Life For a Life

by T F Muir

  ‘You seen this?’ Jessie said.

  She had brushed snow and frost from the woman’s arm, to expose a hand with fake fingernails, red to match her belt and shoes. One of her nails was missing, the middle finger of her left hand, probably broken off in the fall. As his gaze shifted to her wrists, a frisson chilled the length of his spine. He knew what it was but felt compelled to ask anyway.

  ‘Some sort of bracelet?’ he tried.

  Jessie fiddled with the knotted rope, ran her fingers along its short length to a frayed end. Then she stared up at him. ‘I think you’ve got some serious shit going on up here.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Jessie was still taking statements from Clive and Jayne Watkins when the SOCOs arrived and spilled from their white Transit van like students at a beach outing. Gilchrist led them to the body but the ground was too uneven, and the wind too strong, for them to erect their Incitent. They were in the process of roping off the path and slope when a black Range Rover eased in behind Gilchrist’s Merc.

  He watched the door open and a pair of green Hunter wellington boots reach for the ground, followed by the suit-clad legs of the forensic pathologist, Dr Rebecca Cooper, who had taken over after old Bert Mackie retired six months earlier.

  She gave him a warm smile as she shook his hand. ‘We must stop meeting like this,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you just ask me out?’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Cooper would approve.’

  ‘Mr Cooper wouldn’t know,’ she said, then looked beyond him. ‘What have we got?’

  Gilchrist explained his thoughts as he escorted her along the path, where she then faced the wind in that imperious manner of hers that he found attractive. Her blonde hair whipped her shoulders, long and thick with a natural curl – not tight like a perm, but loose and soft. He had run his fingers through it once, and he struggled to shift the image.

  ‘Who’s the new face?’ she asked him.

  ‘DS Janes. Transferred from Strathclyde.’

  ‘First name?’

  ‘Jessie.’

  ‘Jessie Janes.’ She almost laughed. ‘Isn’t she a bit young for you?’

  ‘Everyone’s a bit young for me these days.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you.’

  ‘That I’m becoming old?’

  ‘That you’re an older man.’ The bluest of eyes held his for a tad too long, he thought. Then she turned, and marched down the slope.

  Off to the side, Jessie closed her notebook, and Clive and Jayne Watkins departed on their unfinished morning walk, holding hands in mutual comfort, Skip nose to the ground, tail brushing the grass with renewed vigour, it seemed.

  ‘Anything of interest?’ he said to Jessie.

  She shook her head. ‘They live in Kingsbarns. Retired. Moved up from England four years ago. Why do they do that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Make fun of the Scots, then when it’s time to retire, come and live among us. We should put a gate at the border.’ She raised her hand, ran it along an imaginary signboard. ‘No English welcome. Stay out.’ She chuckled. ‘Or better still. Exchange rate – two English pounds to one Scottish. That would keep ’em out.’

  ‘Got something against the English?’

  ‘1966 World Cup. You’re old enough to remember it.’

  ‘And you’re not,’ he said. ‘Which proves a point.’

  ‘What point?’

  ‘That children are influenced by what their parents tell them.’

  He thought it odd how her lips tightened – not just pursed as if silenced but white and bitter as if reining in her anger. Too late, he realised that he knew nothing of her upbringing, knew only what he had read from her Police Records, and from his call to DCI Peter ‘Dainty’ Small from Strathclyde HQ – Reliable, rock solid. Bit of a tongue on her, but so do most women. She won’t let you down. I’d recommend her.

  ‘Looks like I stuck my foot in it,’ he said.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I would like to,’ he went on, ‘but if we’re going to work together, I’ll need to know more about you.’

  ‘Why?’ she snapped at him. ‘So you won’t stick your foot in it again?’

  Her snap of anger surprised him. ‘Look—’

  ‘I said forget it.’

  His escape route opened in the form of Dr Cooper, who was making her way back up the slope. She reached out for a helping hand, and Gilchrist obliged by pulling her up and on to the path.

  She offered her hand to Jessie. ‘Rebecca Cooper,’ she said. ‘Call me Becky.’

  Jessie reciprocated with a firm grip. ‘Jessica Janes. Call me Jessie.’

  If she caught the cynicism in Jessie’s voice, Cooper smothered it cleanly. ‘I’d say our young woman’s been dead for several days.’ Her gaze shifted from Gilchrist to Jessie, then back again. ‘Body temperature’s close to zero. Skin’s frozen solid from the ice and wind. She has a nasty cut on the right temple, but I won’t be able to determine cause of death until she’s on my table.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Gilchrist tried.

  Manicured fingernails pushed through a layer of windswept curls. She shook her head, as if to tease him. ‘It’s interesting that she’s not wearing any knickers.’

  ‘Why’s that interesting?’ Jessie said.

  Gilchrist caught the challenge in her voice, but again, Cooper glided over it.

  ‘It could give some lead to the cause of death,’ she said. ‘Any knickers close by?’ She held Jessie’s fierce gaze with a steady stare of her own. ‘Which might have been where she spent the last moments of her life.’ She faced Gilchrist, as if she’d had enough of Jessie. ‘Although I suspect she wasn’t murdered.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Her calves are covered in minor bruises and scratches, which could have been caused by walking through grass or bushes—’

  ‘How about running?’ Jessie said.

  ‘Of course.’ Then back to Gilchrist. ‘Did you notice her heels are missing?’

  ‘We did. Any thoughts?’

  ‘I’d be searching the path for the missing heels.’ Back to Jessie, with a gentle smile. ‘She might have broken off the heels herself to walk, or run, and if you find them, it might give some indication as to where she came from.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll remember that.’ Jessie turned away and walked towards Gilchrist’s car, her iPhone already at her ear.

  ‘Bit touchy,’ Cooper said.

  ‘She’s not a morning person.’

  Cooper smiled. ‘It’s almost midday. Want to buy me lunch?’

  Gilchrist grimaced at Jessie. ‘Could you handle both of us?’

  ‘Spoilsport. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve got something on our young woman,’ she said, then added, ‘And Mr Cooper is flying to Italy for four days, leaving first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Business trip?’

  ‘Who knows. Maybe he’s got a sultry Italian mistress waiting for him. And I might need company of my own.’ She tossed her hair, teasing him further, then mouthed a kiss and said, ‘Ciao.’

  Gilchrist watched her stride towards her Range Rover and give a curt nod and a tight smile to Jessie as she passed. Jessie stretched her lips in response.

  Gilchrist refocused on the SOCOs, watched them sift and filter their way through the frosted grass. The temperature felt as if it had dropped another degree or two, and he tugged his collar tighter round his neck. The wind was now subdued in that sudden way that seems unique to Scotland, and the SOCOs were discussing erecting an Incitent. Overhead, the sky hung a painted grey, as still and lifeless as a frozen lake. Even the sea looked oddly calmer, its beaching waves puffing mist in tired gasps. Behind him, the rumble from the Range Rover’s engine faded from his senses. He almost jumped at the sound of Jessie’s voice.

  ‘Sir?’

  He was struck by how pale Jessie looked.

  ‘I know it’s my first day on the job,’ she said, ‘but I need to get home. I’m sorry.’

  Without
a word, he strode to his Merc, keys already in his hand, beeping the remote.

  As he eased the car along the track, he called the office and organised a search of the Coastal Path. ‘We’re looking for a pair of high heels, not the shoes, just the heels, likely red, but could be black. On the Coastal Path between Boarhills and Kingsbarns for starters. And have Jackie find out if anyone has been reported missing in the East Neuk over the last week. Girl, short blonde hair, average height, average weight, mid to late teens.’ He hung up and said to Jessie, ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Of course I can talk. I’m talking now. Right?’ She glared at the passing fields, white from patches of snow and hoarfrost, and waited several beats before saying, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean it, it’s just . . .’ She shook her head.

  Gilchrist held the wheel in a tight grip in the pretence of negotiating a bump in the track. ‘I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is.’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ she said. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Try me.’

  She faced the window again, stared outside long enough to make him think she was not going to share her troubles with him. Then she said, ‘I suppose it’s bound to come out sooner or later.’

  He thought silence his best option.

  But still she waited until they were beyond Boarhills and back on the A917 before she said, ‘It’s my mother. She’s here.’ She shook her head, dabbed a thumb into the corner of an eye. ‘One day in St Andrews and she’s already found me.’

  ‘Found you?’

  ‘That’s one of the other reasons I had to leave Glasgow.’

  ‘Had to leave?’

  But Jessie seemed not to have heard. ‘She’s a fucking bitch of a woman. I swear, if she ever tells Robert . . .’ the anger in her voice left Gilchrist in no doubt that whatever she was about to swear to would happen, ‘I’ll have her. I’ll tear her heart out with my bare hands. I’ll do time for her. I promise you that. With maximum fucking pleasure.’

  ‘So you don’t like her, is what you’re telling me.’

  Jessie glared at him, stunned for a moment, as if he had slapped her.

  Then she chuckled, and said, ‘I think I’m going to like working with you.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Gilchrist parked kerbside at Forgan Place.

  A woman in her sixties, with silver hair in a wild bun fraying at the edges, looked as if she was trying to reason with a uniformed policeman – PC Grant McLay – by the front door, her face flushed from cold or anger, or maybe a lifetime’s worth of alcohol.

  ‘Wait here,’ Jessie said, and rushed from the car.

  Gilchrist watched Jessie push herself in front of the policeman and flash her warrant card. Then she grabbed the woman by the arm and jerked her on to the lawn. Not good. Not good at all. Gilchrist opened the car door, stepped into the midday chill.

  ‘Here,’ the woman cried. ‘You’re hurting my arm.’

  ‘I’ll hurt a lot more than your arm, you drunken old slut.’

  ‘As if you’ve never had a drink or done a turn for—’

  ‘Shut it.’ Jessie tugged her further on to the lawn. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to see my grandson.’

  ‘You’re violating the Non-Harassment Order, you stupid old cow. You’re not allowed within fifty yards of him. I could have you jailed.’

  ‘It only works in Strathclyde.’ The woman fumbled in her handbag. ‘We’re now in Fife.’ She removed a single sheet of paper and waved it at PC McLay, then at Gilchrist. ‘See? It disnae work here.’ Then back to Jessie. ‘I want to talk to my grandson.’

  ‘About what?’

  She seemed confused for a moment, as if trying to find the trick in the question, then recovered with, ‘About what grandmothers talk to their grandchildren about.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘I’m his mother, and I’m not going—’

  ‘And I’m his grandmother and I have—’

  ‘Listen to me, you drunken old slag—’

  ‘Who’re you calling a slag? You watch your tongue, you heathen bitch—’

  Jessie slapped her then, a quick swipe with the right hand that left her looking every bit as stunned as her mother.

  Then Jessie’s mother turned to Gilchrist. ‘Did you see that? That’s assault, so it is.’

  ‘I’ll take care of this,’ Gilchrist said to PC McLay, and stepped on to the lawn. ‘Get in the car,’ he said to Jessie.

  Without a word, Jessie did as she was ordered.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Are you gonnie charge her with assault? She cannae go running around hitting—’

  ‘Name?’

  She patted her bun, sniffed at the air. ‘Jeannie Janes.’

  ‘And you are Detective Sergeant Janes’s mother?’

  ‘Oh, Detective Sergeant. Listen to that.’ Then she scowled at him. ‘Where’s your notebook? Shouldn’t you be taking down notes?’

  ‘You’re not listening to me.’ He repeated the question.

  ‘I am. Which makes me Robert’s grandmother. And I have a right to see my own—’

  ‘Let me see the Order.’

  She handed it to him, and watched him in silence. She slid her gaze to the Merc, and smirked at Jessie in the front seat.

  ‘Why was this granted?’ Gilchrist asked.

  She poked a finger at the Order. ‘See what it says? It only works in Strathclyde.’

  ‘You’re still not listening to me, Mrs Janes. I need you to listen to me, and I need you to answer my questions. I could take you down to the office if you’d like, let you phone for a solicitor of your choosing. But that takes time, and costs money. So why don’t we just have a friendly chat on the front lawn like two sensible adults?’

  She narrowed her eyes, and some hidden knowledge shifted behind them. ‘I might have known it,’ she said. ‘She’s screwing you, isn’t she? No sooner does she move up here than she’s fucking putting it about, the wee tramp.’

  ‘Let’s try this for the last time,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Did she charge you for it? Eh? Fucking trollop. Look at her, sitting there in that flashy car, tits all bunched up like she’s selling it. Fucking bitch is what she is.’

  Gilchrist turned to PC McLay, signalled him over.

  ‘Lift her,’ he said to him.

  ‘What? Wait a minute. What for? You cannae just come prancing along—’

  ‘Disturbing the peace,’ he said.

  As he turned to walk back to his Merc, he noticed movement at one of the upper windows and caught Robert’s eye for a fleeting moment before the boy’s face slid from view.

  * * *

  ‘Would you like me to hand in my notice?’ Jessie said.

  ‘That’s up to you,’ Gilchrist said. ‘You did strike her. I can’t deny that.’

  ‘I was hoping you missed that.’

  ‘PC McLay and half the street saw it.’

  She buried her head in her hands. ‘What have I done to deserve a mother like that?’

  ‘She’s lifted,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Want me to follow through with the charges?’

  Jessie shook her head. ‘I just want her to stay away from Robert. She’s a bad influence.’

  ‘You’ll need to do better than that.’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ she said. ‘Please understand, Andy. It’s deeply personal.’

  Gilchrist tried to decipher her look, then said, ‘Tell me you’re clean.’

  She glared at him, anger furling her brow. ‘What d’you mean, clean?’

  ‘That your reasons for keeping your mother away from your son are above board.’

  She snorted. ‘They’re well above board. They’re so far above board, they’re up here,’ she said, her knuckles rapping the car roof.

  ‘In that case, you should apply to have the Non-Harassment Order amended to include Fife. You don’t have to press charges, just have the in
cident noted.’

  ‘That’ll take ages.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Clive. He owes me one. Meanwhile, I’ll have one of our boys in blue keep your mother busy for an hour or so. After that, we’ll have to charge her or let her go.’

  Jessie nodded. ‘Let her go. I need to talk to Angie when she gets back.’

  ‘Robert’s at home by himself ?’

  ‘Angie’s had to step out to the doctor’s. But Robert’s mature for his age, and I haven’t had time to arrange for tutors—’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Robert could have let his grandmother in.’

  She shook her head. ‘He doesn’t know who she is.’

  ‘He doesn’t know his own grandmother?’

  ‘That’s what I said. And besides, he wouldn’t have seen her at the door. He spends most of his time on his computer, writing. He wants to be a comedy writer. He’s writing short sketches and jokes to begin with—’

  ‘I hope he didn’t write the joke about the whisky and the sheep.’

  Jessie chuckled. ‘It’s got potential, that has. Just needs work. That’s what Robert told me last night. Which is why I do the occasional stand-up spot at the Stand. Tuesday nights are for beginners. It’s not for me. It’s for Robert. To let him check out his jokes.’

  Gilchrist said, ‘He seems bright.’

  ‘As smart as they come.’ Her lips pursed, and she brushed a hand across her face. ‘If he could hear he could be anything he wants.’

  ‘Isn’t he already doing what he wants? Being a writer?’

  ‘His dream is to be a stand-up comedian,’ she said. ‘But how can he when he can’t speak properly, or can’t pronounce his words like any normal person? The audience would roast him alive.’

  ‘Speech therapy?’ Gilchrist tried.

  ‘Where do you think my money goes?’ she snapped. ‘I could have bought the bloody clinics outright with what I’ve spent on therapy.’ Her voice softened. ‘That’s what’s hard,’ she said. ‘Robert’s got nothing to compare the sounds to. He’s been deaf since birth.’