by T F Muir
Gilchrist and Jessie took the lead, with Mhairi, Nance and McCauley as secondary.
The address was another cottage in the countryside, between the villages of Tayport and Leuchars: a three-bedroom bungalow with an attic conversion, and a lounge extension with a conservatory out the back that overlooked the four acres of land on which it sat, and which were rented out as pasture to a neighbouring farm. A stone-built barn stood fifty feet from the bungalow, like a separate building just waiting to be modernised – or perhaps have shackles installed to secure women for the year. Interestingly, Gilchrist thought, the barn was barely visible from the main road, hidden by the roadside hedgerow and lounge extension.
They established that Joe Bowden, the bungalow’s owner, was a geotechnical engineer who worked overseas for an American oil company, and who owned two other properties in the UK – a twobedroom flat in Weston-Super-Mare, and a four-bedroom semidetached in Hayling Island. Records confirmed that both English properties were rented out long-term, whereas the property in Fife had lain empty for three months – since the end of the summer – after the previous tenant, an elderly author looking for a quiet space, returned to Ireland.
McCauley had managed to track down Joe Bowden, who confirmed over the phone that he was thinking of putting the bungalow on the market as he had been unable to rent it for two years. When Gilchrist heard this, his first thought was to charge Angus with fraud, but he thought it might be better to keep that up his sleeve for the time being.
You could never tell when a little blackmail was needed.
By 9.30 they set off, Gilchrist and Jessie in Gilchrist’s Merc; Mhairi and Nance in an unmarked Fife Constabulary Ford Focus, and assigned to make discreet inquiries of adjacent homes; McCauley in a white Toyota RAV4 – courtesy of Shuggie – and assigned to do a series of drive-bys.
Gilchrist and Jessie’s first port of call was the adjacent farm.
He pulled his Merc to a halt outside a two-storey stone building that faced a three-sided courtyard. To the left was a row of buildings as low-slung as stables. To the right an open-sided metal storage facility half-filled with bales of straw.
Gilchrist stepped from the car, breathed in the bitter smell of silage.
Jessie joined him, and screwed up her face. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘Silage,’ he said. ‘Cattle fodder.’
‘Cows eat that?’
‘They do.’
‘That should be deemed cruelty to animals.’
A man appeared from behind the storage facility. His face glowed with the weather-beaten tan of a Scottish farmer. Grey stubble dotted his chin. Shirtsleeves were rolled up, as if he were oblivious to the cold. Tattoos writhed on hair-covered muscles. He approached and said, ‘Can I help you?’
Gilchrist held up his warrant card. Jessie did likewise.
‘Are you the owner?’ Gilchrist asked him.
‘The old man is, but he’s in Stirling for the day.’
‘We’d like to ask a few questions on a case we’re involved in.’
‘Will it take long? I’m in the middle of sorting out cattle feed.’
‘Shouldn’t take long at all,’ Gilchrist assured him. ‘Do you work here?’
‘I also live here,’ he said, giving Gilchrist the answer he was looking for. If he was going to ask about the neighbouring bungalow, he needed to speak to someone familiar with the vicinity.
‘You rent land from the cottage at the other end of the field?’ Gilchrist asked, nodding to Bowden’s bungalow about 500 yards distant. The barn sat off to the side as if on another property.
‘We do. Cattle graze on it. Why?’
‘Do you know the owner?’
‘Never seen him.’
‘Him?’
‘Could be a her, for all I know.’
‘Who do you pay your rent to?’
‘All done by direct debit from the bank. Pay quarterly, best I remember.’
‘Into whose account?’
‘Property manager’s. McCallum, McCannon, a name like that.’
Gilchrist grimaced. He would need to check it out, but it sounded like one more nail into Angus’s coffin. ‘Have you seen any unusual activity in the last week or so?’ he asked.
‘Unusual? Like what?’
‘Any contractor vans, maintenance vehicles, lights on in the house, that sort of thing.’
‘Not a thing. Haven’t seen any lights on inside for a few months either. Outside lights come on in the evening. Solar sensitive. Why?’
‘Have you seen anyone at all in the last couple of weeks?’
‘Can’t say that I have. But I’ve not been looking. The old man should be back this afternoon, if you want to ask him.’
‘Anybody else living here who might have seen anything?’ Jessie asked.
He eyed Jessie as if surprised to hear her talk, then shook his head.
‘Wife? Mother?’
‘Wife’s blind as a bat, and the old dear’s been gone for four years last New Year.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gilchrist said, and handed him a business card. ‘If you happen to notice anything unusual – lights, cars, that sort of thing – give me a call, anytime, day or night.’
‘Sure thing.’
Back in the Merc, Gilchrist hooked his mobile to his car speaker system, and said, ‘Anything, Bill?’
‘The first run past, I thought it was deserted. But from the snowfall, it looks like a car has driven in and out. From here I can’t see if there are any footprints to the door—’
‘Don’t go in, Bill. You’ll only leave your own tracks. It’s important that we leave no evidence that we’re looking at this property. You got that?’
‘Got it.’
‘Don’t hang about either, in case you get noticed. Do another drive-by at midday, then again in the early afternoon, and once more before it gets dark.’
‘Got it.’
‘And no liquid lunches. You’re driving.’
‘Would never dream of it.’
‘In the meantime, see if you can come up with anything new on Craig Farmer.’
Without waiting for a response, Gilchrist ended the call, and dialled another number. He let it ring for ten counts, and was about to disconnect, when Nance’s voice said, ‘Sorry, Andy. Couldn’t pick up there. Got tied up with one of the neighbours.’
Gilchrist had instructed Nance and Mhairi to knock doors on a number of houses close to Bowden’s bungalow, the nearest one being 400 yards along the B945.
‘Any luck?’ he asked her.
‘Sort of,’ Nance said. ‘A Mrs Minnie Black said she saw . . . and I’ll use her exact words . . . one o’ thae black apes wi’ some blonde wi’ a skirt up tae here, and . . . wait for it . . . just seeing the two o’ them thigither was enough to make you boak.’ Nance finished with a chuckle.
‘When was this?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Saturday morning at around nine, when she was hanging out her washing.’
‘In the winter?’
‘Beats tumble-drying.’
‘What car were they driving?’
‘A car was about as good as she could say. But she did say it was silver, and she never noticed the number plate, of course.’
Gilchrist’s thoughts crackled with possibilities. Dillanos lived in Glasgow, about ninety minutes from St Andrews, so around nine would be about right if she drove up that morning. Was it possible Kumar had met her? And if so, once he had sight of this latest property, then maybe Dillanos had served her purpose and could be eliminated.
The whole idea could be ridiculous. But it was an idea nonetheless.
‘Check CCTV footage around that time,’ Gilchrist ordered. ‘They must have been caught on camera somewhere.’
‘Will do.’
Gilchrist disconnected, then dialled another number.
Cooper answered with a curt ‘Cooper.’
‘It’s Andy Gilchrist here, and I’ve got you on speaker with DS Janes,’ he added, just in case Coope
r had any ideas of turning on the charm. ‘You got anything of interest for me?’
‘I was about to call you,’ she said, which had Gilchrist turning up the volume. ‘I’ve been able to confirm ID from the deceased’s fingerprints,’ she said. ‘Stewart Donnelly. You were right. But he also had a number of tattoos, several of which might intrigue you.’
Gilchrist thought Cooper sounded as if she was slipping into her seductive tone. ‘We’re listening,’ he said, reminding her that Jessie was listening, too.
‘He had a series of teardrop tattoos—’
‘Series?’
‘Four, to be exact.’
‘Where?’
‘Under his left arm, next to the number eleven.’
‘Eleven? As in bones?’
‘Yes.’
Jessie said, ‘Were they outlines of teardrops, or inked in solid?’
‘Three were solid, and one was an outline.’
‘The symbolism varies around the world,’ Jessie said to Gilchrist, ‘but I’d bet he’s killed three people, and was still to take revenge on one.’
‘Revenge being symbolised by the outlined teardrop?’ Gilchrist asked her.
Jessie nodded. ‘Once he’s taken revenge, he would have it inked in.’
‘I looked into the symbolism,’ Cooper said, as if not to be outdone, ‘and teardrop tattoos by definition alone are typically tattooed on the face, beneath the eye—’
‘We’re in Scotland,’ Jessie interrupted. ‘Openly displaying teardrops might be seen as an invitation to be challenged. Better just to keep the tally hidden.’
Cooper ignored Jessie’s comment with, ‘So what are your thoughts, Andy?’
Gilchrist puffed out his cheeks, then exhaled. ‘I’m guessing,’ he said, ‘but I’d say the teardrops being tattooed next to the number eleven bones means something—’
‘He killed for Kumar,’ Jessie said. ‘Donnelly was Kumar’s hitman.’
Gilchrist looked at her. ‘Maybe,’ he said, then stared across the open fields. Nothing seemed to make sense. Teardrops, numbers, symbolic tattoos, and murders mounting in Fife. Who would ever have thought international crime would find its way to this spot on the East Neuk? But find its way it had.
If he could not break the case open soon, many more young women would be kidnapped and chained to the walls, branded with bone tattoos, then used and abused.
And in the end, murdered, too.
CHAPTER 35
The remainder of the morning turned up nothing new.
Gilchrist and Jessie paid a visit to Minnie Black, and he handed her a business card with instructions to call him the instant she noticed anyone enter Bowden’s bungalow. Jessie did likewise, striking out her Strathclyde phone numbers and scribbling down her new mobile number, only to have Black scowl at it.
On the drive back to St Andrews, Jessie said, ‘What’s the rush? Everywhere we go you’ve got your foot to the floor.’
‘Force of habit,’ he said, and accelerated to eighty just to annoy her.
But driving fast seemed to sharpen his thinking, hone his sense of logic. As he eyed the road ahead, he tried to work out how to find the missing pieces. His gut was telling him that Minnie Black’s blonde and black ape were Caryl Dillanos and Kumar. But with Dillanos dead, the only way to prove it would be to talk to Kumar. And then there was Craig Farmer, Donnelly’s so-called mate, who had not been seen or heard from since signing his written statement. If he could confront either of these two, he might be able to move the case forward. Black’s report intrigued him.
He glanced at Jessie. ‘Bill’s keeping an eye on Bowden’s bungalow. I want you and Mhairi and Nance to ID Craig Farmer once and for all.’
Jessie nodded, then said, ‘It’s odd, don’t you think? The attack on Stan. Pulling his mate off. Giving a statement under a false name. I mean, why would he do that? And then to give a false address in St Andrews. Maybe he drove back to Dundee. Wasn’t that where they came from?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t get it.’
Neither did Gilchrist. Breaking up a knife attack and stopping someone from being murdered was one thing – you had to have nerves of steel to do that, as well as a willingness to right a wrong but giving a statement that could assign your friend to a term behind bars, then vanishing from the scene thereafter, was another.
‘Maybe he didn’t want his mate, Donnelly, to be charged with murder,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Maybe they’re not mates at all.’
‘Which is another puzzle. Farmer says they met in the pub for the first time that day.’ Gilchrist slowed down to thirty as he entered the village of Leuchars. ‘Check in with Jackie back at the office,’ he said. ‘I’ve got her searching CCTV footage on Stan’s attack.’
They settled for silence as he eased through Leuchars, and he was about to accelerate when Dainty called.
‘You were spot on, Andy,’ Dainty said without introduction. ‘The ballistics match. The gun that fired the bullet that killed Caryl Dillanos and Jana Judkowski was the same gun that killed Stewart Donnelly.’
Gilchrist mouthed a Wow. ‘So in all probability, they were contract killings.’
‘I’d bet the house on it. And here’s an interesting fact. That same gun was used in two separate incidents last year. One in Manchester in August. Local kingpin, Col Feeney, a right bad bastard, and his bodyguard, were shot through the head in Feeney’s Jaguar in an Asda car park. Feeney was in the back seat, his bodyguard was behind the wheel. In the middle of the fucking day, and no one saw a thing.’
‘Or no one was willing to risk their life being a witness,’ Gilchrist said.
Dainty grunted, then went on. ‘On top of that, the CCTV cameras weren’t working. And the other incident took place in Edinburgh in September – another punter who fancied himself as an up-and-coming bigshot, Jerry Best, was shot in the back of the nut as he was about to step into his home. Again, no one saw a thing. But it happened late at night in a quiet residential area.’
‘Any business connection between Feeney and Best?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Both of them were into prostitution and high-priced escorts,’ Dainty said. ‘Although Best was more upmarket than Feeney, if you get my drift.’
‘How about drugs?’
‘Feeney dabbled, but not much.’ The tone of Dainty’s voice warned Gilchrist that worse was to come. ‘But Best was starting to make a name for himself in trafficking,’ Dainty growled. ‘Starting to build a thriving business. The mind boggles. It’s unfucking believable that a modern-day slave trade exists.’
‘And the girls come from Europe?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Everywhere. Poland’s popular. So is Belarus, Ukraine and Romania, and probably all those other fucking places that used to belong to Russia.’
‘Any leads to the shooter?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Dead ends. Every one of them. In and out, and leaves not a clue. They’ve even got a nickname for him. The Ghost,’ Dainty said. ‘He’s scary enough, that’s for fucking sure.’
‘And now the Ghost has made his way up north,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Looks like it,’ Dainty confirmed. ‘Listen, Andy, I’ll send you what I’ve got, and if you need anything else, just give me a buzz.’
Gilchrist thanked Dainty and ended the call.
‘The Ghost,’ Jessie said, and chuckled. ‘If it wasn’t so scary it’d be funny.’
‘Maybe Robert could work it into your comedy routine,’ Gilchrist said.
But he did not catch Jessie’s response. Instead he heard the echo of Colin’s voice whisper – cleaner than a baby’s bum – as his mind pulled up an image of a man down by the harbour slipping into a white Toyota with a dent in the bumper. He had never worked out why his mobile had rung that Sunday morning, or why the man had driven off, or why they had driven back while he was standing at the corner reading his newspaper. Then to find the abandoned house in Boarhills, as if he had been led by the hand, with not a fingerprint in sight, no clues, and no furt
her forward.
It made no logical sense.
But Gilchrist knew logic and sense were nothing to do with it.
That Sunday morning, had he seen the Ghost?
CCTV footage confirmed that Donnelly had crossed the Tay Bridge at 8.23 on the morning of Stan’s attack. Donnelly had been driving the rented Ford, with one passenger in the front seat, the mysterious Craig Farmer. It seemed as if Farmer had just slipped away, like a ghost, which had Gilchrist’s mind firing into overdrive but leaving him with nothing but intangibles and thin air.
On the practical side, Jackie had located other footage of the same car as it appeared in the streets of St Andrews. As best they could work out, Donnelly first hit North Street at 9.40, which had Gilchrist wondering what took him so long – Dundee to St Andrews on the A919 was less than fifteen miles, and no more than a thirty-minute drive. Maybe they stopped for breakfast, or visited someone. Or somewhere? Gilchrist’s gut stirred at that thought.
Had they stopped off at Bowden’s cottage?
Or was he stretching reason too far. Still, the thought niggled.
Nance confirmed that Donnelly and Farmer had two pints in 1 Golf Place. Only one member of staff recalled seeing two people who matched their description, but could give no details, only that they both wore hoodies, which they kept pulled up.
‘They’re avoiding being ID’d on CCTV,’ Jessie said. ‘These guys knew what they were doing.’
Gilchrist could only agree.
At 11.52 the Ford was recorded leaving St Andrews on the A917 heading towards Kingsbarns and Crail on the coast, then captured on its return, clocked at 16.22 – still with Donnelly driving, still with his solitary passenger, and still with their hoodies pulled up.
At 17.18 it pulled into the car park at Murray Place. The lights were doused, and the engine switched off, while Donnelly waited for Stan to arrive, which was burning proof to Gilchrist – if he ever needed it – that Stan’s attack had been premeditated, not provoked as Donnelly had insisted.
Stan had finished for the day and had a bite to eat in the Golf Hotel on The Scores, followed by a pint in Ma Bells. When he walked through the lane to the car park in Murray Place, he was attacked as he was about to enter his car, keys in hand.
