by T F Muir
Footage showed Stan pulling the door open, then hesitating as Donnelly approached from his left. Stan faced him, and the next second was flat on his back, legs kicking and arms flailing as Donnelly, still wearing a hoodie, slashed his knife at him. It took three seconds into the attack – Gilchrist counted it – before Farmer emerged from the rental, jerked Donnelly by his hoodie, and pulled him off.
Two things struck Gilchrist as they replayed the footage: one, that Farmer moved with the speed and slickness of a man trained in unarmed combat; and two, that Donnelly put up no resistance to being pulled off, and had even sat with his rump on the bonnet of an adjacent car while Farmer attended to Stan – odd, to say the least.
Of course, Jessie noticed one other thing that troubled Gilchrist.
‘Zoom in on the back of Stan’s car,’ she said to Jackie.
Jackie did as instructed.
‘That’s a Mercedes,’ Jessie said. ‘Isn’t it?’
Jackie nodded, gave a nervous glance at Gilchrist.
‘Is there a fire sale on Mercedes in Fife?’ Jessie said, before the penny dropped and she turned to Gilchrist with a now-I-get-it gesture. ‘That’s your car,’ she said to him.
‘Stan’s was in for repair,’ he replied. ‘He borrowed mine for the afternoon.’
‘Which means . . .’
‘That Stan was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Gilchrist conceded.
‘And Donnelly was not after Stan. He was after you.’
The wrong place at the wrong time.
Gilchrist could only nod.
CHAPTER 36
After close of play, Jessie and Gilchrist met up in the Central Bar, just the two of them – Nance had a date and had to put on her face; Mhairi was going home for a glass of wine and an early bed; Bill was now assigned to an hourly check of Bowden’s cottage, Gilchrist’s attempt to keep him out of the pub.
Jessie chinked her pint to Gilchrist’s. ‘Going back to this mistaken identity attack on Stan,’ she said, ‘I’d assume Stan’s worked it out for himself.’
‘I’d be surprised if he hadn’t,’ he agreed.
‘So why would Donnelly be after you? You come across him before?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
That was always a policeman’s worst fear, that one of the criminals he had helped put away would seek revenge. But as far as Gilchrist knew, his and Donnelly’s paths had never crossed. Which introduced a new set of fears, that Donnelly had been contracted to kill him. Why else would he have let Farmer pull him off Stan so easily once he’d been told he was trying to kill the wrong man?
He forced these thoughts to the back of his mind as Jessie went on.
‘I’ve had a colleague of mine in Strathclyde check out Donnelly,’ she said.
‘Not DI Lachlan McKellar, I hope.’
‘Lachie’s not DI,’ she corrected. ‘He’s bribed and screwed and lied all the way to chief super. If he wasn’t such a fat useless moron, I might be impressed.’ She gripped her pint glass, as if it were Lachie’s balls.
Gilchrist responded by sipping his pint.
Chief superintendent. That was the level of seniority he should have reached by now if he had not pissed off Fife Constabulary’s hierarchy with monotonous regularity. In a moment of drunken weakness, he had once tackled ACC McVicar about his prospects for promotion and been assured by the big man that they could not afford to lose someone with such drive and intuitive energy to the mundane duties of upper management. He had understood that McVicar had been letting him down gently.
‘Did you know that Donnelly was born in Dundee,’ Jessie said, ‘then moved to Manchester to live with his girlfriend?’
‘Can’t say that I did. About him living with his girlfriend, I mean.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘That figures.’
‘She didn’t die at the hands of Donnelly, you stupid twat. She was killed in a car crash.’
‘Was Donnelly driving?’
‘You’re a right bundle of laughs, I must say. Anything wrong?’
Well, he could tell her how guilty he felt over Stan being stabbed by mistake. Or how he wished he had been more aggressive interviewing Donnelly, maybe threatened him with a stabbing of his own. Or how he felt as if he was failing – it had been, what, six days since the woman was found on the Coastal Path, and they seemed to have achieved sweet eff all. But if the truth be told, he knew it was Jessie’s comment about Lachie reaching CS that stung him the most. Or maybe he needed to speak to his children before they forgot all about him.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just tired.’
He watched her dark eyes dance with his, and her smirk twist into a tight grin. ‘If I didn’t know better,’ she said, ‘I’d say you weren’t getting enough nookie.’
Gilchrist could have sworn the bar stilled for an instant while he struggled to come up with some witty response. ‘Speak for yourself,’ was all he could think of, and regretted the words the instant they left his mouth.
But Jessie failed to take insult. ‘Who the hell would want to be screwed by Jabba the Hutt?’ She took another mouthful, almost drained it. ‘Not me, although . . .’
Gilchrist frowned as her voice trailed off. ‘Have you heard from him recently?’
‘It’s non-stop. He texts me at least three times a day, every day. I mean, what is there not to understand about fuck off. If he keeps it up, I’m thinking of forwarding them on to his wife. That would start the shit flying.’
‘You can do better than Jabba.’
‘Anyone in mind?’
‘Not off the top of my head,’ he said. ‘But you’re young, attractive, smart, witty—’
‘Are you trying to get off with me?’ she said, then let out a hacking chuckle that had heads turning their way. It took all of ten seconds for her to settle down. She wiped her eyes, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Andy. You should have seen your face. You shouldn’t take what I say so literally.’ She reached for her purse. ‘Here, let me get another round. I’m beginning to enjoy this.’
Gilchrist was saved by his mobile ringing – ID Bill McCauley.
‘Yes, Bill.’
‘Nothing to report, sir. Just done another drive-by, and the house is still in darkness. No lights on inside, although some landscaping lights are on in the front.’
‘Solar sensitive,’ Gilchrist assured him. ‘Anything on Farmer?’
A pause, then, ‘I thought you’d already checked out the farm, sir.’
‘Not the farm, Bill. Craig Farmer. Donnelly’s sidekick.’
‘Oh. That. Eh . . . no. Not yet, sir.’
‘Well, keep at it, and let me know what you come up with. And in between, continue with an hourly drive-by. If you don’t see anything by midnight, call it a day.’
Gilchrist disconnected, troubled by Bill’s forgetfulness. By assigning Bill to drive past every hour until midnight, he hoped it might keep him from the pub. But Bill seemed to have a way of turning up at the office, the aroma of strong mints giving the game away – as damning as the smell of cigarette smoke on wool.
‘Problems?’ Jessie said, nudging a settling pint his way.
Nothing that a good sacking wouldn’t take care of, he thought of saying. He had done what he could for Bill and knew he would have to bring it to a head. But rather than get into it with Jessie, he lifted his glass, and chinked it against hers.
‘You’re falling behind,’ she said, then her mobile rang. She glared at the screen, excused herself, and walked outside.
Through the window, Gilchrist watched her breath cloud the air while she let the caller have it full force. Her mother, he thought. Or maybe one of her brothers. He returned to his pint. Maybe it was what Jessie had said to him, or the beer working its magic. Or perhaps he was just feeling lonely. But he took the opportunity to make a call of his own.
‘To what do I owe the honour?’ Cooper said.
‘Calling to find out what’s new.’
She chuckled, a thr
oaty rasp that cast up memories of silken skin and loose curls, and had him shifting his position on his stool. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘Mr Cooper has now returned from his sultry mistress in Italy.’
A confusing mixture of disappointment and relief flooded Gilchrist, followed by a surge of regret that he had called in the first place. ‘That’s not . . . I mean . . . I—’
‘You called to find out what’s new,’ she interrupted.
‘I did. Yes.’ All business again. He gripped his pint.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘the latest is that Mr Cooper is now on his way to London, and not expected back until tomorrow evening at the earliest.’
He glanced out of the window – no Jessie – felt his heart leap to his mouth. ‘I can’t really talk at the moment,’ he said. ‘Let me call you back.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she said.
He gave a wry smile. Well, she had every right to tell him to fuck off—
‘I’ll leave the front door unlocked,’ she said. ‘Come by anytime.’
The call ended.
Gilchrist slipped his mobile into his jacket, surprised to find his hands shaking. Even his heart was racing. What the hell was that all about?
‘You all right?’ Jessie said, sliding herself up and on to the bar stool.
‘How about you? You look fired up.’ He lifted his pint and stared beyond her as he took a sip.
‘Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself,’ she said.
‘Lachie?’
‘I wish. Then I could just tell him to fuck off.’
‘Your mother?’
She took a long quiet sip of her beer, then placed the mug on the bartop with a deliberation that had Gilchrist on full alert. ‘Close,’ she said. ‘Her solicitor.’
Gilchrist waited several polite seconds before saying, ‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘I suppose it had to come in the end.’
‘She’ll never be granted custody of Robert,’ he assured her. ‘I can guarantee that.’
‘Custody?’ She shoved her pint to the side. ‘I’m having a G and T. Want one?’
‘I’ll stick with Deuchars. Here, let me get this,’ he said, and nodded to the barman. ‘Large Tanqueray and tonic, slimline if you’ve got it, in a tall glass with plenty of ice, and two slices of lime, not lemon.’
‘You got it,’ the barman said.
‘Holy shit. I’m impressed. Are you sure you’re not a cowboy in disguise?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said to her, and smiled. ‘We’ll work it out.’
‘We?’
‘You’re one of the team. And I wouldn’t want one of my most promising DSs to let a mere thing like a battle for child custody upset her.’ He regretted his words the instant they spilled from his mouth. Her smile shifted to a tight-lipped grimace that had her eyes welling. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to make light of your problems.’
She shook her head, dabbed a finger at her eye. ‘It’s OK. It’s not that.’
Gilchrist thought silence his best option. He sipped his pint, and waited. Neither of them spoke until the barman slid over a tall glass and Jessie took a sip.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Does that taste good or what?’
‘Better?’ he asked, and raised his pint.
‘Getting there. But when the shit hits the fan, I hope you’ll stand by me.’
Dainty’s words came back to him – reliable, rock solid . . . won’t let you down. I’d recommend her. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he said.
‘Because it looks like I’m going to be charged with resetting.’
Resetting – the receiving and keeping of goods known to have been stolen. ‘Says who?’ he asked.
‘Heathen-face and my cunts-for-brothers.’
‘With their records, I shouldn’t think any of it would stand up in court.’
‘It shouldn’t. Except for one teeny weeny flaw.’
He knew what she was going to say, but he had to ask anyway. ‘Which is?’
‘It’s true.’
‘Right,’ said Gilchrist. ‘You never said that. And I never heard it.’
CHAPTER 37
They left after that drink and Gilchrist dropped Jessie off at home.
He eyed the road ahead, knowing he was over the limit. He knew, too, that if he was ever involved in an accident when he’d had a few pints, it would be his jotters for him, and early retirement. But despite that, he continued to drink and drive.
It made no sense, and he could not explain why he continued to do it. But what also made no sense to him was driving through a frosted night to the home of a married woman, albeit an unhappily married woman. He glanced at his dashboard – 10.32 – thought of just turning round and driving back to his cottage in Crail. But an image of Cooper sliding her hands up her negligee had him reaching for his mobile.
He dialled her number.
‘Hello?’ she said.
He thought she sounded tired. ‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you.’
‘Of course you have,’ she said, then lowered her tone a notch. ‘But I don’t mind being disturbed at this time of night when I’m in bed by myself. Where are you?’
‘Driving.’
‘That tells me what you’re doing, not where you are.’
‘Precision has always been one of your stronger points.’
‘That’s why I’m good at my job.’ A pause, then, ‘Are you alone?’
‘I am,’ he said.
‘So you’re able to speak?’
‘Which is why I’m calling.’
It seemed a game they played, like cat toying with mouse, a precursor to supper perhaps, although Gilchrist had no doubt which of them was for the eating. And he could not fail to pick up on the subtlest of nips in her comment, a reminder of his earlier call, abbreviated as it was.
‘The front door is unlocked.’
‘I worry that you do that,’ he said. ‘It’s like inviting crime into—’
‘Once a policeman, always a policeman.’ Another chuckle. ‘I prefer to think of it as inviting the crimebuster into my home.’
Ahead, the road glittered with diamonds of frost, a million tiny lights that sparkled and danced to the tune of his headlights. A hedgerow zipped past, stripped branches white with frost, close enough to remind him that he was over the limit and driving too fast.
He lifted his foot from the accelerator, felt the car slow down.
‘Gail was unfaithful,’ he said at length.
‘I know. It’s what makes you reluctant to become involved with a married woman, to do to some other husband what was done to you.’
‘I . . .’ He shook his head. What was he trying to say? ‘I’m sorry . . . I . . .’
‘Would it frighten you off if I told you I’ve filed for divorce?’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ It seemed to be all he could think to say. ‘I mean . . .’
‘Mr Cooper doesn’t know yet.’
Which told him that she had not yet filed for divorce.
He gripped the steering wheel, flexed his fingers. ‘When Gail left,’ he said, ‘I was hurt, confused, angry, vengeful, all of the above. But once the dust settled, and I looked back on what happened, what struck me the most was how many years I had put into my marriage, how much time I’d lost and could never recover. It seemed such a waste. If I hadn’t had Jack or Maureen I don’t know what I would have done—’
‘I don’t want any children. Well, certainly not with Mr Cooper.’ She laughed then, a high-pitched chuckle that suggested a glass of red wine, maybe two, even more. ‘Now I’ve really frightened you off.’
‘No.’ He pulled the Merc to the side of the road. ‘What I’m saying is, you have a great deal to consider before going ahead with a—’
‘I love that about you, your diametric opposites. You’re quite the conflict,’ she said. ‘Has anyone told you that before? No, I don’t suppose they would have, would they?’
He chose silence as his response.
�
��You can be so considerate and understanding at times.’ Her voice sounded tinged with the slightest of frustrations. ‘Yet at times so utterly unfeeling and cold.’
He took the opportunity, and said, ‘Like now?’
She waited a couple of beats, then said, ‘You’ve stopped driving, haven’t you?’
He thought of saying he was sitting at traffic lights, but he knew one lie only led to another. ‘I have,’ he said.
‘You’re worried that you’re the cause of the breakdown in my marriage.’ A pause, then, ‘Well, let me assure you that you’re not. My marriage was broken long before you and I consummated our relationship. Mr Cooper saw to that,’ she said, with a finality that signalled the filing for her divorce was imminent.
He was not sure if he was expected to comment, so he said nothing.
‘Oh, Andy. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.’ Another pause, then, ‘It’s getting late. And I’m sure you have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow. Go home to bed, Andy. Go. I’ll be in touch. Ciao.’
He gave her a ciao in return but the line had already died.
He glanced in the rearview mirror – all clear – swung his Merc round in a tight circle, the tyres slipping on the icy surface, and accelerated into a vortex of swirling snow. The road no longer danced alive with frost but lay covered by a thickening blanket, as if reflecting the smothering of his own feelings.
Cooper was right in what she had said. She was right in almost all she said.
But one thing struck him.
He did indeed have a busy day ahead of him.
By the time he parked in Castle Street, the snowfall had stopped.
Overhead, stars pierced a black sky. The wind had risen, beating powdered snow along Rose Wynd like white dust. From the harbour, the sea whispered in a voice as cold as an Arctic winter.
Inside his cottage, he clattered a couple of chunks of ice from the ice-maker into a thick Edinburgh Crystal whisky glass and poured himself a double Balvenie Doublewood – well, maybe a treble – and collected Dainty’s report on Jeannie Janes from one of the chairs in the kitchen. Sometimes that was the problem with correspondence – if it was not in ready sight, it often lay forgotten.
