckled. ‘I see you haven’t changed.’
Gilchrist frowned.
‘Is the Pope a Catholic? Is my old man stubborn?’
Jack stood back to let Gilchrist enter, and shouted down the hall, ‘Hey, Chloe, come and meet the old man.’
A slender figure dressed in black, with fair, shoulder-length hair and a white face with a purple gash for a mouth, stepped out the first room on the left.
She held out her hand.
‘Chloe Andy Andy Chloe.’
Gilchrist took hold of her hand. It felt thin and weak, and he kept his grip loose.
‘Hi,’ she said, and a smile lit up her eyes and told Gilchrist she could be attractive if she abandoned the grunge look.
‘I’m the old man,’ he said. ‘But call me Andy. Everyone else seems to.’
She gave a nervous giggle. ‘Call me Chloe.’
‘This way, Andy.’
Gilchrist followed Jack into a bedroom that contained a king-sized bed with a cream duvet and an unusual headboard constructed of coloured pipes. A chest of drawers painted dark pink stood in the corner. White walls exhibited a number of unframed oil paintings, swirls of bold colours and twisted shapes that hinted of tortured eyes and screaming mouths.
Gilchrist lowered his bag to the floor. ‘What happened to the grey look, Jack? Life is unattractive. It forces us to look inside ourselves to find our own colour. I think that’s what you said.’
‘A phase we all go through.’
‘And the earring?’
Jack fingered his earlobe. ‘Present from Chloe.’
‘Talking about presents. Here,’ Gilchrist s
aid, and unzipped his bag. ‘I got you this.’
Jack frowned at what looked like a gift-wrapped shoebox.
‘What is it?’
‘A present.’
‘What for?’
‘For you.’ As Jack tore at the wrapping, Gilchrist’s mind pulled up an image of Gail handing out Christmas presents from under the tree. Their lives had seemed full of so much promise then.
‘Cool,’ said Jack, and held up a model Harley-Davidson.
‘I couldn’t afford a real one,’ said Gilchrist.
‘Hey, thanks, Andy.’
Gilchrist felt the warmth of a flush on his cheeks. ‘Are the paintings yours?’ he asked.
‘Chloe’s.’
From the whorled mass of yellows and greens, Gilchrist thought he could make out a skull with yellow whirlpools for eyes. He never claimed to be an art aficionado, but he saw a distinctive style to the painting, a precise pattern in the brush strokes, and an almost tactile sense of horror that both surprised and attracted him.
‘What d’you think, Andy?’
Gilchrist nodded.
‘She’s good, Andy. I keep telling her.’
‘All Chloe’s?’
Jack nodded to the metal headboard. ‘Except that.’
Gilchrist tried to hide his disappointment.
‘You don’t have to like it, Andy. The important thing in life is to keep learning, keep creating, keep trying out new ideas, new colours, new materials. Each of us has to keep experimenting in our lives. It’s what makes the human species superior to ... what?’ Jack held out his hands in a gesture of helpless supplication. ‘What?’
‘Experimenting?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Hey, Chloe?’
Chloe joined them, and Gilchrist realized she had stayed in the hallway, not wishing to hear criticism of her work.
‘Andy thinks I’m smoking. Tell him.’
Chloe shook her head. ‘He doesn’t do drugs. Neither of us do.’ She glanced up at Jack. ‘I used to. But I don’t any more.’
‘A close friend died of an overdose,’ said Jack, and put his arm around Chloe’s shoulder. ‘And that did it.’
Gilchrist watched Chloe’s eyes brim with tears, and her face lift up to Jack’s. He kissed her dark lips, and Gilchrist saw how gentle he could be to a woman.
Jack lowered his arm. ‘Beer?’
‘A bit early for me.’
‘Nonsense. We haven’t been together since last February. That’s as good an excuse as any.’
Jack’s words cut. Last February. Had it been as long as that? Nine months? Why had they not seen each other sooner? If Jack had not called about his mother would it have been another nine months? ‘A beer sounds great,’ he heard himself say.
‘We’ll go to the Attic. I can show you my new mural.’
‘I can hardly wait.’ He caught Chloe’s eye and nodded to the wall paintings. ‘Are any of these for sale?’
She looked startled.
‘I might be interested in this one,’ he said, and brushed a finger over it, almost touching the image. It seemed a shade lighter than the others, the image less disturbing.
‘Framed or unframed?’ It was Jack.
‘Unframed.’
‘What do you think, Chloe?’
Chloe stared at the painting as if not comprehending that her work could have any monetary value at all. Then it struck Gilchrist that money was not an issue, that she was recalling her thoughts at the time of painting, remembering how damaged her mind must have been to have created a canvas so visually disturbing. A close friend died of an overdose, and that did it. Did what? Got her off drugs? Branded her memory with drug-induced horror so that all she could paint were tortured faces in swirling colours?
‘Why don’t you get back to me in your own time?’ he said. ‘Let me know how much.’
Chloe nodded.
He turned to Jack. ‘Right, Jack the lad, how about that beer?’
CHAPTER 14
The Attic was a bar in Ashton Lane off Byres Road, reached by a cold staircase that crept up the corner of the building. Windows on the sloped ceiling were covered by a cloth of sorts, and Gilchrist wondered why anyone would want to dull the natural light in a dull city.
They sat at a high table like a short plank of wood wide enough for only one glass. The window behind them was faced with a metal fence more suited to a garden than a pub.
‘To prevent the drunks from toppling out?’ he asked.
‘To stop them from taking a flying runner. Apparently some nutter downed four doubles at the bar then did a header through the window.’
‘How could he have run from there to here without wriggling past this table?’
‘You’ve been a detective too long, Andy.’
Gilchrist frowned.
‘Lighten up, Andy. Hey, what’re you having? My treat.’
Gilchrist tried a smile. ‘Well, in that case I’ll have a Corona.’
Jack frowned. ‘Off the hard stuff?’
Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Don’t want to turn up at Mum’s reeking of beer.’ Chloe’s look saddened, and Gilchrist realized that although visiting Gail was the purpose of his visit, no one had mentioned her until now.
Jack returned with a Corona, a piece of lime jutting from the neck. Gilchrist poked it in with his finger, and watched the beer froth in response. Chloe took delivery of a tall glass of something that looked like watery milk, and Gilchrist made a decision not to ask. Jack had a pint of real ale that looked dark and flat, and a whisky with ice that looked like a double at the minimum.
They raised their glasses, or bottle in Gilchrist’s case, and chinked. ‘Cheers,’ said Jack, and took a slug of his pint.
Gilchrist pressed the neck of his Corona to his lips and watched Chloe take a sip from her glass. For some odd reason, he found himself thinking of Beth and wondering if she could ever put up with Jack and his careless lifestyle and punk-Bohemian mistresses. Maybe Chloe was different. Maybe she was the one. She had at least managed to put some colour into Jack’s life.
‘Can you spot it?’ said Jack, and smiled at Chloe.
‘Spot what?’
‘The mural.’
‘Oh, right.’ Gilchrist searched the bar, looking for something concrete and grey, stuck to a wall like unpainted plaster. But the walls were mostly bare. ‘I give up,’ he said. ‘Which one?’
Jack looked up at the ceiling.
Gilchrist followed his gaze, but all he saw were covered windows and wooden rafters. ‘I don’t see it.’
‘The skylight windows,’ Jack said. ‘The coverings.’ He sat back. ‘Cool, don’t you think?’
Gilchrist took a sip of beer. ‘I thought mural meant it went on a wall.’
Jack laughed and reached for Chloe’s hand. ‘Andy’s never going to like my stuff. But that’s what’s great about living in a democratic society. Freedom of speech. Freedom of expression. No one’s going to drag me outside and shoot me because they don’t like how I’m trying to express myself.’
‘Not yet, they haven’t,’ said Gilchrist, and chuckled when Chloe burst out laughing.
By the time Gilchrist took a taxi to Gail’s, he’d been persuaded by Jack to have one too many. Mum’ll understand, Jack had told him. But from past experience, Gilchrist knew not to be convinced.
He stood alone on the front step and rang the doorbell. In the garden, he recognized plants that had been groomed to perfection in their front garden in St Andrews. Gail had not lost her green fingers. The lawn sported stripes from its last cut, and aeration holes dotted its surface in straight lines.
The door opened.
Gail had lost weight. As much as a stone, he thought. Maybe more. Her eyes looked tired and sunken, her hair light and short.
‘Jack told me to expect you,’ she said.
‘Well, here I am.’ He held a bunch of flowers out to her. ‘Freesias. Your favourite.’
She took them from him. ‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘Liquid lunch with Jack and Chloe. It’s been a while.’
‘With who?’ she snapped. ‘With Jack and who?’
‘Chloe.’
‘Never heard of her. What’s she like? If she’s anything like the last one, the sooner he gets rid of her the better.’ She turned away and retreated inside. ‘Harry is in, so be nice,’ then added over her shoulder, ‘If you can.’
Although he had never set foot in Gail’s house before, he was struck with an odd sense of familiarity. A framed photo at the end of the hall, Gail with the kids, pre-divorce, in a beach-front café in Marbella. Pre-Harry, too, he thought. Or was it? Had Gail been having her affair then?
In the lounge, he recognized his old mahogany television stand. And the maple coffee table, which still stood on his prized Persian rug. And his grandmother’s crystal vase. It had always been full of flowers whose names he could never remember, although he did know that the white and burgundy arrangement now sprouting from it was carnations.
But no freesias. Maybe Gail had gone off them.
And Harry seemed strangely familiar, too, but smaller, as if being married to Gail had reduced him inch by inch, year by year. He eyed Gilchrist from behind the sofa, then left the room without a word.
Gail took a single chair by an ugly stone fireplace, and Gilchrist sat on the sofa without being asked. He felt regret at having succumbed to Jack’s persistence, and thought he saw signs of Gail’s illness. The corners of her mouth downturned more than he remembered, and gave her scowl a permanence it never used to have.
‘Chloe’s nice,’ he ventured.
‘What a ridiculous name. Chloe.’
‘It suits her.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘That once you meet her you’ll—’
‘God forbid.’ She slapped invisible crumbs from her skirt.
Gilchrist gripped the arm of the sofa. ‘You always said you would never have leather furniture. But this feels nice.’
‘It grows on you.’
