by T F Muir
‘Silver.’
‘Registration number?’ He was pushing the boat out, but you could never tell.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know my own. If the lights didn’t flash when you press the button, I’d never find it.’ She chuckled, and Gilchrist smiled in support.
He asked if she could describe the renters, perhaps give some idea of ethnicity, but she had paid no attention – why should she? She’s wasn’t nosey. He asked when she had last seen the renters, how long she thought they had been there, and if she knew when Mr and Mrs Ramsay were expected to return. But her answers were only filling up his notebook, not really gaining any ground.
He had just about run out of questions when he said, ‘Do you have any way of contacting the Ramsays? In an emergency, say?’
‘I’ve got their son’s number.’
‘That’ll work,’ he said.
As he waited while she returned indoors, he thought of the call to his mobile earlier that morning, and the glimpse of the man getting into the Toyota, which in turn had led him to the Ramsays’ house—
The door snapped open.
‘Here you are.’ She handed him a slip of paper. ‘I’ve included the international code.’
He exchanged the slip for one of his cards and asked her to call him anytime, day or night, if she ever thought of anything else. He crunched his way back down the driveway, called the office, and asked Liz to put out a BOLO on a silver BMW X5 SUV, two passengers, one white, one Arabic-looking. There, he had said it.
He just hoped he had it correct.
Next, he eyed the printed phone number.
He had spent a week in the Caribbean once, when Gail first left and he took himself off to St Thomas for a few days of sunshine, rum cocktails, and the hope of some quickly forgotten holiday romance. But a shrimp cocktail on his first night put him in bed for the next three days with food poisoning. All things Caribbean after that were eaten or drunk with half-hearted enthusiasm.
He glanced at his watch – 10.33 – which, if his memory and arithmetic were correct, put it at 6.33 on a Virgin Islands’ morning, sunny, no doubt. Time they were up, he thought, and dialled the number.
He got through to a man’s voice on the second ring, and asked for Mr Ramsay.
‘Speaking.’
Gilchrist had expected an older-sounding voice, then realised he might have their son on the line. ‘Mr Ramsay Senior?’ he asked.
‘Lennie’s still in bed. Can I help?’
Gilchrist gave a belated apology for disturbing them at such an early hour.
‘No problem. We’re all usually up by now. But Lennie had one too many last night.’
What is it with Scotsmen and Saturday nights? Gilchrist explained the reason for his call, and asked if Lennie could give him a call back.
‘Jean’s around,’ the man said. ‘She might know.’
When a frail-sounding voice came on to the phone, Gilchrist worried that he had woken the entire Caribbean neighbourhood. But Jean could not remember the name of the property management company. ‘And I warned Lennie not to go with him. I didn’t like the look of his eyes.’
‘Whose eyes?’
‘The man who came around to look at the property.’
‘From the property management company?’
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’
For a moment, Gilchrist thought he was going to land lucky, but he’d really been asking too much. ‘And you can’t remember the name of the company?’
‘Hold on a minute, I’ll check with Lennie.’
‘I thought he was . . .’ But from the clatter of the phone, he realised that she had laid it down. Another glance at his watch confirmed it was 6.42, and just the thought of a sun-filled morning and a walk along the beach was enough to have him toying with the idea of trying the Caribbean again – but without fish dishes.
A sudden wind shift had him pulling his collar up. Ice brushed his hair, and he caught the black forms of carrion crows landing en masse in the leafless branches of a nearby tree – chestnut, he thought – a silent group, with black invisible eyes that watched everything, as if conspiring to commit a crime. A murder of crows seemed apt. Starlings lined an overhead telephone cable, as if deciding whether or not to migrate. Should they not have flown the country before now—
‘McCarron and Co.,’ a man’s voice said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The name of the property management company is McCarron and Co.’
Gilchrist fired awake. ‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as my name’s Lennie Whatsisname,’ he said, followed by a guffaw that had Gilchrist pulling his mobile from his ear. ‘Touch wood,’ Lennie continued. ‘We’re still all here.’
‘Can you describe Mr McCarron?’
‘Not really. Blue suit, white shirt, tie. The usual. A bit young, I thought. But friendly enough. And a bit on the chubby side. That’s about all I can remember.’
‘Phone number?’
‘I’ve got a business card somewhere. But it could take me some time to find it. Can you wait?’
Gilchrist’s lips felt as if they were about to turn blue. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll find it.’
Back in his car, he turned on the engine, the heater to full, and rubbed his hands.
Mr McCarron – a bit on the chubby side, blue suit, white shirt, tie, the usual.
And a liar to the bloody hilt.
Gilchrist looked along the driveway to the white Toyota. It sat with its boot open, Robbie half-hidden, his head and shoulders buried inside. He thought of checking with Colin, see what they had found. But he would catch him later.
He eased his Merc off the pavement and accelerated on to the road.
He did not want to spoil Mhairi’s fun. But if she had not arrested Angus by now, she had missed her chance.
CHAPTER 31
Gilchrist managed to find a parking spot in South Street and arrived at Patterson and McLeod’s just after eleven. The door was locked to the public, but through the window he saw Angus with a scowl on his face mouth off to Mhairi. From the look on Mhairi’s face, all was not going well.
He rapped the window with his key fob.
Angus started, then opened the door.
Gilchrist ignored the glaring welcome and brushed past him. Inside, the office felt as cold as an open-air stall. Mhairi returned his gaze with a hard look of her own.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked her.
‘I was trying to—’
‘No,’ Angus interrupted. ‘Everything’s not all right.’
Gilchrist faced Angus. An uneven flush coloured stubbled cheeks, and a redness in his eyes gave the impression that he might have had more to drink last night than McCauley and Baxter combined. ‘I’m listening,’ Gilchrist said.
‘I’ve offered to help,’ Angus complained. ‘I’ve done my bit as a good citizen. I’ve wasted hours of my time being dragged along to the station and looking through a gazillion photographs, and, and . . .’ He turned the full heat of his thousand-watt glare on to Mhairi. ‘And now I’ve been cautioned and treated like some . . . some piece of shite?’ He dabbed a hand to his mouth, wiped spittle from his lips.
‘Finished?’
‘I’ve a right good mind to call my solicitor.’
‘Do that.’
‘You’ll be hearing from him too. I’m just about—’
‘Take a seat.’ The words came out louder than intended and seemed to stun Angus into silence. Gilchrist turned to Mhairi. ‘So Patterson and McLeod have nothing on their books with respect to that property in Boarhills?’
‘Apparently not, sir.’
‘I’ve already told her—’
‘When I want you to speak I’ll ask you a question. Now shut it and take a seat.’
Angus paused, as if unsure how far to push. ‘I’ll stand.’ His anger pulsed like a force field, and Gilchrist came to see that Angus had abused Mhairi in their past relationship, that he was just one of a million
other men around the world, who may not use physical violence but who play on their masculine presence as a threat.
Gilchrist said, ‘Would you like your solicitor present?’
‘Just get on with it.’
‘How long have you worked with Patterson and McLeod?’
‘Eight years.’
‘Straight from school?’
‘From uni.’
‘Which one?’
‘Aberdeen.’
‘And you’ve worked nowhere else?’
‘Look, what is this?’
‘Don’t make me ask again.’
Angus gritted his teeth. ‘No.’
‘You were thinking about starting up on your own. Wasn’t that what you said?’
Wary now, as if he knew he was being herded to some cliff edge but could not see the drop. ‘So?’
‘When were you planning to start up on your own?’
‘Soon.’
‘How about business cards?’
‘What about them?’
‘Get any printed?’
Something seemed to dawn on Angus then, a revelation of sorts that spread across his face and ended with him opening his mouth in an, ‘Aahh.’
Gilchrist waited.
Angus scratched his head, looked at Mhairi, then back to Gilchrist. ‘Years ago I got some business cards made up,’ he said. ‘That’s what this is about. Isn’t it?’
‘How many years ago?’
He shrugged. ‘Six, seven. I was new to the game, keen to break out.’ He gave a smile of success. ‘McCarron and Co. That’s what I was going to call my new business. Didn’t know who the Co. was going to be, though. But I liked the sound of it.’
Mhairi said, ‘So what happened?’
‘Didn’t have the money to rent anywhere.’
‘With you in the know?’ she said. ‘A finger in every pie, you used to tell me. You couldn’t locate a property to rent for a reasonable price?’
‘Not in town. No.’
‘So you gave up?’ She seemed flabbergasted.
Angus clenched his fists, as if reassuring her that he could slip into bullying mode in a heartbeat. ‘I decided to put the business venture back a few years. Wait until I saved up a few bob. You know, had some capital to invest.’ He nodded his head, all businessman once more.
Gilchrist forced them back on track with, ‘So you rent out property on the side using your own business cards—’
‘No way,’ Angus said. ‘That would get me fired.’
Gilchrist held Angus’s shocked look. ‘So how do you explain your business card turning up at the Ramsays’?’
‘Who?’
‘Lennie and Jean Ramsay. They live in Boarhills.’
Angus twisted his mouth with failed memory recall. ‘Don’t know them.’
‘I didn’t say you did.’ Keeping Angus on track was like trying to hold a fish with oiled hands.
‘They must have been stolen,’ Angus said.
‘All of them?’
‘Yeah. From the office.’
‘You kept your own business cards in the office?’ Mhairi said. ‘Here? In Patterson and McLeod’s?’
Angus shrugged. ‘Stupid, eh?’
‘Anything else stolen?’ Gilchrist tried.
Angus shook his head. ‘Not that I remember.’
‘I see.’ Gilchrist walked to the middle of the floor. Outside, a young couple, oblivious of his presence, were eyeing sales advertisements taped to the window, faces flushed from the cold, or perhaps at the prospect of trying to save for a down payment on a home of their own.
He turned back to Angus.
‘The Ramsays are on holiday,’ he said. ‘The Caribbean.’
‘All right for some.’
‘And while they’re away, they rent their home on a short-term lease.’
‘Yeah, Christmas and New Year in the East Neuk is beginning to catch on.’
‘They gave a description of the property manager they dealt with.’
Angus seemed to tense, like a schoolboy preparing for six of the best.
‘And they described you to a T.’
Angus shrugged, shook his head. ‘They couldn’t have. I don’t know them.’
Anyone would think the man did not have a care in the world. And at that moment, Gilchrist came to see that Caryl Versace Dillanos with her Mercedes sports cars and Porsche Cayennes and her toyboy on the side had probably twisted Angus’s mind with the promise of the good life and plenty of nookie on tap – as long as he did as he was told.
‘Caryl Dillanos?’ Gilchrist said, more to gauge a reaction than generate a further line of inquiry. And he thought it interesting how Angus’s eyes darted first to Mhairi, then flitted around the room to settle, in the end, on himself.
‘What about her?’
‘Did you give her any business cards?’ he asked. ‘The McCarron and Co. ones?’
And Angus, as if seeing his way out of a deepening hole, said, ‘Yeah. I think I might have. Maybe one or two. You know, from a few spare I had lying around.’
Gilchrist grinned, and turned to Mhairi. ‘Would you like me to do the necessary?’
‘I’ve got it, sir,’ she said, reaching to her belt.
Gilchrist cautioned Angus while Mhairi unclipped a pair of handcuffs from her belt and approached Angus like a Rottweiler to meat.
‘Turn around,’ she ordered.
‘Hang on, Mhairi. What’s going on? What am I being lifted for?’
‘Resisting arrest,’ said Gilchrist, ‘if you don’t do as the lovely lady says.’
‘Ah, fuck this.’
‘Indeed,’ said Gilchrist.
CHAPTER 32
By mid-afternoon, the BOLO on the BMW X5 SUV resulted in his team pulling over eight silver-coloured X5s. But none with two male passengers. So Gilchrist checked back with the SOCOs to see if the white Toyota with the dent in the bumper had offered any clues.
‘Checking the VIN on the PNC confirmed it was stolen in Nottingham,’ Colin told him. ‘And it’s been wiped clean—’
‘No fingerprints at all?’ Gilchrist asked, unable to mask his disbelief.
‘Cleaner than a baby’s bum. The steering wheel, dashboard, door handles, seats, doors, windows – we found nothing.’
‘What about the house.’
‘Nothing there, too.’
‘Not even the kitchen?’ He felt sure they would have found something there.
‘It’s not that difficult to do,’ Colin said, ‘if you think about it, if you start out with the intention of not leaving any fingerprints. You could wear latex gloves—’
‘All day, every day?’ Gilchrist argued. It seemed far-fetched.
‘And carry a rag or a cloth in your pocket to wipe—’
‘All right, I get the picture.’
And he did. He was dealing with professionals who knew how to evade detection, not leave evidence, not draw attention to themselves, and who had contacts south of the border, who could knock off cars in Nottingham—
His mobile rang – ID Dainty.
He pushed back from his desk, flexed his shoulders, and connected with, ‘Gilchrist.’
‘Got some news for you,’ Dainty said without introduction. ‘Don’t know if it’s good or bad, but I’ve just got a report of a double killing. Two women. Megan Murphy, aka Caryl Versace Dillanos. Born and bred in Glasgow. And Jana Judkowski, Polish. Heard of them?’
Gilchrist closed his eyes. He had tried to convince Jana that Dillanos was trouble. But trouble enough to have her killed? He pressed his mobile to his ear, stared out of the window, and dreaded asking. But he had to know.
‘How were they killed?’
‘Single shot to the head,’ Dainty said, ‘then dumped at the edge of Greenock Road to make sure we’d find them.’
‘CCTV?’
‘Not at that spot. Bodies weren’t discovered until around midday, but we’re thinking they were dumped in the wee hours. It was pissing down last night. And on that stretc
h, cars are hitting seventy or eighty, even the ton. You’d have to be looking straight at them to see them. These guys knew what they were doing. We’re thinking professional team, someone with a grudge against Big Jock Shepherd.’
The name had Gilchrist gripping his mobile tighter. ‘Why Shepherd?’
‘Dillanos was known to do some ducking and diving for the big man.’
‘Like Dillanos Furniture?’
‘And more.’
‘Enough to get her killed?’
‘Big Jock’s been in the family business all his life. He’s powerful. Like the patriarch of Glasgow crime. There’s more than a few punters down here who would like to see him turn up in the Clyde wearing a pair of concrete boots. But he’s not the kind of guy you’d ever want to cross. Maybe these bullets to the head will be the start of something. Who knows.’
The bullets to the head had Gilchrist thinking of Donnelly’s murder. ‘I’ll have our SOCOs send you a ballistics report. Could you check it for comparison?’
‘I thought you were investigating stabbings.’
‘We had a separate shooting yesterday,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Does the name Stewart Donnelly mean anything to you?’
‘Not ringing any bells. You think it’s connected?’
Probably not, Gilchrist wanted to say. But the murder of Dillanos and her trainee, Jana, felt like two killings too many. ‘Just want to tick all the boxes.’
‘Keep me posted, Andy.’
Gilchrist was about to hang up when a thought struck him. ‘Why did you call me?’
Dainty chuckled. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to ask,’ he said. ‘Dillanos had Jessie’s name and number written on a note in her purse. And yours, too, circled half a dozen times.’
‘Like a reminder?’
Dainty snorted. ‘Like she’d never want to forget.’
When Gilchrist disconnected, he tried to work through the rationale of how his mobile number ended up on a note in Dillanos’s purse. But if he thought about it, it made sense. The call to his mobile at Crail harbour earlier that morning could be the link. Had Dillanos given his number to them? But even so, why would they have called him, then driven off ?
He was missing something, but what he could not say.
One thing was clear.
Angus McCarron was about to cough up.
