by T F Muir
She stared out at the countryside. Fences, bushes, hedgerows passed by in a grey blur. Time could have stopped, or be speeding up, she couldn’t tell, but her memory retrieved stop-start images of herself as a child, when she and her brothers were innocent children, before all this hatred, before the world turned the years on, before they grew up into criminals . . .
‘I can drive you home, if you’d like.’
‘Let’s keep going,’ she said. ‘I’d probably open a bottle of plonk too early for the good of my health.’ She tried a laugh, but it sounded forced, even to her ears.
‘Any idea where Tommy might have gone to?’
‘How the hell would I know? I haven’t spoken to him in years.’ Then she turned to face him. ‘Is that why Dainty called? To ask you to find out if I knew where Tommy might run off to? Bloody hell, Andy. I thought you knew me better than that.’
Several silent seconds passed, before Gilchrist said, ‘That’s not it at all, Jessie.’
‘Yeah, sure it isn’t.’
‘Listen to me. It’s important you understand what’s being said here. Dainty’s far from stupid, and he’s thinking that if Tommy killed his mother, and then Terry, well . . . you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out that you might be next on his list.’
She turned to Gilchrist, searching his eyes and mouth for any hint of a joke. But he was deadly serious. She placed both hands to her chest, gripped the seatbelt tight, and held on to it. ‘Bloody hell, Andy. Is this really happening?’
He eyed the road ahead. ‘I’m afraid so.’
CHAPTER 16
Gilchrist rapped the letterbox, then held his finger down on the doorbell. From deep within, a melodic ringing echoed back at him. He held it down to the count of twenty, then tried the letterbox again, rattling it against the frame.
Jessie pulled her face back from the living-room window. ‘She hasn’t come home.’
Gilchrist kneeled and peered through the letterbox, but saw nothing except the inner door, its lack of glass panels casting the vestibule into darkness. He stood up and stepped into the middle of the narrow street. The dormer windows still had their curtains half-drawn. The house looked no different than it had last night.
‘Let’s see if any of the neighbours heard anything,’ he said. ‘I’ll try this side.’
He pressed the next-door’s doorbell, and was about to press it again when the door opened with a sticky slap. He flashed his warrant card at a haggard woman, rollers wrapped to her head like a protective helmet. ‘Your neighbour, Ms Lal, was flying home last night from holiday. Did you hear her arrive?’
‘Sorry, son. I widnae’ve heard a thing once I took out my hearing aids.’
‘Does anyone else stay here with you?’
‘Naw, just me and Erchie.’
‘Is Archie here?’
‘I widnae waste your time, son. Erchie’d had a few in the Mayview, being Saturday an’ that. And once he’s had his tea, that’s it. Off snoring for Scotland.’
He thanked her, and tried two more doors – same result. No one had heard a thing.
Jessie walked back to him, shaking her head. ‘I don’t think she’s turned up.’
He phoned Mhairi. ‘Check that Ryanair manifest again, and see if Kandy Lal really was on that flight from Alicante.’
‘Already done that, sir. She was.’
‘Pull CCTV tapes from Edinburgh Airport. If she was on that flight, we need to track her.’ He ended the call. ‘Right,’ he said to Jessie. ‘Let’s see what Scott Black has to say about this.’
The drive to Black’s cottage took less than five minutes, but even before he parked, Gilchrist knew something was wrong. He stepped into the cold sea air and eyed the brick-paved driveway. The Land Rover and trailer with its day-sailing yacht were both gone.
‘So much for being a fair-weather sailor,’ Jessie said.
‘I don’t think he’s taken it out for a sail.’
The temperature felt close to freezing. An easterly wind whistled in off the sea. The Firth of Forth could be a black canvas dotted with white specks. In a matter of hours, they could be battling a gale-force storm, or as weather forecasters say in Scotland – a light breeze with some scattered showers. No wonder whisky was downed by the gallon.
‘Check the front door,’ he said, and pulled out his mobile as Jessie strode up the path. When Mhairi answered, he said, ‘Put out an All Ports for Scott Black, and place a trace marker on the PNC. Dark blue Land Rover Discovery. You got the registration number on file?’
‘I do, sir, yes.’
‘His yacht’s gone, too. So check with the coastguard and other harbours for a white yacht called Sundancer. He can’t have gone far.’ But even as he spoke, his mind was working out the hours from yesterday to the present, multiplying the answer by fifty – which could be a conservative average speed if it was all motorway driving – and reached the conclusion that if Black had left shortly after they’d called on him, and driven through the night, he could already be in France.
As he watched Jessie walk away from the front door and push open the gate that led to the back garden, he added, ‘And apply for a warrant to search Black’s home.’ He gave her the address. ‘Then contact Colin and tell him to get his team ready for a forensic investigation. Get the IT techies on to Black’s website and see what they can come up with. And send copies of Kandy Lal’s headshot to all forces in Fife, Tayside, Lothian and Borders, Central and Strathclyde. We need to find that woman.’
On the off-chance that Black had only moved his boat to storage for the winter, he asked for Black’s mobile number, then dialled it. But as the connection was being made he knew he was wrong.
The number you are calling is no longer in service.
Well, there he had it. He ended the call, slapped the roof of his car. How stupid had he been? How fucking stupid to have let Black slip through his fingers like that. He looked up as Jessie reappeared through the garden gate.
‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘Place is locked up. Looking through the windows, I’d say he’s gone for good, and left in a hurry.’
‘Ah, fuck.’ Gilchrist strode to the end of the street and faced the sea, letting the wind and the freezing rain batter his face as punishment. And how he deserved to be punished. He wanted to scream to the sky, and curse at the top of his voice. They’d had him. He’d had him. He’d had Scott Black in his hands, and ignored his gut feeling, that sixth sense of his that had helped him over the years.
Just fucking ignored it.
Now Black and Lal were both missing, and you didn’t need a sixth sense to know that the outcome didn’t bode well. And he was to blame. ‘Ah fuck,’ he shouted, and stomped back to Black’s cottage.
Jessie registered the look on his face. ‘What are you doing, Andy?’
He reached the front door, and removed his wallet. A quick look around to confirm no one was watching, then out with a credit card, into the gap, pull it down, press it through a bit of resistance at the lock, then . . .
‘Voilà.’ He opened the door.
‘Warrant’s on its way?’ Jessie said.
‘I’m concerned over Kandy Lal’s well-being,’ he said. ‘There might be something in this property that could give us an insight into where Black has taken her.’
‘That’ll work,’ Jessie said, ‘although I’d like us to agree that we won’t disturb a thing until we have the warrant.’
He handed Jessie his car keys. ‘Stay outside, and keep an eye open. Only one house has a direct view of this door.’
‘Back garden’s different,’ she said. ‘Keep away from the rear windows.’
He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, entered the house and closed the door behind him. He was taking a risk. Without a search warrant, any evidence he happened to find would be deemed inadmissible. But if he argued that he believed Kandy Lal’s life had been in danger, that might possibly mitigate the damage.
In the hallway, he heard nothing, and walked i
nto the lounge.
A grey phone sat on a side table. He picked it up – dead. He replaced the receiver, ran his gaze along the lead to the wall connection. It looked OK, so it was possible that Black never used a landline, but phoned exclusively on his mobile.
He walked to the middle of the room.
Jessie was correct. Black had left in a hurry.
A wooden coffee table with several drawers opened squatted in the corner of the lounge. One of its drawers had been pulled right out, its contents strewn on the carpet – table mats, carry-out menus, electrical leads, a webcam with a clip for fixing to the screen of your computer, and . . . an old Nokia mobile phone.
He was no expert in mobile phone technology, but knew enough to access the SIM card. He slid the plastic cover off the back, and whispered a curse.
The SIM card had been removed.
Well, what had he expected? A signed confession?
He replaced the Nokia on the floor, then entered the kitchen. A peek into a poorly stocked fridge suggested that Black must eat out, or have food brought in. He depressed the waste-bin’s pedal and the lid opened to reveal a pizza box and a foil carton from an Indian takeaway.
Upstairs, he entered Black’s bedroom. He knew it was Black’s bedroom, because the other two bedrooms had a funereal look to them; they smelled of dust and polish, single beds made up as if no one ever slept in them.
But Black’s bedroom was a mess.
Bedsheets lay scattered on the floor, alongside a crumpled bath towel and a bathrobe that had seen better days – too threadbare for Black to take with him? The bathroom was cluttered with toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, all items that could be purchased anywhere, anytime. But they could provide good DNA samples, so it was important that he and Jessie secured a formal search warrant, and followed protocol.
Back to the bedroom.
The wardrobe lay open, clothes ransacked, empty hangers strewn across on the floor. The bedside table, too, had been pulled from the wall, revealing a skirting board covered in dust. A single drawer lay upturned on the carpet. He was about to return downstairs when he glanced out the window at a panoramic view of a sandy beach and grass-covered rocks, beyond which lay the black waters of the Firth of Forth.
It was not nature’s beauty that stilled him, but the sight of an abandoned trailer.
He ran down the stairs and out of the front door, making sure to secure it behind him.
Jessie looked up from her mobile, and he signalled for her to follow him.
She caught up with him as he stepped on to the beach. ‘Anything?’ she said.
He nodded ahead. At that level and angle, the trailer was out of sight, and he realised Black had abandoned it there in an attempt to hide it. ‘Black’s trailer.’
Jessie squinted against the wet wind. ‘Where?’
‘Along here.’
By the time the trailer came into view, they had walked over two hundred yards along the beach. Windswept dune grass offered some cover at ground level, but from the way the trailer had rammed into the sand, it looked as if it had been parked there with force. Tyre-marks and deep ruts caused by spinning wheels confirmed that Black had launched his yacht, then reversed his trailer into the dunes.
Which begged the question, where was his yacht?
‘You sure this is the trailer?’ Jessie asked.
Gilchrist ran a hand over the wheel rim, the same wheel he’d checked out yesterday – black paint peeling off red lead primer where rust was setting in. He then walked to the rear of the trailer and scraped his shoe across the sand, and deeper still until he uncovered the number plate. He had an excellent memory for numbers, and nodded when he read it.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Looks like he’s abandoned it, and we’re supposed to think he’s sailed off into the horizon.’
‘And do what?’ Jessie said. ‘Beam up his Land Rover?’
‘Maybe he had someone help him.’
‘And maybe he thinks our heads zip up the back.’ She glared at the sea. ‘He’s done a runner, Andy.’
Gilchrist could not disagree. Scott Black was a loner. He thought he knew that much. But launching a yacht singlehandedly in waters as rough as these – small as the craft was – would take some strength. Yesterday, the sea had not been as wild as it was today, but even so. ‘I’m thinking he backed the trailer into the sea when the tide was in,’ he said. ‘Then locked the yacht’s tiller, fired up the outboard, and let it go.’
‘He couldn’t have done that without getting in it, could he?’
‘Once he’d set it on its way, he’d jump overboard and swim ashore.’
‘So what’s that going to hide?’ she said. ‘It’ll eventually turn up somewhere.’
‘Not if he’s punctured the hull.’
‘To destroy evidence?’
‘Alice Hickson’s DNA, I’d say. From dumping her overboard.’
‘Possibly Kandy’s, too?’
Gilchrist felt his heart slump. It really didn’t bear thinking about. If he’d acted sooner, none of this would have happened. Black would be in custody, and Kandy Lal would still be alive. He shivered off a sudden chill. He could surmise all he liked, but that wouldn’t get him anywhere. Black had got rid of his yacht and abandoned his trailer.
The key now was to find the Land Rover Discovery.
He phoned Mhairi. ‘Any hits on Black’s Land Rover?’
‘Nothing yet, sir.’
‘We need to up the search for it,’ he said. ‘If you haven’t already done so, run the registration number through the ANPR. We need to find it as soon as.’
When he ended the call, Jessie said, ‘A horrible thought’s just occurred to me. If Black collected Kandy Lal from the airport last night, she might be on that yacht.’
Gilchrist found his gaze drifting seaward. If Kandy had been killed, or drugged and tied up inside the yacht, Black would have scuttled it, taking Kandy to the bottom of the Firth of Forth. But he found himself shaking his head.
‘Too risky,’ he said. ‘The sea’s too unpredictable. And if his yacht was found with her body on board, there’s only one person we would go after.’
‘So where is she?’
‘That’s what we have to find out.’
He gave a brief smile, then walked back along the beach.
Ice-cold spindrift rose off the waves like mist. He struggled to lift his mood. By going on the run, Black had shown his guilt. Gilchrist felt as though he could take that positive point from today’s work, at least. But it didn’t help. His whole being was leaden with the thought that they were already too late to help Kandy.
Way too late.
CHAPTER 17
On the road back to the North Street Office, Gilchrist had just driven past the entrance to Stravithie Castle when his mobile rang – ID Mo.
‘You forgot,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you?’
Gilchrist sucked air through his teeth. Bugger it. Their lunch appointment at the Criterion. What could he tell her? His usual excuse that he got tied up at work was now so lame it was beyond the point of recovery.
‘I’m sorry, Mo,’ he said. ‘But what are you and Tom doing right now?’
‘We’ve already eaten, Dad.’
‘But I haven’t.’
She let out a heavy sigh. ‘You said you’d meet us today. For lunch. Which means at lunchtime. Not four o’clock in the fricking afternoon.’
‘I know, Mo. I’m sorry. What can I say?’ But his words echoed with the electronic hiss of digital silence. ‘I’m heading to the Criterion right now,’ he lied. ‘If you’re still there, I could buy you and Tom a drink, or you could watch me eat a burger.’ He chuckled to let her know it was a joke, but she wasn’t for laughing. He thought of hanging up, pretending the connection was lost.
‘How soon can you get here?’ she said.
Here? So they were still in the Criterion. ‘Ten minutes?’ He caught Jessie flapping her hands and mouthing twenty. ‘To be honest, it’ll probably be more like t
wenty by the time I find a parking spot.’
‘OK, Dad. See you then,’ she said, and hung up.
He glanced at Jessie. ‘It’s less than twenty minutes to St Andrews from here.’
‘This is where you guys always screw up, promising more than you can deliver. Have you got her an engagement card yet?’
Bugger it. ‘I didn’t have time to buy one.’
‘You have now. You’ve built in a ten-minute fluff factor. And slow down, will you. You always drive too fast.’
He braked as he approached Brownhills Garage, then kept his speed at a sedate forty on the downhill run into St Andrews. The skies opened at that moment, and he had to slow down even more as his wipers struggled with the deluge. In late November the sun set before four o’clock in the afternoon. But with clouds as thick as smog, the sun could be a make-believe star.
In South Street, rain bounced off his car like liquid bullets. Headlights coming towards them were blinding. He pulled off the road, opposite the Criterion.
‘You’ll get a ticket,’ Jessie said.
‘Park it in the Office car park. If anyone asks, I’ve had a family emergency.’
He covered his head with his hand as he scurried across the street in the pelting rain and entered the potpourried ambience of J&G Innes. He took several seconds to establish his bearings – card-shopping was not top of his list – then found what he was looking for. Five minutes later, he paid at the till, wrote a personal note in the card, and sealed it.
The Criterion adjoined J&G Innes, and it took no more than a quick trot for him to enter the pub in reasonable dryness. He squeezed through the early-evening throng, past students, locals, visitors, a couple of red-faced caddies – were they still golfing on the Old Course? – all vying for a better spot to watch the TVs, or place an order at the bar. A roar went up, and a glance at the action replay on the screen told him Manchester United had just taken a 1-0 lead over Arsenal.
He caught Maureen standing by herself at the end of the bar. He thought she looked tired, her face pale as if a couple of days in the sun was what she needed. She smiled as he approached her, the crinkling of her brown eyes, the pull of her lips so like the mannerisms of her mother that he almost stopped in his tracks. Then his arms were around her, and her voice was in his ear, telling him she was so pleased he could come and meet Tom, and, ‘What do you think of the ring?’
