by T F Muir
‘If they’ve got no criminal records, sir, AFIS wouldn’t have their fingerprints registered, would it?’
‘We have to start somewhere, Jo. And who knows, we might get lucky.’ He scanned the room. ‘Any other questions?’ A pause, then, ‘Good. Debriefing’s back here at six.’ He turned and walked past Jessie. ‘Let’s go,’ he said to her.
Outside, dawn was still a good hour away. North Street glistened damp under the street lights. St Salvator’s Tower reared into the sky like some giant sentinel. Side by side they strode towards Gilchrist’s Merc.
‘You had breakfast?’ Gilchrist asked her.
‘Gave it a miss this morning.’
‘Sleep in?’
‘Not really.’
‘Hard night last night?’
‘Too tired to get tanked.’
He grinned. ‘Thought you looked a bit peely-wally.’
So much for a knee-trembler.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ Gilchrist said. ‘That should help jump-start you. My treat.’
‘I think I might just be able to keep one down, sir.’
‘Cut the sir. I answer to Andy.’
‘Yes, sir, Andy.’
‘And I’ve not been knighted, and never will be.’
Starbucks was already open for business.
‘What’s your flavour?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘I’m having a grande latté.’
‘That sounds good,’ Jessie said, although the heat of the place had her body threatening to break out in a flush.
‘Skinny or regular?’
‘You choose,’ she said, shooting him a look.
‘Share a muffin?’
‘Whatever.’
She found a table through the back where it wasn’t so stifling, and slumped into a sofa that was in better nick than the one she’d had in her flat in Bishopbriggs. She slipped off her gloves, loosened her jacket, then took it off just in time to catch the full force of a hot flush. She was unfurling her scarf when Gilchrist placed her mug in front of her.
‘I got you a regular,’ he said. ‘That should sort you out,’ and broke a blueberry muffin in two. ‘Excuse the fingers.’
Somehow the fact that he had not ordered her a skinny latté pleased her on the one hand, but annoyed her on the other – too many calories. Why had she just not asked for a skinny? She sipped her coffee as Gilchrist devoured his half of the muffin, and more for politeness than hunger she fingered a piece of muffin – how many more calories was she about to have?
She glanced at him, and stretched a smile when she saw he was looking at her.
She took another sip, pretended to look around the small room, then back to Gilchrist with, ‘Have I got something stuck in my teeth?’
‘Sorry. I don’t mean to stare. In a way you remind me of Maureen, my daughter. Same shape of face, same colour of hair, same colour of eyes—’
‘Same big tits?’
Gilchrist chuckled, shook his head. ‘I wish.’
Jessie felt a flush of anger surge through her, the hot nip of annoyance that he thought he had the right as her boss to make fun of her. She readied to blast him with—
‘Mo suffered from anorexia,’ Gilchrist pressed on. ‘She’s past the worst of it now and putting some weight back on. But she’s still far too skinny. So, yes, it would be nice if she . . . eh . . . filled out.’
Jessie felt the heat of embarrassment warm her face, or maybe it was another flush. He was trying to help her settle into her new job and she should make it easy for him, ask him about his family, but she said, ‘So what’s on the agenda today?’
‘A visit to the post-mortem room.’
‘The land of the green wellies?’ she said, and wished she’d kept her trap shut.
But Gilchrist seemed not to notice. ‘Rebecca’s good at her job. She took over when old Bert retired.’ Another sip of coffee. ‘Where Bert was old school, Rebecca’s one of the new breed.’
Jessie pretended to show interest, but it pissed her off that he kept referring to her as Rebecca, not Dr Cooper.
‘She called later,’ Gilchrist added. ‘Said she’s found something that might be of interest.’
‘Like what?’
‘Said she would rather show than tell.’
Jessie sipped her coffee. Already she was feeling better, her stomach not so queasy, her head not so painful. ‘Why?’
‘I suppose she thought it might spoil the fun.’
‘Fun? What the fuck’s funny about a murder victim being cut up on a table?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken like that. I’m still struggling from too much to drink last night.’
‘At last,’ said Gilchrist. ‘There’s that honesty I’ve been promised.’ He finished his coffee, pushed himself to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Bring that with you.’
CHAPTER 10
An accident on the exit of the Tay Road Bridge had them sitting in traffic for the best part of forty minutes.
‘What are they doing up ahead?’ Jessie grumbled. ‘Operating on the spot?’
‘Patience is a virtue.’
‘So’s consideration for others.’
By the time they worked their way to Bell Street and entered Dr Cooper’s post-mortem room, it was after nine.
Cooper glanced up as Gilchrist entered, Jessie beside him, and he thought he caught a hint of disappointment in Cooper’s eyes as she returned her attention to the body on the table – the woman in the negligee. On the next table lay the body of the woman on the kitchen floor, a white sheet draped over her, her head on a tray by her feet. The body from the Coastal Path had to be in the storage room.
Cooper pencilled marks on a sketch, tapped her finger over the page as she counted, then said, ‘Eleven stab wounds, all in the upper chest, four of which could have caused death in and of themselves.’
Jessie snorted.
Cooper glanced at her.
‘Sorry. Was about to sneeze.’
‘So what are we looking at?’ Gilchrist said, more to focus attention.
Cooper leaned closer. ‘See here?’ she said. ‘And here? All the wounds are the same width at the entry point, the only variance being in the depth, strike angle, and the location on the chest. But if you look closely at the shape of the wound . . .’ She eased one of the wounds open with her fingers. ‘Notice how both ends have been cut?’
‘Double-edged blade?’ Jessie said.
Cooper nodded. ‘I would say so.’
‘That’s another one of Kumar’s trademarks, Andy.’
‘You never mentioned that last night.’
‘Didn’t want to plant the wrong seed. I wanted to see what Dr Cooper came up with first.’
‘Who’s Kumar?’ Cooper asked.
‘Possible suspect. What else have you found that might be of interest to us?’
Cooper turned and walked from the table.
They followed her through a swing door, across a short corridor, and into another room that looked like a store for zombies. Gilchrist counted seven bodies, some covered in sheets, others wearing the clothes in which they had died, their death wounds exposed in their clotted glory for all to see.
Cooper lowered her face mask – Gilchrist and Jessie did likewise – and peeled back a sheet to expose the blue-white body of a young woman, with stitches in the shape of a Y that ran from her shoulders between a pair of small breasts, down to blond pubic hair. Gilchrist put her age anywhere between fifteen and twenty. She had been pretty, too, with an attractive shape to her face. But her right eye – half open in the glazed look of the dead – as well as her lips and nose, were twisted to one side, from lying face down on a frozen slope, suggesting she had lain there for days.
‘Cause of death?’ Gilchrist asked.
Cooper reached across the woman’s head and pointed to an open wound on the right temple, through which the white bone of her skull could be seen. ‘She had blood on her hair, which tells me she was alive when she cracked her skull. I’d say she knocked h
erself unconscious and died from hypothermia.’
‘Can you tell when death occurred?’
‘Best estimate would be three to five days ago. But in the middle of winter, body frozen in the snow, and with no entomological interference, I’m just guessing.’
‘Assuming all three died on the same day,’ he offered, ‘you might be able to determine time of death from the others.’
‘I’m working on that.’ Cooper pointed to four raised welts on the inside of the right arm. ‘Cigarette burns. One of the others had them in the same place, same arm, same number. I didn’t realise that last night with only the one body, of course, not until I tackled the other two. It’s odd, don’t you think? Maybe some sort of branding mark?’
‘Like the OK corral?’ Jessie quipped.
Cooper raised the girl’s left arm, as if Jessie had not spoken. ‘In addition to a number of tattoos,’ she said, ‘it’s interesting to note that all three bodies have the same pair of tattoos in the same place.’
Gilchrist leaned closer. Where the underarm had been shaved, two dark-blue identical tattoos, no larger than the width of a small fingernail, stained the skin like twin moles.
‘Is it the number eleven?’ Jessie asked.
Gilchrist peered at them. ‘Could be,’ he said, and glanced at Cooper.
‘They’re not two tattoos of a numerical one,’ Cooper said. ‘Under the microscope they seem more rounded, more like symbols of some sort. But together they could be meant to represent the number eleven.’
‘Did the Krukov twins have tattoos like these?’ Gilchrist asked Jessie.
‘Not tattoos per se. But they did have the letter K cut into their flesh in eleven different places.’
‘What’s the fascination with the number eleven?’ Cooper asked.
‘K’s the eleventh letter of the alphabet,’ Jessie said. ‘And K is for Kumar, in case you didn’t get—’
‘How many stab wounds on the one remaining body?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Not got that far yet,’ Cooper said. ‘Have you seen enough?’
Gilchrist nodded.
‘How about you, DS Janes?’
‘Me, too.’
Gilchrist gave Jessie a warning glare as Cooper pulled the sheet back over the body.
Back in the PM room, Cooper replaced her mask and removed the sheet to reveal the body of the woman they had found on the floor. Her stump for a neck caused Gilchrist to have a moment of disorientation.
Cooper lifted the left arm and pointed to an identical pair of tattoos.
Jessie leaned closer, and studied them. Then without a word, she walked to the other PM table and raised the woman’s left arm. Seemingly satisfied, she let it drop back on to the table with a dead slap.
‘Excuse me,’ Cooper objected. ‘They may be dead, but I would be grateful if you showed a little respect.’
‘Sorry,’ Jessie said, then added, ‘Today’s what? Thursday? So if it’s five days, we’re looking at probable time of death some time on Sunday?’
‘Clever you,’ said Cooper. ‘But as no one saw anyone running along the Coastal Path, we could assume it was dark, which would suggest night.’ She eyed Gilchrist. ‘Does that work with any theories you have?’
‘Won’t know for sure until debriefing this evening,’ Gilchrist said. ‘But it’s a good start. Thanks, Rebecca.’
‘My pleasure. I should have all post-mortems with you later today.’
‘Could you also include an enlargement of the tattoos?’
‘Of course.’
Gilchrist had just let Jessie precede him through the door when Cooper said, ‘Do you have a minute, Andy?’
He turned, caught her nodding in the direction of her office. ‘I’ll catch up with you,’ he said to Jessie. But she walked on without a break in stride.
Gilchrist entered Cooper’s office.
She removed her mask. ‘Close the door, please.’
Gilchrist did as she asked, then moved to the closer of two chairs that fronted her desk. He gripped the back of it.
She smiled at him. ‘Quite the little spitfire you’ve got there.’
‘Doesn’t mince her words, springs to mind.’
She returned his gaze with a steady look of her own. ‘I’m having a small gathering at home this evening and wonder if you’d like to come along.’
‘I take it Mr Cooper’s on his way to Italy?’
‘To spend five days with a sultry mistress or two, no doubt.’
Gilchrist searched for some way to let her down gently. What Cooper was suggesting could come back to hurt both of them professionally. ‘This case will probably keep me late.’
‘Come after,’ she said.
‘I mean, really late.’
‘Really late is fine. I’ll be in bed before midnight. Come and join me.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Small gathering means just the two of us.’
‘Ah,’ said Gilchrist.
Cooper pushed herself to her feet and, with an action that he knew she was doing for his benefit, combed her fingers through her hair, tossing it at the nape of her neck.
They faced each other. At five-ten she was not much shorter than his six-one.
Then, as if some decision had been reached, she stretched for the door handle. ‘I’m a busy woman,’ she said, ‘and you’re a busy man. I’m sure we can find some way that fits both of our schedules.’ She twisted the handle, but kept the door closed. ‘I feel it only fair to warn you about one failing I have, which is that I tend not to be patient.’
‘Ah.’ It seemed to be all he could think to say.
‘And I suspect my patience will expire with the return of Mr Cooper,’ she said. ‘I’ll send you a missed call. That way you’ll have my personal number.’
He was about to ask how she had obtained his mobile number when she twisted the handle and opened the door, and invited him to lead the way.
‘After you,’ he said.
She winked at him. ‘A gentleman to the last.’
CHAPTER 11
Gilchrist found Jessie pacing the car park, too deep into her text messaging to notice his arrival. He beeped the remote, and the Merc’s lights flashed. Even then, Jessie did not look up. He turned the ignition, reversed the car from its space, and eased towards her.
She finally looked up with a frown when he almost nudged her with the bumper, then mouthed, One minute.
When she eventually slid into the passenger seat, he said, ‘Everything all right?’
‘Just talking to Robert. Don’t know how we’d communicate without text messages.’
‘Do you need to go home?’
‘No. He’s fine. Says he’s fine-tuned the sheep piss in the whisky joke for me,’ she said, and chuckled. ‘Can’t wait to read it.’
As Gilchrist pulled into traffic, his mobile beeped once in his pocket. He made a point of looking puzzled, then continued to drive on.
‘Is that Cooper giving you her number?’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist glanced at her, then decided silence was the best response.
‘You’re all the same,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Shouldn’t you be asking, ‘‘Is it that obvious?’’ Yes, it’s that obvious.’ A pause, then, ‘It was her, wasn’t it?’
‘How would I know?’ he said. ‘I haven’t checked.’
‘Where’s that honesty you’re always talking to me about?’
‘Well, how’s this for honesty? Next time you’re at a postmortem, I want you to show some professional respect for—’
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘You’re protecting her. You fancy her.’
‘I don’t fancy her, for crying out loud. I would be saying exactly the same if it was Quasimodo performing the post-mortems.’
‘Quasimodo? Now there’s a thought.’
‘We’re supposed to be professionals. Not some, some, some . . . Ah, fuck.’
Jessie waited until they were across the Tay Road Bridge and on the A92 before she said, ‘I’ve been giving the tattoos some thought. I don’t think they’ve been done by hand.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I don’t know. They just don’t seem right to me, somehow. I thought they looked too regular, too identical to be done by hand. It’s more like they’ve been stamped on.’
‘You mean so they can be rubbed off?’
‘No. They’re proper tattoos, but done by a machine. Not a machine but more like a stamping thingie. You know, you lift the arm, smack the stamper on to the skin, and hey presto, there’s your tattoo.’
Gilchrist gave the idea some thought. Did it matter if the tattoos were hand done or not? He could not see that it made any difference but he would give Cooper a call regardless, on her office phone, which might also send the message that he did not think it wise to visit her home. On the other hand, he could keep a low profile until after Sunday—
‘Earth to Gilchrist?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was thinking.’
‘Does it hurt?’
He pulled out to overtake a group of cars and had to swerve back in as a farm tractor with a wooden trailer loaded with turnips exited a field gate on the opposite side of the road.
‘Steady on,’ Jessie said. ‘Do you have any idea how much a new pair of knickers costs these days? And why do they always call them a pair of knickers? Can I buy a pair of knickers, please? And they give you one. I don’t get it.’
Gilchrist waited until a clear stretch opened up, then overtook the tractor. When he hit eighty, he said, ‘So what difference would it make if the tattoo was stamped on by a machine thingie versus being hand done?’
She shrugged. ‘Buggered if I know.’
‘Why suggest it then?’
‘Aren’t we supposed to brainstorm? You know, stick our heads together and come up with something out of left field.’ She chuckled. ‘And that’s another one. What does that mean anyway? Left field.’
‘It’s a baseball term.’
‘I know that, but what does it mean?’
‘Left field is some place on the baseball park where the ball does not normally go.’
‘OK, Babe.’
‘Babe?’
