by T F Muir
He held it out to her.
‘I shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘But as I said, you’re a smooth-talking bastard.’
‘Did you grow up here?’
She shook her head, and mumbled, ‘Easterhouse. Other side of the city.’ One more mouthful finished the muffin, and she brushed her hand on her coat, leaving a trail of crumbs. ‘I needed that,’ she said.
He sipped his coffee, his breath steaming in the cold air. ‘Your parents from here?’
‘Once a detective . . .’ She looked at him and smiled.
Her eyes were the darkest brown, and glistened damp from the cold, as if they could well at any moment. The tip of her thin nose had reddened in the cold, and her flawless skin had chilled to the palest of whites.
‘Just asking,’ he said.
She nodded, then looked away, as if her gaze was drawn to some phantom image in her mind. ‘One of my mother’s boyfriends lived around here,’ she said. ‘That’s another one of the reasons I hate her.’
Silent, Gilchrist waited.
‘I was four or five, or thereabouts. I remember being dragged from one bus to the next, then being tugged along this street. At that age, I didn’t have a clue where I was, and it wasn’t until years later that I recognised the street.’ She turned in the direction of the Clyde. ‘It was the dockyard cranes that I remembered. The Clydeside used to be full of them, ugly black monstrosities that stood above everything else.’ She chuckled. ‘I read The War of the Worlds when I was in my early teens, and I always pictured these cranes as the Martians.’ She fell silent then, but Gilchrist did not want to lose her.
‘Another one of the reasons?’ he prompted.
Again, the speed with which her emotions changed puzzled him.
Her lips pursed and she narrowed her eyes, and he had a sense that she was about to open up to him. A tear swelled, trickled down her cheek. She dabbed it dry. ‘The boyfriend she was going to meet was an artist,’ she said, then scanned the tenement buildings as if searching for his address. ‘Never could find out where he used to live.’
‘Got a name?’
She shook her head. ‘Bob, I think. But I never really knew. Not like she introduced me to him or anything. But I remember liking the smell of his house. Turps and oils. And there were no carpets on the floors, just newspapers spread around to catch the drips. I used to kick my feet through it, you know, the way you do with autumn leaves.’ She fixed her gaze on a memory in the distance, and something dark and dangerous seemed to shift behind her eyes. ‘He had whisky breath,’ she said, ‘but his hands were as smooth as polished stone. When he ran them down my face, he would tell me how lovely I looked.’
Gilchrist felt a cold chill slip through him. He wanted to tell her to stop, it really was too personal, but part of him—
‘My mother would let him do it to her in front of me, standing up against the wall, or on the floor, among the newspapers.’ Tears dripped to the ground.
‘You don’t need to say any more.’ He reached out to her, squeezed her shoulder.
She frowned up at him, then shook her head. ‘I’ve never told anyone about this.’
Gilchrist lowered his arm, hid his face in another sip of coffee.
‘My mother told him . . .’ She shook her head. ‘She told him . . . he could have me if he wanted.’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘I didn’t know what she meant.’
‘Jessie . . .’
‘And when they were doing it, Bob with his twisted face and his arse going twenty to the dozen, she would sometimes hold her hand out to me, wanting me to come closer . . .’
Gilchrist caught the giveaway word – sometimes – which told him all.
Jessie sniffed, lifted her head, stared across the Clyde as if willing the alien machines to turn their ray guns her mother’s way. ‘What kind of a mother would do that to a child?’
Gilchrist had no answer. He had been brought up in a lower middle-income family, in secure and healthy surroundings, with parents who by Scottish nature did not dote on their two sons but taught them the strict rights and wrongs of their own firm moral beliefs. How would his own life have turned out if he had been exposed to the same—
‘Come on,’ Jessie said. ‘That showroom should be opening soon.’
From childhood memories to police business in zero seconds flat? But Gilchrist just nodded, knowing that pressing for more would likely shut her down for good.
With the car’s engine running, and parked fifty yards from the showroom, they waited, and watched.
10.00 came and went. As did 10.15.
‘Not exactly Sauchiehall Street,’ Jessie said.
It took until 10.39 before a skinny blonde with backcombed hair, tight denim jeans over legs of stick, and a black Michelin-man anorak walked round the corner, crossed the street, and stopped at the door. From her handbag she removed what looked like a set of jailer’s keys.
‘About bloody time,’ Jessie said.
Cigarette smoke spiralled around the woman’s face as she struggled to work the keys. Then she jerked the padlock off, and with one final draw and a flick of her fingers, cast her dout to the wind, and pushed the doors open.
‘Let’s go,’ Jessie said. ‘I’m bursting.’
CHAPTER 17
Inside, the furniture display surprised Gilchrist. The size was confusing too, as if they had stepped into a present-day Tardis. Three- and four-piece suites were arranged on raised plinths the size of living rooms. Family-sized signs hung from a ceiling of exposed metal beams and pipes, announcing autumn and winter sales with prices slashed as deep as 75 per cent.
‘Can ah help youse?’
The accent was thick Glaswegian. Up close, the woman’s bloodshot eyes looked as if she’d been up all night. Mascaraed eyelashes seemed in danger of falling off. Lavender perfume failed to smother the throat-catching decay of cigarette ash.
Gilchrist flashed his warrant card. Jessie did likewise.
‘Aw fuck,’ the woman said.
‘Caryl Dillanos,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Loo?’ Jessie added.
‘Loo’s that way,’ the woman said with a nod of her head.
Jessie walked away.
‘Whit about Caryl?’
‘Have you seen her?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘No for weeks.’
‘Does she work here?’
‘Naw. Uses it as a call centre.’
‘Why Dillanos?’
‘Whit?’
‘Is she related to the owner?’
‘Dillanos is a made-up name,’ she said. ‘Gives the place a right Mediterranean-cum-Italian flavour, so it does.’
‘So, who owns this place, then?’
‘Big Jock Shepherd. You might’ve heard of him. Big businessman. Restaurants and pubs all over the place. Minted, so he is.’
‘And he knows Caryl?’
‘He must, if he named the place after her.’
‘And he gives her permission to use it as a call centre?’
She shrugged.
Gilchrist said nothing. Cash paid under the table for a receptionist and an address to add to a business card was one of a thousand ways to keep costs down and beat the tax man, as well as giving a moneyed reality to spongers like Angus.
‘Can we talk outside?’ she said. ‘I’m gasping for a fag.’
Gilchrist followed her back through the double doors and on to the pavement, where she stood sans Michelin-man anorak, shivering in the chill, cigarette already lit and in her mouth, cheeks pulling in as if her life depended on it—
‘It’s Dot, isn’t it? Dot Bonar.’
The woman turned as Jessie joined them, took another draw that looked as if it hurt.
‘Thought I’d seen you before,’ Jessie said. ‘Your man runs a taxi business.’
‘If you can call it that.’
‘You bailed him out last month, if my memory serves me.’
‘And the month afore,’ she said, and held the packet out.
‘Want one?’
Jessie seemed tempted. ‘Giving it up.’
‘Wish I had your willpower,’ Dot said, and removed another cigarette.
Gilchrist wondered what she had done with the first one, then located a smoking stub on the pavement about ten feet away. He also noticed she was visibly shaking.
‘It’s cold,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go back inside?’
‘Let me finish this first,’ she said, and sucked her money’s worth.
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ he tried.
She tilted her head, blew a stream of smoke over his shoulder. ‘I’m still on my three-months’ probation with this job. One fuck-up and I’m out on my ear. Excuse the English.’
Gilchrist thought that opening the store almost forty-five minutes late counted as a fuck-up, but he said, ‘So how do you contact Caryl?’
‘I don’t.’
‘If she uses this place as her call centre, how does she get her messages?’
‘She phones in for them.’
‘Every day?’
Another shrug, another draw.
‘Who does she speak to?’
‘Whoever’s answering the phone.’
‘So if she called right now, that would be you?’
‘It would.’
Gilchrist glanced at Jessie, but she beat him to it. ‘Nip that fag and let’s go back inside and you can show us.’
The reception area was nothing more than a glassed-off desk near the entrance. Dot stepped behind the desk, took a seat by a phone. The walls and glass panels were plastered with scribbled Post-its.
‘Is this it?’ Jessie asked. ‘The telephone reception?’
‘Classy, isn’t it. Not.’ Dot fluttered her fingers through a spiral notebook, and said, ‘Here we are. There’s only two. Someone called last night – “9.10 p.m., male, no name or number, will call later.” I hate when they do that. And here’s the other one, the day afore yesterday – “10.30 a.m., Freddie wants you to call back.” ’ She looked up. ‘That’s it.’
‘Who’s Freddie?’ Jessie asked.
Dot gave another disinterested shrug.
Gilchrist took the notebook from her, flipped through it, searching for other messages, but found none. ‘What do you do with the old messages?’
‘Bin them.’
Jessie knelt on the floor, tipped the rubbish bin, and leafed through the pile, none of which were pages from the notebook. She pulled herself to her feet, leaving the mess on the floor. ‘When was the last refuse collection?’ she asked.
‘Are you kidding? We’ve got a dumpster out the back, and that’s it.’
‘When was it last moved?’
She shook her head. ‘A day or so ago. I widnae know.’
‘We’ll have a look through it on the way out,’ Gilchrist said. ‘You said you haven’t seen Caryl for weeks?’
‘That’s right.’
‘She came here?’
‘Aye.’
‘What for?’
‘To check out the furniture, what d’you think what for?’
‘Who keeps your sales records?’
‘Jock’s accountant.’
‘Who is?’
‘A firm in Govan.’
‘Name?’ It was like pulling teeth.
She removed a tack from a card on a cork board over the desk, and handed the card to him. ‘That good enough?’
Murdock and Roberts CA Ltd. The company name meant nothing to him but, if necessary, he could obtain a warrant for Dillanos Furniture’s sales records. Not that it would ever come to that, he thought.
He pocketed the card. ‘So what does this Caryl Dillanos look like?’
‘Like she’s minted.’
‘Blonde brunette tall small thin fat?’
She looked at Jessie. ‘Blonde. About your height, but thinner. And wears only brand names, all expensive.’
‘Car?’ Gilchrist pressed.
She nodded.
‘I meant, what make?’
‘Mercedes. One of the sports ones, with the big Mercedes thingmie on the front.’
‘On the bonnet?’
‘Naw. The front. On the radiator grille thingmie.’
‘Two-seater? Or four?’
‘How would I know?’
‘What colour?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Silver.’
‘Registration number plate?’
‘Are you joking? Takes me all my time to remember my own phone number.’
‘It’s not a personalised number plate, is it?’
Dot thought for a moment, then said, ‘I widnae know for sure.’
‘We’ll check it out. Anything else you can remember about the car? Any dents, scratches?’ he prompted.
‘Only that she complained it was getting old and was thinking of putting it up for sale.’
‘And did she?’
‘I’ve no seen her in weeks, like I told you.’
Gilchrist returned the spiral notebook. ‘Write this down,’ he said, and waited while she removed a ballpoint from a mug with Lovers Leap printed across it, choked with pens, pencils, highlighters. ‘Eleven a.m.,’ he said. ‘Jessica. Mercedes 350 SLK for sale. Fully loaded. Low mileage. Spotless.’ Then he read out Jessie’s mobile number, and said, ‘You never saw us. We weren’t here today. All right?’
Dot eyed Gilchrist, her look shifting with indecision.
‘I’ll make sure your man doesn’t get lifted next month,’ Jessie said to her.
Something passed behind Dot’s eyes, then she revealed a Stonehenge-row of stained teeth. ‘Forget that,’ she said. ‘Lift the dozy bastard, and keep him in for the weekend. Can youse do that?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I never seen youse then.’
In a vacant plot to the rear of the building, Gilchrist inspected the dumpster, but it contained no more than a day’s worth of cardboard boxes and plastic wrapping.
‘So what’s a 350 LKS when it’s at home?’ Jessie asked him.
‘It’s a 350 SLK, and it’s your boyfriend’s car.’
‘And he’s just done the dirty on me,’ she said. ‘Which is why I’m giving it away to the first reasonable offer.’
Again, the speed of Jessie’s mind surprised him.
Then she looked at him, as if he’d grown horns. ‘You sure you weren’t a bitch in an earlier life?’
CHAPTER 18
As Gilchrist accelerated on to the M8, Jessie said, ‘D’you mind doing a detour?’
‘Where to?’
‘Easterhouse.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘You wouldn’t want to,’ she said.
Silent, he followed Jessie’s directions as she guided him off the motorway and into the maze-like depths of a sixties housing development, which he knew from reading Dainty’s email before crashing out was where Jessie’s mother lived.
‘Next on the left,’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist eased into Wellhouse Crescent.
‘Nearly there.’
‘Is this where you grew up?’ he asked.
‘If you could call it that.’
Rows of three-storey flats ran along one side of a narrow street lined with parked cars that had seen better days. Derelict open space filled the other side.
‘Anywhere here’ll do,’ Jessie said.
He drew in behind a battered Ford Mondeo.
Jessie had her seat belt off and the door open before Gilchrist stopped. ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ she said.
Gilchrist watched her walk along the pavement, her head low, then turn and walk down a concrete path to a single access door, which she pushed open. She entered, and he removed his mobile and dialled Nance.
‘Any luck with Farmer?’
‘Not yet. I’ve got Dan checking out CCTV footage. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘How about the tattoos? You get anywhere with these?’
‘Nada. Baxter and McIvie are doing the rounds, but so far no one’s owning up. It’s
a real long shot, Andy, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Jessie’s suggestion that the tattoos were done by some kind of a tattoo stamp, rather than from the needlework of a tattoo artist, had him almost telling her to call it off. ‘Give them to the end of the day,’ he said. ‘Then bring them in.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. I need you to find the registered owner of a Mercedes Sports. Several years old. Silver. Assume high mileage.’
‘Is that it?’
‘And it might be registered under the name Caryl V. Dillanos, but then again, maybe not. So try personalised registration numbers along the lines of CVD something, or anything else that someone called Caryl-with-a-y Dillanos might find personal enough.’
‘If it’s not registered under Caryl Dillanos, why would the plate be her initials?’
‘If Dillanos is not her real name, then it might mean something to her. She drives around in it, after all. You know, like Cheryl Victoria Dunbar, or some such thing.’
‘This sounds like another long shot, Andy.’
‘It’s the best I can do,’ he said. ‘But I might have something more for you by the end of the day. I’ll call then.’ He hung up, annoyed that his investigation seemed to be stalling. But sometimes you just have to plug away.
Just then, Jessie emerged from the entrance to the flats, her face pale, her lips tight. She marched towards the Merc, and he glimpsed movement at the top window on the block of flats from which she had just left. He peered up at Jeannie Janes mouthing off to Jessie.
The door opened. Jessie slid in.
‘Drive.’
‘Seat belt.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Andy, you can be a right plonker at times.’
‘Who’s this?’ he asked, as a young man burst into the open.
‘Ah, fuck it.’
Although stripped to the waist, the man’s body was covered with so many tattoos he could have been clothed. He reached the pavement, jerked his head both ways, then saw Jessie. His face twisted with anger as he rushed towards the car.
Gilchrist had the door open and was on his feet by the time the young man reached them, and was striding round the bonnet as the man opened Jessie’s door.
