Life For a Life

by T F Muir

  His date with Rebecca Cooper.

  Having an affair with a married woman was one thing. Flaunting it in a busy pub for all to see was something else entirely. Not that it was unusual for work associates to share a drink after work or on celebratory occasions. That went on all the time the world over. He was about to drive off when his mobile rang – ID Nance.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You’ve finally got something on Craig Farmer?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  The tone of her voice had Gilchrist pressing his mobile to his ear. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Donnelly’s dead. Shot through the back of the head.’

  Gilchrist stared out of the window. On the other side of the road, two women in heavy overcoats, shopping bags clutched in fingers chaffed and reddened by a cold Scottish wind, conversed with each other, unaware of the criminal mayhem around them.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked Nance.

  ‘In an abandoned car at the entrance to Strathvithie Country Estate.’

  ‘No witnesses?’

  ‘It’s a professional killing.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  By the time Gilchrist arrived, the SOCOs were already there.

  Not yet 4.00 p.m., and dragonlights lit up the scene.

  He pulled off the B9131 and parked behind two police vehicles.

  The wind had risen, whipping the fields with an Arctic chill.

  ‘It’s not pretty,’ Nance said, leading Gilchrist and Jessie to a white Ford that had reversed through a field entrance, now blocked off by crime scene tape. Nance held up the tape to let Gilchrist and Jessie slip under.

  The driver’s door and the passenger back door on the same side lay open. At first glance, the shattered windscreen looked as if it had been smeared with paint, but as they neared, Gilchrist prepared himself for the worst.

  Not pretty was an understatement.

  The entrance wound in the back of the head was clean enough a tidy hole that could have been made by a surgeon’s drill – with scorch marks to the hair and surrounding flesh that confirmed the muzzle had been pressed to the skin.

  The exit wound was another matter. Donnelly was almost unrecognisable.

  The bullet – SOCOs’ best estimate was 9 mm calibre – had taken most of Donnelly’s nose and one of his eyes with it, splattering flesh and blood over the windscreen in a mess like curried vomit. Donnelly’s body lay slumped over the steering wheel, his lifeless fingers still clutching a mobile phone.

  ‘You think they’ll have a closed coffin?’ Jessie said.

  ‘Give it up,’ Gilchrist said.

  Even though he recognised Donnelly’s clothes – the same light denim jeans, black V-neck sweater – the tattoo on the nape of his neck confirmed ID. Gilchrist leaned into the back seat of the car. It smelled fresh, suggesting it had been cleaned recently, but not by Donnelly – he had looked too rough to show interest in maintaining appearances.

  ‘The car’s a rental, right?’ he asked.

  Nance said, ‘Enterprise in Dundee. Already called. They’ve confirmed it was rented to a Stewart Donnelly this morning for a week. Paid cash in advance.’

  ‘Thought he’d just been released,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Where’d the money come from?’

  ‘We’ll check local banks.’

  ‘Maybe we need to be asking why he came to St Andrews in the first place. I mean, there are plenty of pubs in Dundee. Why here? Can we check the mileage?’

  ‘Already done that,’ Nance said. ‘He’s clocked up a total of sixtytwo miles.’

  Gilchrist did a quick mental calculation. ‘The shortest drive from Dundee is twenty miles, so it’s forty there and back. As he’s still on the St Andrews side of the Tay, he must have driven around here for a bit.’

  ‘Maybe he drove around Dundee.’

  Gilchrist grimaced. His gut was telling him that Donnelly rented the car to cross the River Tay and come to St Andrews. If he had wanted to see Dundee, he could have walked around the place. No, the car was rented for travel. He felt sure of that.

  ‘See if we can find any CCTV on the car,’ he said to Nance, and returned his attention to the back seat. From the direction of the blood and brain spatter, and the clean entry wound, the killer must have been seated directly behind Donnelly.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked Jessie.

  ‘I’d say there had to have been at least two of them,’ she said. ‘A passenger in the front to keep his attention, and another in the back to shoot him.’

  Gilchrist nodded. ‘What about his mobile? Why didn’t they take it?’

  ‘Maybe he was calling for help.’

  ‘Or someone called as a distraction?’

  ‘Which would mean there was a third involved,’ Jessie said, and walked to the front of the car.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘We’ll get our technicians on to it,’ Nance said.

  Gilchrist thought the mobile could give them a lead. At the very least, they should be able to retrieve Donnelly’s contacts, view records of his last phone calls. But as he worked through the logic, he came to see that the killers had not taken Donnelly’s mobile because they had known it could offer nothing—

  ‘Check this out,’ Jessie shouted from the other side of the car.

  Gilchrist walked round the bonnet to the front passenger door.

  Jessie was crouched on the ground. ‘Looks like we’ve got a partial imprint,’ she said. ‘And a couple of slip marks, which makes me think our man left in a hurry. But again, who wouldn’t when the guy next to you gets his head blown off ?’ She pushed to her feet. ‘He’ll definitely have some blood spatter on him. And there’s no footprints by the rear passenger door this side, which suggests there were only two of them.’

  ‘Or the passengers in the rear exited from the same nearside door,’ Gilchrist offered.

  Jessie glared at him, as if irritated at being challenged.

  ‘But I agree,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I think there were two of them, and we need to find Farmer.’ He turned to Nance. ‘Can we prioritise that?’

  Nance nodded, and spoke into her mobile.

  Having just scheduled an early debriefing, he ordered Nance to call everyone on the team and postpone it for a couple of hours. Starting up a fresh investigation on a Friday night was not the way to win a popularity contest, it would not go down well. But if he offered to buy a few rounds later, that might soften the upset.

  CHAPTER 21

  Gilchrist came to, struggling to work out where he was.

  Skylight windows looked down at him like black observation strips.

  Rain as heavy as a monsoon thudded the rooftop, rattled the glass.

  A tongue that tasted like the bottom of a parrot’s cage, and a glance at his bedside clock – 08.04 – reminded him that he’d had too much to drink last night. He pulled himself from bed, still in his shirt and underpants, and eyed his socks, trousers, belt, jacket and scarf on the floor, like a trail that led back to the hallway.

  In the dining room, Dainty’s printed email spread across the table like an abandoned letter. Had he tried to read that last night? A long shower, hot enough to cook shrimp, did little to shift the pain, and a couple of Panadol chased with two glasses of Diet Sprite tried to make a start at clearing the fog.

  By the time he drove to St Andrews, the skies had worsened, dumping rain as thick as slush on to roads that seemed naked without traffic. An ice-cold wind that could strip meat from a bone sliced along North Street like a lunatic looking for a way out.

  ‘You think she’ll turn up?’ Jessie said.

  ‘The weather’s not like this in Glasgow,’ Gilchrist replied. ‘So she’ll be on her way.’ He checked his watch – 09.30. ‘Probably leaving about now.’

  As arranged, Shuggie had trailered the Mercedes into St Andrews, where it now sat kerbside in Free Parking at the top of North Street, within easy sight of the cathedral ruins. Rain slid off its shining paintwork in sheets of sleet. Gilchrist found
himself resisting the urge to sit behind the wheel, start it up, and just take it for a spin. He handed the keys to Jessie.

  ‘We’ve got over an hour before she turns up,’ he said. ‘How about a coffee?’

  ‘Thought you were never going to ask.’

  Starbucks heaved and steamed like a cattle market, the cramped floor space more crowded than Marks and Sparks on a weekend sales day.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Gilchrist said, and together he and Jessie ran across Market Street.

  Beyond the brief respite in the pend of Logie’s Lane, they scurried along South Street and found a couple of seats in Con Panna. Gilchrist ordered two lattés – one skinny, one fatty – which failed to crack the waitress’s face.

  Having skipped breakfast on the grounds that his stomach could not face it, the warm aroma of cooked food teased saliva to his mouth. ‘Like a bacon sarnie?’ he asked Jessie.

  ‘You trying to fatten me up?’

  He smiled at the waitress. ‘And two rolls and bacon.’

  When the waitress left, Jessie said, ‘What’s up with her?’

  ‘Hangover?’

  ‘Just like you?’

  Gilchrist grimaced. ‘Does it show?’

  ‘I’m glad I left after two.’

  ‘I wasn’t far behind you,’ he lied.

  Six pints of Deuchars were four more than he allowed himself as a maximum. But it had been a Friday night, the end of the working week – whatever a working week was – and he had convinced himself that he needed more than a couple to drown the horror of it all. It had not helped that his son, Jack, had turned up when he was finishing his third, and well, what could he say? He had to have a few pints with his boy, and left with a promise to visit Jack’s studio and see some of his new work.

  The bacon was salted, the fat verging on crisp – perfect – and the rolls baked fresh that morning. Two bites had Gilchrist signalling for another before Jessie had even finished peppering hers.

  ‘I thought Robert could eat for Scotland,’ she said. ‘Looks like he’d take the silver.’

  ‘Didn’t realise I was so hungry.’

  Jessie nibbled at her roll, followed it with a sip of coffee, and said, ‘So what do you want me to tell this bimbo when she turns up?’

  ‘You’re going to tell her nothing. Just lead her to the Merc as if you’re going to show her it, then act surprised when I turn up—’

  ‘If you’re going to arrest her, I’d rather arrest her myself,’ she said. ‘I won’t feel like I’ve settled in until I arrest someone.’

  Gilchrist eyed his second roll, contemplating where to bite first. ‘Better to stay out of it,’ he said. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to arrest someone later.’

  Jessie looked at him, as if a thought had just come to her. ‘Do you think this Dillanos bird’ll bring someone along to check out the Merc?’

  ‘I doubt it. By the way she talked numbers, she knows what’s what.’

  Jessie took another sip of her coffee, then said, ‘If she’s rented the cottage from Angus, then I’m willing to bet she knows Kumar.’

  ‘But maybe not what he does,’ Gilchrist said. ‘A commission for finding a quiet cottage for long-term rent on the Fife coast could be another way of getting some pocket money.’

  ‘She knows Kumar,’ Jessie insisted. ‘And she knows what he does. You just need to hear the man’s voice to know he’s not renting property to watch birds. Well, not the feathered type anyway.’

  Gilchrist bit into his roll. For Kumar to decapitate a pair of Russian gangsters, he must have no fear of reprisal, no respect for human life. An image of Gordie’s eyes widening with fear from the knowledge of what was about to happen, being murdered in the most horrific manner, surged through his brain like an electric jolt.

  The psychopathic mentality truly was frightening. What set psychopaths apart was their lack of compassion for their victims, lack of remorse for their crimes, and a mind-blowing inability to consider themselves responsible for their actions. He recalled the first time he interrogated a convicted psychopath, and being stunned by the rationale – If she hadn’t told lies about me, I wouldn’t have had to kill her—

  ‘You going to eat that or play with it?’

  Gilchrist looked at his roll, pushed it to the side of his plate. ‘I’m full.’

  Jessie sipped her coffee, eyed him with suspicion. ‘Empty to full in five seconds? I wish Robert could do that.’

  He tried a smile, not sure he pulled it off, then forced his thoughts on a new tack. ‘Did you give Robert his new SIM card?’

  ‘Who said anything about a new SIM card?’

  ‘Why else would you rush into Orange?’

  Silent, Jessie bit into her roll.

  ‘You’re just making sure that his grandmother can’t text him because you’ve changed his number,’ he said.

  Jessie pushed her empty plate to the side, as if to clear the way between them. ‘So I got him a new SIM card,’ she said. ‘What’s the big deal?’

  ‘The big deal is, why would you deny having bought one?’

  ‘It’s personal. OK?’

  ‘Not wanting to talk about it yet?’

  Jessie discarded his question with a shake of her head, and glanced outside. ‘Looks like it’s settling. Probably be hot enough to wear a bikini this afternoon.’ She snorted. ‘Me in a bikini? You’d better hope it starts snowing.’

  ‘I should have arrested your brother,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Don’t go there, Andy,’ she snapped, and the fire in her eyes warned him to keep out of it. ‘My family doesn’t exist. My mother, my brothers, all of them, don’t exist in my life. Not any more. Got that?’

  ‘Got it,’ he said. But if she thought he had, she did not know him.

  CHAPTER 22

  Outside, the wind had dropped and the clouds shifted, leaving a blue sky as clear and cold as a polar morning. Nowhere near bikini weather, but it sure beat slush for rain. They strode along South Street in silence, and at the far end turned left towards Deans Court. The cathedral ruins spilled off to the right. Straight ahead, the 350 SLK Mercedes glinted in the sunlight.

  A woman with brown hair appeared to be inspecting it.

  ‘That might be Dillanos,’ Gilchrist said, and crossed the road, leaving Jessie to walk towards the woman by herself. He cursed his carelessness. He should have anticipated her arriving early. It was the weekend, after all, so why wait for an eleven o’clock appointment if you had nothing else to do except buy a car in a giveaway deal?

  He reached the entrance to the cathedral ruins, stepped inside, and veered off the pathway, pretending to show interest in weatherworn gravestones that littered the damp grass. Through the metal railing, he watched Jessie walk to the car, his sixth sense telling him that all was not as it seemed.

  Jessie shielded her face from a blast of iced air as she crossed North Street. The Merc sat parked between a Volkswagen Beetle and a Ford hatchback, its silver paintwork reflecting the cold sunlight like a steel mirror. The woman did not notice Jessie bearing down on her, her attention taken up with peering through the side window, as if trying to read the mileage from the dashboard.

  Jessie had almost reached the Mercedes when the woman looked up.

  ‘Hi,’ Jessie said. ‘Are you Caryl?’

  The woman pushed a gloved hand through her hair, and said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m Jessie.’ She held out her hand.

  Dillanos took it without removing her gloves.

  ‘What do you think?’ Jessie offered, turning to the car.

  Dillanos nodded. ‘Not bad.’

  Jessie took her in – same height, thinner, light-brown hair, not exactly the blonde that Showroom Dot had described, but maybe her hair had been dyed. And well dressed, with a thick woollen jacket and skirt, black woollen tights, and grey shoes that matched her scarf and gloves and turtleneck sweater. But she looked younger than Jessie had expected, in her twenties she guessed, not thirties, far too young to be carrying all
that cash around. And it struck Jessie that they should perhaps have called in Angus, just to make sure.

  ‘You got ID?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘I’ve got twenty thousand IDs.’

  ‘I mean proper ID. Like a driving licence.’

  ‘I’ve got a driving licence.’

  ‘I’m not asking if you’ve got one,’ Jessie said. ‘I’m asking to see it.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘ID.’

  ‘Have you got the keys and the registration documents?’

  Jessie looked hard into Dillanos’s eyes. No sign of fear there. This was not going as she had anticipated. She had never bought a car before. The deal for her Fiat 500 had been done by Lachie. She had come up with the money, signed the paperwork, of course, but had taken no part in the negotiations. Lachie had done that, worked out a sweetheart deal on her behalf, to show what a caring partner he could be or, even more scary, a loving husband.

  Dillanos unbuttoned her jacket, tapped a white envelope that poked from the top of an inside pocket. ‘I’m not handing this over without checking the registration documents and seeing your ID.’

  Two things struck Jessie. The first, that although she had never seen £20,000 in cash, the envelope looked too thin. If they were all £100 notes, there would be 200. If they were in £500s, 40. Was there such a thing as a £1,000 note? Even so, how thick would twenty notes be? And the second, if this woman was Caryl Dillanos, then Jessie was Marilyn Monroe.

  ‘So,’ Jessie said. ‘What do you think?’

  The woman shifted her gaze over Jessie’s shoulder as she let the wind blow the hair from her eyes. ‘Look,’ she said to Jessie. ‘I don’t have all day. I need to see the registration documents.’ Another glance.

  Was she searching for someone?

  Jessie nodded. ‘The documents are in the glove compartment,’ she said, removing the key fob from her pocket. She pressed it, and the boot lid popped open. She walked to the back and, as nonchalant as you like, closed it.

  Off to her side, beyond the cathedral railings, to the right of the War Memorial, she caught Gilchrist mulling around the gravestones, mobile to his ear, body angled so that she was within his field of vision. She pressed the fob again, and the door locks clicked.