by T F Muir
Gilchrist ended the call and said to Jessie, ‘Another few minutes.’
Jessie slapped her hands together and blew into them. ‘We could always get Wonder-chippy to let us in before the warrant arrives. Wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said.
He and Jessie had entered premises before without a warrant, but had always agreed on their story before doing so. But he was reluctant to do so in this instance, not because the joiner had already arrived, but because Smiler was still an unknown quantity.
Ten minutes later, Mhairi arrived in her Vauxhall Vectra.
‘About bloody time,’ Jessie said. ‘My feet are like ice. Let me check on the DJ in the van.’
Mhairi walked up the path and said, ‘Sorry, sir. I took a wrong turn.’
‘Not a problem.’ He read the search warrant, making sure it had the correct name, address and reason for issue, then stood back as the joiner took over.
‘Here youse go.’ He slipped the blade of the saw between the door and the frame, and slid it down and out. The lock clicked, and he pushed the door open. ‘S’stupid no having a deadbolt. Don’t even need a saw, so youse don’t. Any bit of flat plastic’ll do the trick.’ He presented Gilchrist with a slip of paper and a pen. ‘Sign here, and that’s youse done and dusted.’
Gilchrist did.
The van’s tyres were spinning before Gilchrist had his latex gloves on.
When he stepped inside, the first thing that struck him was the heat. A check on the thermostat in the hall gave him his answer. He turned it down to 20 degrees, walked into the kitchen, and noted the new skirting boards, surfaces planed smooth and glistening with clear varnish.
The second thing that struck him was the cleanliness of the place, the air redolent of lemon and floral spray, as if Alice had been an OCD freak. The stainless-steel sink shone like new. A finger along the windowsill pulled up no dust. A mug tree held six ceramic mugs that looked as if they’d never been used. He opened a kitchen drawer to reveal rows of shining knives, forks, spoons. The next drawer down contained stacks of plates, teacups, saucers. Pots and pans were hidden in a small cupboard.
He picked up several days’ worth of mail from a tight space behind the front door, where it had been shoved when they had entered. Mostly generic advertising, the usual stuff punted through letterboxes to try to persuade you to buy something you didn’t want, or need. But strangely, or so he thought, not one letter – eleven in total – had Alice Hickson’s name in the address line.
Two were addressed to The Occupier, four to Mrs Susan West, two to G. Bray and three to Mr K. Bradford. For one confusing moment, he wondered if they were in the wrong house, then realised that in a coastal village, the cottage would have been rented out over the years, and that these names more than likely belonged to previous tenants.
But why no Alice Hickson?
Because she hadn’t been living here long enough?
And if not, for how long? Days? Weeks? A couple of months?
He had no way of knowing, and made a mental note to ask Kandy Lal when they met in the morning. He walked through to the lounge. ‘Anything?’
Mhairi said, ‘It’s strange, sir. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting the feeling that the house has been professionally cleaned.’
Jessie entered from the rear hall. ‘Two bedrooms, never been used by the looks of them.’
‘This is where Alice Hickson lived, right?’
‘According to the records, yes.’
‘Any computers, laptops, mobile phones?’ he said. ‘Chargers? Anything?’
Mhairi shook her head. ‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Well, let’s find them,’ he said, as a thought struck him. ‘If she was going on holiday, where’s the suitcase, the carry-on luggage, the handbag, the purse? And how about holiday clothes?’
The house was not large, consisting of a kitchen, two bedrooms, living-cum-dining room, one bathroom, and a small hall that led to the back door. The furniture looked like it had been purchased from IKEA – modern, plain-coloured, easy-toassemble flatpacks. Ten minutes later, each of them had come up empty. For all intents and purposes, the house could have been cleaned and prepped, ready for a new rental. Other than the mail crammed behind the door, they found nothing. Even the wardrobes in the bedrooms were empty except for wooden hangers hooked over the rails. The bathroom cupboards, too, were bare – sink and WC sparkling, shower room clean and dry, toilet-roll holder with a full roll of paper.
At least the Mary Celeste had evidence of having been abandoned.
Maybe Kandy Lal could provide the simplest of explanations in the morning.
Outside, darkness had settled and a mixture of rain and snow whipped the air, as if nature was doing what it could to depress his mood. But the day had not been a waste, far from it. Scott Black had come across as a potential suspect and with a boat he said hadn’t been to sea in recent weeks. The SOCOs might have something to say about that. And Kandy Lal was on a flight from Spain, and would be in the Office in the morning.
‘Do you want me to put tape across the door, sir?’
Doing that might attract unwanted attention, he thought. ‘No need, Mhairi. Just close it. It should lock itself.’
Mhairi pulled the door shut, then tried the handle – locked.
As he followed Jessie and Mhairi down the path, Gilchrist’s mind was working, deciding on his next step. He would have Jackie carry out a search on Scott Black, see what she could find on the man. But it was comforting to know that Jessie’s intuition was in tune with his own.
When they next met Black, he would be better prepared.
CHAPTER 15
Ten years earlier
Oban, west coast of Scotland
Janice threw back another flute of Bollinger ’95, then reached for the bottle again. She sploshed some over the new granite worktop as she filled up her third glass – or was it her fourth – who was counting and what the hell did it matter anyway? – struggling against the surge of her rising temper. And oh God, how it was rising. Penny had warned her, not once, not even twice, but over a dozen times, for God’s sake. But oh no, she had known better. She was in love with James, madly so, deeply so, like a love she’d never experienced before, and she so desperately wanted to marry him.
‘It’s your second marriage,’ Penny had told her. ‘And it’s too soon after Bernard’s passing. If you love James, time will tell. There’s no reason to rush into marriage, darling. Trust me, Janice. I love you, too, but have you considered you’re marrying each other on the rebound?’
That was the word that stuck in her craw the most – rebound – and almost ended their friendship. Rebound? She was in her thirties – well, just turned forty – old enough to know her own mind, for God’s sake. And by God did she tell Penny that. They didn’t speak for four weeks after that confrontation, and when they made up, one night at a dinner party James had laid on as a surprise for her, no expense spared, she’d since felt that Penny never quite trusted her, that some part of their friendship, that special part that made some friends so much closer than others, had simply evaporated.
But Penny had been right, and she, Janice the know-it-all, Janice the lover who had found her soulmate, was wrong.
Oh my God, how she was wrong.
She took another sip, almost finished the flute, and had to take a couple of deep breaths to try to settle her nerves. It was no use getting too drunk to speak sensibly, or getting over that limit that she’d seemed to be exceeding more frequently of late, because tonight was the night she was going to tell James it was over, that she’d made a mistake, one of the gravest mistakes of her life. She’d loved him once, she would tell him that, soften the blow that way. But he’d changed since they’d married. They both had. That’s what she would say. Even in those short eighteen months since they had first set eyes on each other at a summer buffet, as if drawn to each other by pure chance – although she had always harboured an uneasy suspicion that James had targeted her that day – h
er feelings had moved on.
James had shown a side to her, a dark side that he’d kept hidden and which . . . well, quite frankly, frightened her. But in his brighter moods, there was no one quite like James. He was loving, considerate, gentle, kind – like he had shown himself to be the last couple of weeks, as if he’d known she was reaching the end of her tether, that something needed to change, and he would have to make amends to correct it.
This evening, for example. The surprise bottle of Bollinger, her favourite, and the reservation at the Highland Hotel, for no reason other than to tell her that he loved her.
But it was too little too late, and she would tell him that.
She sipped her flute, dribbled some down her chin – how had she managed to do that? Oh dear, and where was her handkerchief? She turned in surprise as James entered the kitchen, and tried to look up at him. But her head was too heavy all of a sudden, and her eyesight seemed blurred. And what on earth was he wearing? She gave out a tiny chuckle, tried to tell him that he looked ridiculous, as if he were ready to paint the house.
Then his hand was on her shoulder – why was he wearing gloves? – and a glass was placed in her hand. ‘There you go, my dearest. Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.’
She tried to resist, tried to say No, but for some reason her arms had no strength. She felt so tired, so damned tired all of a sudden. She didn’t need anything else to drink. He must have sensed her resistance, but the glass pressed to her lips regardless, her head tilted back, and liquid as tasteless as water slipped down her throat.
‘There there, my dearest. Go to sleep now. You’ll feel better in the morning.’
‘Sleep,’ she managed to say as her head lay against the cold kitchen tiles, and the light faded like the sun setting on this mid-December night, becoming dark, and darker still, until all that was left was the tiniest spark of light in the centre of her vision.
Then . . .
Complete and utter blackness.
Silent and solid.
11.30 a.m., Sunday
North Street police station
Jessie had already called Edinburgh Airport and confirmed that last night’s flight from Alicante had landed on time and that Manikandan Lal had been on the flight manifest. But Kandy hadn’t turned up for their eleven o’clock meeting.
Jessie said nothing as DCI Gilchrist dialled the number for the fourth time, only to be dumped into voicemail again. He slapped the handset on to the cradle. ‘That’s it,’ he said, and jumped up from his chair.
She managed to keep up with him as he skipped down the stairs and opened the door to the car park at the rear of the Office. She slid into the passenger seat as he fired the engine and accelerated on to North Street as if his life depended on it. She never liked to see her boss this frustrated, but she knew from experience that you messed with him at your peril.
And Kandy Lal was messing with him big time.
‘There might be a simple reason she’s not turned up,’ she said. ‘Maybe she got pished on the flight and is in bed nursing a major hangover. I’ve done that before.’
As if to show her what he thought of that, he accelerated past a Mini Countryman dilly-dallying at walking speed, indicated right, then sped down South Castle Street. She thought of reminding him that South Castle Street was for access only, then decided against it.
‘I should’ve pulled Black in for questioning yesterday,’ he said.
‘Well you can pull him in for questioning this morning. And at the speed you’re going, that could happen within the next thirty seconds.’
He smiled, a flash of white teeth. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and eased his foot off the pedal.
‘So, talk to me,’ she said. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘It’s – I don’t know. Kandy Lal was so upset when she called the hotline yesterday. I mean, she should’ve been gagging to meet us this morning. And now we can’t reach her? Something’s not right.’
Jessie had to agree. It certainly was odd. ‘You know what I’m thinking?’ she said. ‘If Black ran Kandy to the airport, he’d probably arranged to pick her up from her return flight.’
‘Exactly,’ Gilchrist said. ‘And he must have known about it when we met him. Which is why we need to pull him in for questioning today. Try Kandy’s number again.’
Jessie did, but it kicked her into voicemail. ‘Nada,’ she said.
Gilchrist clenched his jaw and upped his speed to seventy.
They had just thundered past the intersection with Station Road when Jessie’s mobile buzzed. The incoming number came up on the screen – 0141, a Glasgow number – so she made the connection with a firm, ‘DS Janes.’
‘This is DCI Joe Donaldson from Strathclyde Police, DS Janes. I’m the SIO on the investigation into the death of your mother, Jeannie Janes.’
Jessie had the vaguest recollection of having met Joe before – freckled face, a tad on the plump side, sandy hair as tight as wire, and a lopsided smile, the result of having his jaw broken while trying to make an arrest.
‘DS Young told me he’d spoken to you,’ Donaldson said. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Jessie said, ‘Thanks for that.’
‘But I’m afraid I’ve got some more bad news for you.’
A cold hand swept the length of her back.
‘It’s your brother, Terry,’ he said. ‘He’s been involved in an altercation and been taken to hospital. He’s critically ill.’ A pause, then, ‘He’s currently undergoing emergency surgery, but we’ve been advised that he’s not expected to survive. I’m sorry, DS Janes.’
Jessie dabbed her eyes, embarrassed by the nip of tears. What the hell was this about? Why the tears? She couldn’t remember the last time she and Terry said a kind word to each other. They’d never been close. They might have had the same mother, but that was it.
‘What happened to him?’ She was conscious of the car slowing down, the indicator ticking.
‘Several stab wounds to the chest. He’s lost a great deal of blood. I’m sorry, DS Janes, but I don’t think he’s going to make it.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘That’s it, then.’
‘I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything, but in the event your brother passes, we would ask you to make a formal identification.’
Jessie felt a flush of anger. ‘What for?’ she said. ‘Get my other nutcase of a brother to do that.’
‘That’s where we have a problem, DS Janes. We believe it was Tommy who stabbed Terry. We have CCTV footage of him leaving the scene, but we can’t find him. We now have an All Ports alert out for him. He’s on the run.’
‘Oh for fuck sake,’ Jessie said. ‘I can’t do this right now. Not right now.’
She killed the call, aware of the car pulling off the road, slowing on to the grass verge, drawing to a gentle halt. Then a warm hand holding hers.
She pulled free, opened the door, stumbled outside, fell on to the grass. Water seeped through the knees of her tights, squeezed through her fingers. She looked up at the sky, surprised at the sleet stinging her face. Her vision darkened, and she couldn’t seem to pull in enough air. She turned around, sat on the wet grass, and looked up as Gilchrist approached her.
Then his hands were on her arms, gripping her biceps, hauling her to her feet. ‘Over here,’ he said, and she was aware of the stone wall being hard and uneven, and a cold dampness seeping through her backside.
‘Head down. Deep breaths.’
She did as she was told, conscious of the motion of his hands on her back, rubbing warmth into her, just the way she used to do with Robert as a baby. A beeping sound came from somewhere by her ear, and on automatic she tapped her pocket for her mobile.
‘It’s mine,’ he said.
‘Take it. I’ll be all right.’
He did, said, ‘Andy Gilchrist,’ then walked to the front of his car. The engine was still running. It would be hot inside. But just that thought sent a spasm to her stomach, and she slumped on to her knees and t
hrew up – once, twice, then a third time, which seemed to do the trick. She wiped her hand across her mouth, cleaned her fingers in the damp grass, aware of Gilchrist returning.
She struggled to her feet, flapped his hand away. ‘I’m all right now,’ she said. ‘Just took a funny turn there. Don’t know what came over me.’
He stood by her as she took a couple of deep breaths and blew them out.
‘Must’ve been something I ate.’
‘I heard most of what was said.’ He held her gaze. She thought he looked sad as he returned his mobile to his pocket. ‘That was Dainty,’ he said. ‘He’s just spoken to DCI Donaldson.’
‘The man gets around.’
‘Donaldson didn’t get a chance to explain it all to you.’
‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t up for it at the time.’
‘Are you up for it now?’
She trusted Andy. He would not be pressing her if he didn’t think what he had to say was important. ‘Let’s have it,’ she said.
‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ he said, and helped her into the car.
She smiled as he opened the door and she took her seat again – his way of making sure she was sitting down when he told her. Still, she’d had the worst of it all by now, she was sure of that. She clicked on her seatbelt and waited while he walked around the bonnet, then got inside, behind the wheel.
When they’d gone about a mile or so, he said, ‘It’s to do with your mother again.’
‘Don’t hear from her in months, and now she’s making a bloody nuisance of herself.’
He smiled at her silly joke, then said, ‘And Tommy.’
‘A match made in hell, let me tell you.’
Gilchrist’s lips tightened for a moment, then he said, ‘Dainty asked me to let you know that they suspect Tommy was involved in your mother’s death, too.’
A surge like an electrical jolt powered through her. For a moment, her world seemed to stop, and she heard herself say as if from a distance, ‘Tommy? They think Tommy killed her?’
‘Not for sure,’ he said. ‘They need to find Tommy first, and question him.’
