by T F Muir
He switched on the fire, then the TV – TV to mute – and took a sip of whisky as he settled down. He started off by flicking through the pages, looking for words that caught his eye – a list of petty offences, nothing to write home about, but all of them breaking the law; several visits from the Social Services resulting in attempts to recover overpayments, mostly to no avail; probation, community service, fines, disturbance of the peace – now where had he heard that? – on and on as if to abide by the law was a crime in itself.
He took another sip of whisky and returned to the beginning.
He noted the address in Wellhouse Crescent, Easterhouse, Glasgow – the tattooed body of Mr Angry, and Jessie’s mother screaming at them from a third-floor window, flashed into his mind – and her date of birth, 20 October 1958. For occupation, assistant salesperson was noted, beneath which was typed lifelong prostitute who worked Blythswood Square in the 70s and 80s, but now suspected of pimping in the city centre. He had to force himself to take a sip, not drain the glass. It was not uncommon for prostitutes to raise their children to follow in their footsteps, as if they were passing on the baton, the gift of the world’s oldest profession.
No wonder Jessie hated her mother.
He read on.
Suspected of supplying Jock Shepherd with underage girls, but that link remains unproven, despite three separate undercover operations. The name Jock Shepherd stopped him short again, and he recalled an image of Dillanos Furniture Showroom, and a skinny nicotine addict by the name of Dot. The world was becoming smaller. A list of names with which Jeannie Janes was associated, or suspected of being associated, ran for most of one page, and he scanned them for any he might know, and stopped with a grunt – William Thomson Reid, aka Bully, and James Thomson Reid – the Reid brothers, Bully and Jimmy. Christ, planet Earth really was shrinking by the second. Again, Jessie’s voice echoed at him – Tommy’s back in Barlinnie. He’s the nutcase of the family. If Jessie’s two brothers, Tommy ‘Nutcase’ and Terry ‘Angry’ Janes, were only half as bad as the Reids, then Jessie really was better out of it.
He eyed his whisky, then drained the glass. He stretched for the Balvenie, pulled out the cork, and poured another – only a small double this time. Another sip had him marvelling at the honeyed spiciness and toying with the idea of becoming a whisky connoisseur. The only problem with that, he knew, was that he liked beer more – or should he be saying he liked more beer?
He chuckled, and returned his attention to Dainty’s report. And as he read, the glow from the Balvenie and the heat from the gas fire were working their magic. Concentrating was becoming an effort, and he was about to call it a day when he jerked awake.
He read the lines again.
. . . has two sons, Thomas and Terence – no middle names – and one daughter, Jessica, whose middle name, Harriet, she claims was for Harry Allen, the executioner who hanged Peter Manuel at Barlinnie Prison in 1958. She also claims that her mother, Dolly Janes, née Ferguson, was raped by Manuel after he murdered the Smart family in January 1958, but escaped being killed when she told Manuel that it was her eighteenth birthday. Jeannie Janes claims she is Peter Manuel’s illegitimate daughter. The story has never been verified . . .
Gilchrist pulled himself to his feet.
. . . Peter Manuel’s illegitimate daughter . . .
Which would mean that Jessie was Peter Manuel’s granddaughter.
Was that the secret Jessie wanted to keep from Robert, that his great-grandfather was one of Scotland’s most notorious serial killers, whose reign of terror in the fifties came to an end when he was hanged in Barlinnie in 1958? He rechecked Jeannie’s date of birth – 20 October 1958 – and saw that the dates fitted.
Was this true, or just a story put around by Jeannie Janes to add to her personal infamy. The illegitimate daughter of Peter Manuel? How many extra turns had she done once that bit of information came out, and what, if any, extra underworld respect had she gained as one of Glasgow’s madams purporting to have a serial killer’s genes? But one more thought struck him, that if Peter Manuel were still alive, he would be in his eighties.
He revisited Dainty’s notes.
He did not know Jock Shepherd personally, had never met the man. But he did know he was a fair old age, and one of Glasgow’s original thugs who had brawled his way to the top by his bootstraps. Had Jock Shepherd known Peter Manuel? Or had he known Jeannie’s mother, known that she’d been raped? If so, it was not a huge stretch of any imagination to see the big man take care of a bastard child with a criminal pedigree already in the making. Had Big Jock been Jeannie’s surrogate father, or an avuncular figure who would shove opportunities Jeannie’s way?
He scanned the printout again – suspected of supplying Jock Shepherd with underage girls – while these thoughts and more, as far-fetched and illogical as they were, fired at his mind with the speed of a snake strike. He understood Jessie’s need to distance herself from her criminal family, her desire to make a new life for herself, her struggle to free her son of all familial rancour. And he came to understand how far Jessie had come, how much she was prepared to do to give her son the upbringing and chance at life that she never had.
He folded Dainty’s report, undecided how best to handle it.
He drained his whisky and made his way to his bedroom.
As he stripped off and went through his nightly ablutions, images flickered and flashed on the screen of his mind – Jessie’s mother with her foul mouth and white flouncy hair; her brother with his muscled body blackened with tattoos; young women in summer dresses, their half-naked bodies lying white and blue in snow-covered grass.
He had never understood how the subconscious mind worked. Maybe the alcohol loosened it up, or maybe it just churned out answers to avoid breaking down from overload. But whatever it was, or however it worked, it worked. And it worked at the most unexpected moments.
Like at that moment.
He replaced his toothbrush, rinsed his mouth, retrieved his mobile from the top of his bedside cabinet. It took him less than a minute to find the first number – the number given to him by an anonymous female caller – and all of ten seconds to find the other – the number of the person who called him when he jogged down to Crail harbour.
He compared them, ran through their sequences digit by digit, and knew he was not mistaken. But he also knew it would take him longer than the remainder of the night to work out why they were one and the same.
CHAPTER 38
Gilchrist dialled the number, pressed his mobile to his ear.
He counted ten rings before the line clicked. He waited for someone to say something, but the line hung in silence. Had he been shunted to voicemail? He ended the call and tried again – ten rings, the same result – which suggested he was through to voicemail. He was about to leave a message when he thought better of it. Whosever phone it was would see his number on the ID screen and know he was calling.
He ended the call and placed his mobile on the table.
By that time, he was wide awake. Sleep would elude him if he went to bed. So he spent the next hour googling Peter Manuel.
He learned that Manuel murdered the Smart family on 1 January 1958, and was arrested twelve days later. Jessie’s grandmother, Dolly Janes, was born on 10 January 1940, so if she was raped by Manuel on her eighteenth birthday, that was three days before Manuel’s arrest. With Jeannie’s birth in October that year, the dates did indeed agree, and Gilchrist conceded the possibility that Jessie could be Manuel’s granddaughter. Or, more terrifying when you looked at it another way, that her brothers, Tommy and Terry, seemed consigned to carry on in their grandfather’s tradition.
Scary did not come close.
He was interrupted by a call on his mobile – ID Bill McCauley – the time 00.14.
‘Thought I should call you, sir, and let you know that I’ve completed the final drive-by of Bowden’s bungalow. The lights are still off, other than those in the garden. Would you like me to arrang
e for someone else to carry on through the night?’
Gilchrist knew that Bill was phoning this side of midnight in the hope of disturbing his beauty sleep. But he was too long in the tooth to be troubled by petty niggles. As long as Bill did his job, and stayed out of the pub, everything would be fine.
‘Thanks, Bill, but I’ve arranged for an unmarked to drive by through the night. Let me know what you’ve found on Farmer in the morning.’ Gilchrist thought he caught a whispered curse as the connection was broken, which told him that Bill had little to offer on Farmer.
Well, Bill could tell him face to face, in the morning.
Gilchrist toyed with the idea of pouring another Balvenie, then decided against it. The trouble with whisky, he was learning, was that it was more-ish – the more he drank, the more he wanted. Maybe he should just stick to pints. At least his belly and his bladder offered some form of control.
His mobile rang, and he checked the number – not one he knew.
‘Is this Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist?’
‘It is.’
‘This is Minnie Black. You asked me to call if I saw any lights on in the hoose along the road. Well, someone’s just driven in.’
Gilchrist’s first thought was that Bill had decided to have a closer inspection. ‘Are they still there?’ he asked, stripping off his shorts and reaching for his underpants and jeans.
‘That’s what I’m telling you.’
‘Don’t go anywhere near the house,’ Gilchrist ordered, not wanting to add they may be armed for fear of frightening her.
‘Have nae fear of that. The snow’s coming doon in bucketloads.’
Gilchrist disconnected then called Bill. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘On my way home.’
So, if Bill was not at the bungalow, who was? ‘How close are you to Bowden’s?’
‘No more than five minutes. Why?’
‘Mrs Black just called. Someone’s there.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Just watch, Bill. Don’t go in. Stay well back. We need to make an ID first.’ He thought of calling Jessie but it was after midnight, so he said, ‘I’ll meet you there.’
He hung up and pulled on his clothes.
But the snow was beginning to bed, making the road surface slick, and he called Bill as he drove past the entrance to the Castle Course.
‘Anything, Bill?’
‘Haven’t seen anyone yet, sir. The lights are still on, and all the curtains are drawn. But I’ve got a registration number on a silver BMW X5 SUV.’ He read out the number and Gilchrist assigned it to memory.
‘Do you need backup?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Shouldn’t think so. If I see any movement, I’ll call you immediately, sir.’
Gilchrist ended the call, then phoned the office to order a search on the PNC for the X5. He got through to a woman who identified herself as Pat – Gilchrist could not place her – and said, ‘Call me the instant you come up with anything.’
It took all of five minutes for Pat to call him back, confirming the number tallied with the vehicle. ‘And it’s registered to a Dmitri Krukovskiya with an address in Duntocher, outside Glasgow,’ she said.
The name niggled, but he could not place it. ‘Exact street address?’ he asked.
But the address meant nothing either, so he asked Pat to forward it to Strathclyde.
He was negotiating the roundabout at Guardbridge when it struck him that the name Krukovskiya might have been shortened to Krukov, the same name as the Georgian twins whose bodies were found with their heads on their laps. And was Duntocher where they had their barn to keep women chained to the walls?
A cold sweat flushed through him.
He dialled Bill’s number but it kicked him into voicemail on connecting.
‘Shit,’ he said, and tried again.
Same result.
He left a curt message. ‘Bill. Andy. Give me a call.’
He then called Minnie Black who picked up on the second ring. He apologised for the late call and said, ‘Can you tell me if the lights are still on in the house along the road?’
‘They switched them off about ten minutes ago.’
‘Can you see any vehicles?’ he asked. ‘An SUV. Silver-coloured?’
‘I wouldnae know what an SUV looked like if it came up and ran me over.’
‘Are there any cars there?’
‘It’s too dark to tell.’
He wondered if the landscape lights had been turned off too, but rather than push any further, he thanked her then disconnected. He tried Bill’s number again but it shunted him straight to voicemail. He thumped the steering wheel. He tried upping his speed but the tyres spun on the ice, forcing him to cut back. He dialled Jessie’s mobile and was surprised when she picked up on the third ring, sounding wide awake.
‘Sorry to call at this time,’ he said to her.
‘Don’t worry. I’m past caring about beauty sleep.’
‘Does the name Krukovskiya mean anything to you?’
‘That was the name of the Georgian twins, the gangsters from Duntocher, Dmitri and Yegor. Krukov was easier to say than that Krukovskiya shite, and had the added benefit of rhyming with fuck off. Why? What have you got?’
‘Don’t know yet,’ Gilchrist said, but now fearing the worst. ‘What became of the property in Duntocher?’
‘Auctioned off.’
‘Everything?’
‘Everything that could be sold.’
‘Any of it walk?’
‘I’m sure some of it did, although we could never prove it. They were supposed to have a stash of cocaine but we never found it. Cash and jewellery, too. We shut down their bank accounts, recovered about a hundred grand. I think that was about it.’
‘How about cars?’
‘A few, I think. Fancy ones. Why? What’s going on?’
He thought of asking her to meet him at Bowden’s bungalow but it was past one o’clock in the morning, the middle of winter, and a snowstorm. Besides, there could be some other explanation for Bill not answering. ‘Go back to sleep, Jessie. I’ll call if I have anything for you.’ He drove on into the white whirlpool and prayed he was not too late.
His car’s headlights picked up the entrance to Bowden’s bungalow. Landscape lights lit up the gable end – the side hidden from Minnie Black’s view – but the windows lay cold and black.
He slowed to a crawl, and when he reached the entrance, he stopped.
A pair of fairly recent tyre tracks swept from the short drive and headed in the direction of Tayport and Dundee. The snow had been on for the best part of two hours but had that inconsistent fall typical of a Scottish winter – one moment it could be thick enough to blind you, the next as fine as haar. And even though the temperature was close to zero, in some places the ground retained sufficient heat to prevent it from lying. But that night the snowfall had laid down a white bed, enabling Gilchrist to work out what happened. He figured that the tyre tracks of the car’s entrance to the property were already covered. But he took encouragement from the exit tracks, and came to see that Bill might have followed the SUV as it drove off.
He dialled Bill’s number again and was shunted straight to voicemail.
He ended the call. He did not like it, not one bit, but did not want to start a panic by putting out a BOLO for Bill’s car. There could be any number of reasons why Bill was not picking up – his mobile could be switched off, or need charging, or he could be in an area that had no signal. Or Bill could be making another point to piss him off, that it’s against the law to talk on the phone while driving and I’ll call back once I’ve parked.
He would not put that past Bill.
So he tried to put himself in Bill’s position, work out from where he might have watched the bungalow. He thought back to their last call, and saw that from the length of the drive, and the layout of the property, Bill had to have been close to the entrance to read the registration number.
Gilc
hrist eased the Merc forward, hoping to find evidence of Bill’s presence in the snow, but in accordance with that irritating rule of sod’s law, the snowfall thickened, laying a blanket at least half an inch thick in a matter of minutes. Gilchrist turned round and drove back, pulling up beside a farm gate on the opposite side of the road, which offered a sensible spot from which Bill might have surveyed the bungalow.
But the snow offered him no tyre tracks, footprints, or anything that would help.
He tried Bill’s number again, but this time it was dead.
Had the SIM card been removed?
He called the office, got through to the duty officer, and inquired if she had heard anything from DI Bill McCauley.
She had not.
‘Try his home number, and any other numbers we have on file for him,’ he ordered. ‘And if you can’t raise him in the next few minutes, put out a BOLO on his car. You have the details?’
‘I’ll find them, sir.’
‘And put out a BOLO for a silver BMW X5 SUV.’ He read out the number from memory, then added, ‘Likely en route to Dundee, so alert Tayside Constabulary right away.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Gilchrist disconnected, did a three-point turn, and headed for the Tay Road Bridge and Dundee beyond. He prayed that he was overreacting, that Bill was just making him suffer for assigning him an hourly drive-by through midnight.
But as his drove on towards the River Tay, he was preparing himself for the worst.
CHAPTER 39
They found Bill’s decapitated body at the first light of dawn that morning, in a layby off the B946 just west of Tayport. The headless body of a woman was found alongside. They were both lying face down – in a manner of speaking – and fully clothed for winter – jackets, jeans, boots, scarf and gloves. Their wrists had been tied behind their backs with what looked like blue-coloured towing rope.
Bill’s wallet was still in his inside pocket, credit cards intact, and thirty-five pounds in used notes. Nothing appeared to have been taken. His warrant card was still strapped around the bloodied stump of his neck, making identification a formality.
