by T F Muir
‘Which in a strange kind of way is good.’
‘Good? How would you like to live your life in total silence?’ she said. ‘What kind of a prison sentence is that?’ Then she softened again. ‘He’s just a wee boy trapped in his own silent world. He doesn’t know what a guitar sounds like, or a piano, or what the Old Firm crowd’s like when a goal’s scored. He’s never even heard me tell him I love him.’
Gilchrist let several seconds pass. ‘What I meant,’ he said, and hoped she would not see that he was still rooting around for answers, ‘was that he can’t hear whatever it is you don’t want his grandmother to tell him.’
‘Tell him?’
‘You swore you would have her if she tells Robert, I think were your words.’
‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’
‘Neither do you.’
She stared out of the windscreen, then shifted her gaze to the front door. ‘He lip-reads,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t need to hear her.’
‘What about mail? She could write to him. Or text him.’
‘She can hardly speak English, let alone write it. And I’ll be buggered if I’ll give her his phone number.’
‘Can she speak Huttian?’
Jessie chuckled. ‘Now there’s an idea. Turn Jabba loose on her.’ Her face darkened once more. ‘That’s another one who can’t take ‘‘No’’ for an answer.’ Then she grabbed the door handle. ‘Let me do a quick check on Robert,’ she said, and without waiting for an answer, slipped into the cold air.
Gilchrist waited until she stepped inside before he called. Thirty seconds later he was through to Dainty. ‘What can you give me on a woman by the name of Jeannie Janes?’
Dainty said, ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to call.’
CHAPTER 7
Jessie reappeared at the front door, which brought Dainty’s call to an end with the promise to email Gilchrist a copy of what he had on Jeannie Janes. Jessie hustled into the Merc, grinning as if she had just won the lottery.
‘That went well by the looks of things,’ he said.
‘He’s a wee darling. I just love him to bits.’ She waved at the window as Gilchrist turned left into Shoolbraids.
‘So he didn’t talk to his grandmother?’
Jessie winced, then turned her attention to her iPhone.
Five minutes later, Gilchrist parked outside the office in North Street.
‘I’d like you to meet Jackie,’ he said, and pushed through the door. ‘Do you fancy a cuppa first? Liptons. Best I can do for you.’
Jessie blew into her hands. ‘As long as it’s hot, it could be cat’s piss for all I care.’
‘Or sheep’s?’
‘Bugger off.’
Jessie’s mother was in Interview Room 1, with PC McLay having the unenviable task of questioning her. Gilchrist stuck his head in, ignored the splutter of curses, and nodded to McLay that he needed to talk to him.
In the hallway, Gilchrist said, ‘We won’t be pressing charges. Send her on her way,’ then added, ‘Did she drive up from Glasgow?’
‘Came by bus. Said she used her bus pass.’
‘Lying bitch.’
Gilchrist and McLay turned to Jessie.
‘You have to be sixty to get one of these,’ Jessie explained. ‘She was born in fifty-eight. You do the sums.’
‘Can you show me the bus pass?’ Gilchrist asked McLay.
‘I had a look through her handbag when she was booked in but I couldn’t find it,’ McLay said. ‘She said she must have lost it.’
Gilchrist glanced at Jessie, then said, ‘Give me a minute.’
When he entered the interview room, Jeannie patted her bun and snarled a smile. ‘Nice eyes,’ she said. ‘And no wedding band. You no married?’
‘You have a bus pass,’ Gilchrist said.
‘And I like the jacket. You no a bit upmarket for that piece of shite out there?’
‘Let me see your bus pass,’ he pressed.
‘Think I musta lost it.’
Gilchrist leaned closer. ‘When you find it, use it to return to Glasgow. One of our officers will arrange a lift for you to the bus station.’
‘I’m no ready to go home.’
‘There you go again. You’re not listening.’
‘And neither are you. She’s filled your ears with shite. That Non-Harassment Order disnae work up here. I’m sick and tired of trying to tell youse lot—’
‘You’re not going to be charged with breach of the peace.’
‘Aye, that wee bitch knows better than to try that.’
‘We could charge you with fraud instead, and likely fogery and uttering, too.’
She stilled for a moment, her eyes flickering with uncertainty, then said, ‘You’re fucking at it.’
Gilchrist held out his hand. ‘Bus pass.’
Her face darkened. ‘I’ve no got one.’
‘I thought you came up on the bus.’
‘Aye, but I paid my way.’
‘I can easily check that out.’
Her lips pursed into a tight line.
Gilchrist smiled. ‘So, we have an agreement then? You buy a ticket to Glasgow and we don’t charge you.’ He waited for a reluctant nod, before pushing to his feet. ‘I’ll have someone drop you off at the bus station.’
In the hallway, he explained to McLay, then nodded for Jessie to follow. He led her to a room at the rear of the office. A wooden desk choked the space. A pair of crutches rested against the wall to the side. A widescreen monitor hid a small woman with a freckled face and a head of hair as thick and dark as rusted wool. The screen reflected its image on her dark-rimmed glasses. She looked up and smiled at Gilchrist as they entered.
‘How are you keeping, Jackie?’
She opened her mouth to speak, then seemed locked into silence.
Gilchrist introduced Jessie, then said, ‘This is Jackie Canning, Fife Constabulary’s most brilliant researcher.’
Jackie mouthed a response like a dying fish. Jessie smiled and nodded.
‘If it’s been printed, written, or exists anywhere on the planet,’ Gilchrist pressed on, ‘Jackie will find it. Which is why we’re here.’
Jackie looked at him, waiting for her command.
‘I’ll have Nance give you photos of a woman we found on the Coastal Path earlier this morning. See if you can match her to any missing persons. You may want to start searching for anyone who’s been reported missing in the last six months.’
Jackie eyed the screen, her fingers flitting over the keyboard as he spoke.
‘Try limiting the ages to between, say, thirteen and eighteen. If that’s too wide, narrow it down to Scotland only. And if you could band them together in age groups and region, that would be great. Let me know if you get a match. OK?’
With her eyes to the screen, Jackie nodded.
In the corridor, Jessie said, ‘What’s with the crutches.’
‘Spina bifida,’ Gilchrist said. ‘But her mobility’s amazing. She throws herself around on those things like they’re another pair of legs. But she suffers from cerebral palsy, too, and it’s her speech that floors her every time. Sometimes her stutter’s so bad, she has to revert to sign language.’
Jessie glared at him, as if stung.
In his office, he slid open a desk drawer and removed a couple of tea bags. ‘Good to keep your own,’ he said. ‘But don’t tell anyone where they are or they’ll start disappearing.’
‘You’ve just told me,’ Jessie said.
‘But you’re the only one, so I’ll know who to kill.’
In the kitchen, he boiled the kettle. One tea bag each, and mugs in hand, he took Jessie to meet DS Nancy Wilson. He introduced Jessie as DS Jessica Janes, who held out her hand and said, ‘But I answer to Jessie.’
Nance shook Jessie’s hand. ‘Call me Nance,’ she said. ‘Sorry I never got a chance to talk to you earlier but Andy’s a bit of a tough taskmaster.’
‘And he also likes his biscuits,’ Gil
christ said.
Nance held out her hands, palms up. ‘Sorry. All gone.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s my turn.’
‘It’s your turn.’
‘Damn.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Any luck tracking down Craig Farmer?’
‘Not yet.’
‘It’s interesting that he denied knowing Donnelly, whereas Donnelly’s prepared to swear on the Bible that they’re the best of mates.’
‘As if that would mean anything,’ Nance said.
‘You think he’s lying?’
‘Well, it’s clear Farmer is. Fake B&B, fake licence, false name—’
‘Am I missing something?’ Jessie asked.
Gilchrist brought Jessie up to speed and said, ‘Don’t know what it all means, but it would be good to talk to him.’
Jessie said, ‘Have you checked out Donnelly’s mobile?’
‘Strictly speaking, we’re not allowed to access it,’ Nance said.
‘And unstrictly?’
Nance smiled at her but said nothing.
Gilchrist instructed Nance to get facials of the Coastal Path girl to Jackie, then spent the next fifteen minutes familiarising Jessie with the office layout.
‘You won’t get lost,’ he said, pushing through the exit. He pulled up his collar and strode to his Merc. ‘You think it’ll snow?’ he asked her.
‘You got a bet on for a white Christmas or something?’
‘I’m not a betting man,’ he said. ‘But if the snow lies, it’ll make finding those heels more difficult.’
* * *
WPC Mhairi McBride found them before 3.00 p.m., fifteen minutes before Gilchrist was preparing to call the search off for poor light. They lay in long grass over a stone dyke that ran the length of Back Stile, within three feet of each other, two red exclamation marks as plain as day between patches of snow, as if they had been placed there.
Gilchrist faced the wind. Back Stile ran to the seafront, less than 200 yards from where they stood, where it opened to a gravel car park from which the Coastal Path ran off either side. In the distance behind him, the village of Kingsbarns nestled in mid-winter silence, lights glowing from windows, beckoning him to the warmth within.
‘Anything planned for this evening, Mhairi?’
‘Only EastEnders and Corrie. But I’ve got them set for recording. What would you like me to do, sir?’
‘Contact the local estate agents. Find out which houses are rented. The longer the term, the better,’ he said. ‘Call as soon as you find anything.’
Mhairi beamed as she pulled out her mobile. ‘Angus works with Patterson and McLeod. I’ll have him jump-start it for me.’
When Mhairi drove off, Gilchrist faced Jessie. ‘In the meantime?’ he asked her.
‘A good start would be the Watkins,’ she said, removing her notebook and flipping through the pages. ‘Can’t be too difficult to find them in a one-horse town like this.’
It took them less than ten minutes.
Clive and Jayne Watkins lived in an end cottage with a crowstepped gable end, and a single chimney from which trailed wisps of grey smoke. The grass looked neat and tidy, the garden black and bare, as if all the plants had been uplifted for the winter.
Gilchrist rapped the brass knocker.
Jayne Watkins welcomed them in with a surprised smile, while Skip pushed past Gilchrist’s legs and on to the gravel path to take advantage of an unscheduled airing.
The small living room was overstuffed with dark furniture, its walls brightened with abstract paintings of seascapes and fishing boats, which seemed to cover every vertical square inch. Jayne invited them to sit and offered them tea.
‘All tea-ed out,’ Gilchrist said. ‘And I’d rather stand. Is Mr Watkins around?’
‘He’s in the spare bedroom,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch him.’
Gilchrist heated his hands by a weak fire smothered black by a pair of briquettes.
A minute later, Clive came through, wearing paint-stained clothes Gilchrist could only describe as rags. He held up palms that could have doubled for palettes. ‘I won’t shake hands, unless you want paint all over you,’ he said, then explained his attire with, ‘Hobby. Oils can be expensive. So we’ve got to watch the pennies. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve not come here to ask about my paintings.’
Outside, the winter dusk was blotting out the walled garden. On a dark night, with the moon sheltered by clouds, a young woman in high heels could walk past without being seen. Gilchrist turned his back to the window. ‘The young woman you found on the Coastal Path might have lived in this area.’
Jayne shook her head. ‘I’m sure I would have heard if someone had gone missing.’
‘Do you know everyone who lives around here?’
‘Not really, I suppose. We bump into people from time to time. Although most tend to keep to themselves, I’m sure we would have heard something.’
When Gilchrist had been growing up, it seemed that everyone knew their neighbours and popped in and out of houses that were never locked from one year to the next. Nowadays, they would walk past a man dying in the street rather than help. Changed days indeed.
‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked.
‘Coming up for five years,’ Clive said.
‘You said you hadn’t taken Skip along the Coastal Path since November.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where did you take him instead?’
‘Sometimes through the golf course. Got to have Skip on a lead to do that, of course. But mostly we’d take him straight to the beach, let him wade in and out of the sea. Labradors love the water.’
‘And you would walk to the sea? Not drive, take the car?’
‘No. Walk.’
‘Along the road?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you ever step over the wall and walk to the sea that way.’
Clive shook his head. ‘We wouldn’t. But sometimes Skip would. Once he’d got his nose buried in the grass, it would be the devil of a job to bring him to heel.’
Gilchrist wondered if Skip had caught scent of the discarded heels, and followed it off the Coastal Path to the woman’s body. Or maybe it was more likely that simple chance had caused Skip to sniff his way across it.
‘Do you ever come across other people walking their dogs?’ Jessie asked.
‘From time to time.’
‘Know any of them?’
‘Those who live around here, yes. Others on nodding terms only.’
‘Visitors, you mean?’
‘Yes. But you don’t see too many in the winter. It’s too cold.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Jessie shivered, as if to prove her point.
Gilchrist said, ‘Are any houses up for rent?’
‘One or two,’ Clive said, and shook his head.
‘Don’t pay much attention to any of that,’ Jayne added.
‘How about foreigners?’ Jessie again. ‘As in non-English speakers.’
‘You see the occasional busload of—’
‘No, I mean living in Kingsbarns.’
Jayne frowned. ‘Now you mention it, I did see a man and a woman in the garden of one of the cottages on Seagate. He was . . . not black. More Indian-looking. But not Indian, if you get my meaning.’
Gilchrist nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘And he seemed angry. He had his hand on the woman’s arm. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was driving back from the shops. But I thought he was a bit rough.’
‘Needing a shave? Badly dressed?’
‘No. Rough with the woman. The way he handled her.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
Her jowls shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t think so.’
‘So what did you do? After you saw them?’
‘Nothing. I thought it was none of my business. Besides, it was just a glance.’
‘Do you remember which house?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘I don’t know the address. But I can show you.’
&n
bsp; ‘Please.’
‘Let me get my coat, then. It’s only a five-minute walk.’
But it took closer to ten minutes to find the address by the time they doubled back along a path that Jayne confused with some other walkway. Night had fallen, and the cottage stood in darkness. Either side of it, other homes sat in their own hedged garden, as if the owners liked the idea of having neighbours as long as they did not have to see them.
‘We’ll take it from here,’ Gilchrist said to Jayne. ‘DS Janes can escort you home.’
‘Not at all. I can find my own way back. When you’re finished,’ she said, ‘why don’t you come back for a cup of tea to heat you up? It’s shivering out here.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gilchrist, as his mobile went off.
Mhairi’s name came up on the screen.
‘Got one that fits the bill,’ Mhairi said without introduction. ‘Two years’ rent. Three-bedroom cottage. And it was Angus who set it up in August. Said the tenant didn’t want to meet but he insisted. He thought he was a foreign student on some postgraduate course.’
The word foreign had Gilchrist eyeing the cottage. ‘Address?’ he asked, and noted the number on the wall by the door as she told him. ‘Could Angus identify the tenant?’
‘I’ll ask him.’
‘Ask him right now,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We’re at the front door.’
CHAPTER 8
The cottage appeared abandoned.
The front door was closed but opened when Gilchrist twisted the handle, a signal for him to slip on a pair of latex gloves. Jessie did likewise. He pushed the door wide, rubbed his hand over the wall, found the light switch, flicked it on.
Nothing.
He leaned inside, shouted into the darkness, ‘Hello? Anyone?’
‘What’s that smell?’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist caught the staleness on his tongue. ‘Something’s off.’
‘I don’t like this, sir. Let me get backup.’
Gilchrist moved deeper into the hallway.
The house felt cold. Well, it would be if the electricity was turned off.
But the air also possessed a hint of movement in it, as if . . .
From somewhere ahead and off to his right he thought he heard the steady stream of water running. Burst pipe? It had been cold enough. Behind him, the sibilant hiss of Jessie’s voice as she spoke into her mobile disturbed the silence. And Jessie had been right. He now caught a guff of foul air, and lifted his hand to cover his nose and mouth.
