The Killing Connection

by T F Muir

  ‘You think it’s a fake?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The address in Kingsbarns led Gilchrist and Jessie to a tidy cottage with white walls and a red pan-tiled roof. They entered the property through a wooden gate and walked up to the front door. A coach light warmed the white paint.

  Gilchrist nodded to the nameplate – Smith. ‘Not fake, after all.’

  ‘You could be in luck then.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Maybe he’s related to the John Smith of Yorkshire fame, and you could sign up as a taste-tester for all that real ale.’

  ‘Right.’ He pressed the doorbell.

  ‘I thought you liked real ale.’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘What’re you moaning at, then?’

  He was saved by the door opening with a hard click. An overweight man with ruddy cheeks and wild red hair that reminded him of Jackie from the Office, stood in the doorway in pyjamas and dressing gown. A bit early to go to bed, but it was Sunday, after all.

  ‘Yeah?’ the man said.

  Gilchrist held out his warrant card, and introduced himself and Jessie.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And do you know Scott Black?’ Jessie said.

  ‘Aye, I know that Black bastard. You strung him up by his fucking balls yet?’

  ‘Why would we want to do that?’ Gilchrist tried.

  ‘You tell me. Youse’re the ones asking the stupit fucking questions.’

  ‘You shouldn’t swear on a Sunday,’ Jessie said.

  ‘Oh, aye? How about I tell youse to fuck off out of it?’

  Gilchrist stepped in with, ‘Let’s start again, shall we? We’d like to speak to John Smith. Is that you?’

  ‘That’s what it says on the nameplate.’

  ‘Do you own a 1976 Reliant Scimitar?’

  Smith’s eyes widened and he glanced at a wooden garage at the side of a neat lawn, in front of which sat a silver Ford Fiesta, as if not permitted entry.

  ‘It’s in there, is it?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘It fucking well better be.’ Smith tore the keys from the inside lock, then was out the door and past Gilchrist, slippered feet crunching gravel. ‘If that Black bastard’s stole it, I’ll fucking have him this time.’ The padlock rattled as Smith wrestled with the key, then he unclipped it and opened the door wide enough to step inside and click on a switch.

  ‘Oh,’ Smith said, surprised.

  Gilchrist stood in the tight space of the garage doorway. A blue protective car cover, tailored to measure, stood in the shape of a 1976 Reliant Scimitar. Not that he knew what a Reliant Scimitar looked like, but he would be willing to bet that was what was under it.

  ‘You sound surprised,’ he said, just to gauge a reaction.

  Smith eased back the bottom corner of the cover, as if to ensure he was not being tricked. ‘No, that’s it,’ he said.

  ‘See what jumping to conclusions does for you,’ Jessie said.

  ‘I thought it was stolen.’ He turned to Gilchrist and scratched his head. ‘Why did you want to know if I had a Scimitar?’

  Gilchrist shrugged. ‘What’s its registration number?’ he asked.

  Smith rattled it off – the same number as on Black’s abandoned Land Rover.

  ‘You might want to check the plates,’ Jessie said.

  Smith frowned, then lifted the cover back. ‘What the fuck?’ He peeled it up to reveal the front end, as if expecting the number plate to be lying on the bonnet. ‘Fuck,’ he growled, and squeezed his way to the back of the garage. He sank out of sight as he checked the rear plate. ‘What the fuck?’ he shouted.

  Gilchrist waited for him to work his way to the front, then said, ‘This time?’

  Smith scowled at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You said you’ll have Black this time.’

  ‘If he’s taken them plates, I fucking will, I’m telling you.’

  ‘Lock up the garage,’ Gilchrist said, and stepped into a cold wind that ruffled his hair with icy fingers. ‘You’re shivering.’

  ‘It’s fucking freezing.’

  ‘Well let’s have a seat inside where it’s dry and warm. And you can tell us all about what happened between you and Black . . . last time.’

  CHAPTER 19

  The living-room heat hit Gilchrist like a blast from a furnace. Logs roared in an open fire in front of which sat a woman in a dressing gown, hair in curlers, knees tucked under her. At the sight of Gilchrist and Jessie, she turned the TV to mute. Smith introduced her as the wife – no name – and she smiled and nodded, not embarrassed by being caught in her night-attire, nor seemingly offended by the off-hand introduction. But when Smith said that Gilchrist and Jessie were a couple of polis here to talk about thon Black bastard, she looked as if she could spit molten nails across the room.

  Smith stood by the fire, his back to the fireguard, close enough to set his dressing gown alight, Gilchrist feared. ‘Pour us a cup of tea, pet, will you?’

  ‘Not for me,’ Jessie said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Gilchrist added. ‘We won’t be staying long. We only want to ask you about Scott Black.’

  That did it. Smith’s wife slunk into the kitchen and closed the door. Gilchrist raised an eyebrow at the sound of drawers being slammed, cutlery chinking. If he didn’t know better he’d have thought someone was ripping the place apart.

  ‘She still gets upset about it,’ Smith said, as if that explained all.

  ‘We’re listening,’ Gilchrist said.

  Smith took a deep breath, and said, ‘He done some work for us over a year ago. Fitted new bathroom units, sink, WC, and a new shower cubicle.’

  ‘Cowboy contractor?’ Jessie said.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that.’

  Gilchrist raised his hand to keep Jessie quiet, and Smith pressed on.

  ‘He done a great job. I’ll gie the bastard that. The wife was right pleased, so she was. And I was, too, to a certain extent. But I’m fussy, ken? So the wife keeps telling me. I cannae stand it when fittings are no square, or no plumb, or there’s a wee gap where there should be a right tight fitting.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Does my nut in, so it does.’

  ‘And . . .?’ Jessie said.

  Smith looked at her.

  ‘The tea’ll be cold by the time you get round to it,’ she said.

  Gilchrist said, ‘Take your time, John.’

  ‘The bastard said he’d come back in a month just to be sure there were nae leaks or nothing, which I thought was dead good of him, following up like that. You don’t get great service nowadays, so you don’t. I mean, you want to see some of the crap that gets built in some of they new housing schemes. Cheap as fuck, so it is.’

  Jessie shifted her stance, cleared her throat.

  ‘Aye, well, me being OCD like, so the wife says, I seen a wee bit of loose mastic at the edge of the sink, where it butts against the tiles. So I went down on my knees for a better look – and that’s when I seen it.’ His lips pressed into a white line. ‘Boils my fucking blood just thinking about it, so it does.’

  ‘Thinking about what?’ Jessie again.

  ‘The fucking webcam.’

  ‘The what?’ Gilchrist said.

  Jessie was ahead of him. ‘Bastard,’ she hissed.

  ‘Bastard right enough,’ Smith snarled. ‘At first I couldnae believe it. I just sat there, looking at the thing, realising we’d been on fucking Candid Camera for the last couple of months. The wife went mental when I showed it to her, ken? It was aiming right into the shower cubicle.’

  ‘Did you report it to the police?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Did I fuck. I ripped it off and took it round to that Black bastard to shove it right up his arse.’ He clammed up as the kitchen door opened and his wife walked in with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  Gilchrist noted three mugs.

  She placed the tray on a side table by the sofa and said, ‘How do you take yours?’

  Gilc
hrist declined, as did Jessie.

  Smith’s wife poured tea into a mug, added a fair helping of milk and three spoonfuls of sugar, then handed it to her husband.

  ‘Thanks, pet,’ he said, cupping his hands around it as if trying to heat himself up.

  Gilchrist thought Smith had to be close to toasting himself by now. No one spoke while his wife gave a tight smile on her way out.

  When the kitchen door closed, Smith said, ‘The wife cannae talk about it.’

  ‘Did Black deny it?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Absolutely fucking denied it, so he did. Asked me if I’d had any visitors since it’d been fitted. And if so, it had to be one of them.’

  ‘And had you?’

  ‘A few friends. It was summer, ken? And we were planning to have a barbecue.’

  ‘And Black knew that?’

  ‘We’d paid a bit extra to get the job done in time. So, aye, the bastard knew.’

  ‘So he blamed it on one of your visitors?’ Jessie again.

  ‘Aye. But I knew he done it. None of our friends are IT whizz-kids. They can handle a laptop and mobile phone and stuff, but that’s it. And it takes time to fit that stuff up, ken.’

  ‘So you’ve no doubts it was Black?’

  ‘Absolutely fucking none. I should’ve gave the bastard a right doing.’

  ‘How did it end?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Your confrontation with Black.’

  ‘Told me he was going to his lawyer to see about getting a written apology, or else he was going to sue me for slander.’

  It took a few seconds before Gilchrist realised Smith was waiting for a question. ‘And did you give him a written apology?’

  ‘Did I fuck.’

  ‘Did you hear from his solicitor?’

  ‘Not a squeak.’

  ‘Scare tactics,’ Jessie said.

  Smith said nothing, took a gulp of tea, as if ashamed by the outcome of his showdown with Black. But Gilchrist had felt the same, as if a force field emanated from Black, warning those close enough to threaten him to back off.

  ‘How did Black know about your Reliant Scimitar?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘I bring it out for an airing a couple of times a year. I’d been getting it ready for the barbecue, to show it off, so I’d just gave it a good waxing and polishing when he turned up. When he seen it, he offered to buy it. But I told him no fucking way.’

  Gilchrist waited, but it seemed as if Smith had said all he was going to say. He glanced at Jessie. ‘Anything else?’

  She said, ‘No,’ then surprised him by reaching for Smith’s hand. ‘Thanks for your help,’ she said.

  Smith shook her hand and nodded – somewhat sheepishly, Gilchrist had to say.

  Outside, the cold air hit Gilchrist as he crunched his way over the gravel to his car. The locks clicked, just as the skies opened. Jessie leaped into the passenger seat, as Gilchrist fired up the ignition and switched on the windscreen wipers.

  ‘How do you do that?’ she said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Click that remote fob thingie and the rain starts. Can you turn it off, please?’

  He chuckled. ‘Now that would be something worth inventing.’

  ‘Especially in the land of the horizontal rain.’

  Neither of them said another word, both lost in their own thoughts, until Gilchrist turned on to the A917 and cleared the village limits, heading for St Andrews.

  ‘He’s a cocky bastard, that Black,’ Jessie said, and shifted in her seat so she faced Gilchrist. ‘And he’s into voyeurism? Bloody hell, I didn’t see that one coming.’

  ‘Me neither. But the question is – why?’

  ‘He’s into spying on naked women, that’s why.’

  ‘He installs a webcam in a client’s bathroom, then returns in a month to make sure it’s all right, and removes it. By which time he’s got all he needs for blackmail.’

  ‘But Black didn’t threaten Smith with blackmail. He denied it to his back teeth.’

  ‘So, what else would he do with it?’

  ‘Maybe it depends what he catches the person doing. You know? Smith and the wife hard at it.’ Jessie laughed. ‘Now that would be a sight for sore eyes.’

  Gilchrist slowed down as he neared St Andrews. The rain hadn’t been as heavy there, but the road surface glistened with ice from a cold wind that whistled in from the North Sea. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Maybe Black would be selective in who to blackmail. Only those in a position where public opinion matters, perhaps? But what would he do with those he doesn’t blackmail?’

  ‘Post them online? Sell them?’

  ‘Is there a market for that?’

  Jessie lowered her head and eyed him over a pair of imaginary specs. ‘My dear Andy, there’s a market for anything to do with sex.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  She laughed, and said, ‘Mr Squeaky Clean, right enough.’

  They said nothing more until he drove through the pend in North Street and parked his car. ‘I’m going to see if there’s anything for me in the Office, before heading home.’

  ‘And I’m off to see my wee boy. He’ll be starving.’

  ‘He’ll have made himself something to eat, a sandwich or something?’

  Jessie guffawed. ‘When he’s got a mum to do that for him? I don’t think so. He’d rather starve first.’

  ‘If anything comes to you,’ Gilchrist said, ‘give me a call. Any time.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The car park was sheltered by the police station itself. Despite high boundary walls, an ice-cold wind swirled through it like a mini-whirlwind. Jessie jumped into her car, pulled the door shut and switched on the engine. Her Fiat 500 was a great wee car for getting around town and saving money on petrol, but with a small engine it took forever for the cabin to heat up. She switched the fan on, and texted Robert as she waited for the heat to kick in.

  Home soon. Fancy a curry?

  Fifteen seconds later the reply came.

  Chicken pakora spicy onions lamb madras

  Jessie sighed. ‘What happened to please or thanks?’ But Robert’s favourite food was an Indian curry, and all she wanted was to make her wee boy happy. A curry also let them sit at the table together, and might allow her to bring up the subject of his operation. But just the thought of that had her stomach churning as she phoned the Indian restaurant for a delivery.

  A minute later, it was all done. The chill had gone from the cabin, and she switched on the radio to catch some 1970s song about love being in the air. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as she indicated to turn right into Union Street and work her way back to her home in Canongate. But even during that short drive, she could not shift the sickening feeling in her gut, and she thought of putting off telling Robert about his operation. Maybe best to do that first thing in the morning, or when she got home from work tomorrow night.

  The closer she got to her home, the worse she felt.

  How could she tell her wee boy such awful news without breaking his heart?

  She pulled her car into the driveway and switched off the engine.

  The place settled into blackness.

  She was so deep in thought, still undecided about what to say and when to say it, that she failed to notice the figure creeping along the driveway. When the passenger door opened, and a balaclava-clad man slipped in, and a knife flickered before her eyes with a steely glint from its wickedly pointed blade, and she knew she was about to be killed . . . her first thoughts were for Robert. What will become of him? How will he cope?

  The blade pressed against her neck with a touch as cold as ice.

  ‘Not a fuckin word,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 20

  Recognition choked a grunt of disbelief from Jessie.

  Then fear flashed through her with a desperation that had her struggling to open the door and run. But a hand like a grapple hook gripped her, and a fist like a rock hit the back of her head. Her world dark
ened. She was aware of the dashboard tilting, and hands on her shoulders, pulling her down.

  When she came to, he was looking at her.

  In the cabin darkness, she couldn’t make out his face, only that he’d removed the balaclava. She rubbed the back of her head where a dull pain throbbed, then ran a shaking hand across her mouth. ‘Where’s the knife?’ she asked.

  ‘In mah pocket.’

  ‘They said you were going to kill me.’

  ‘The bastards would, wouldn’t they?’

  Despite the inferred assurance of being out of danger, Jessie’s heart thumped in her chest like a caged animal. ‘So why are you here, Tommy?’

  ‘Ah’m being set up.’

  ‘What is it about you?’ Anger gave her strength. ‘You never listen to a word I say. I’m asking you, why are you here, Tommy? Here. In St Andrews.’

  ‘Ah need your help.’

  ‘My help?’ she scoffed. ‘Why don’t I just arrest you?’

  ‘Ah’ll no let you.’

  She said nothing as the darkness brightened to the click of a cigarette lighter, and her brother’s face appeared before her in hard relief. Sunken cheeks and haunted eyes piled years on to him, closer to fifty than his thirties – she had never known his exact birthdate.

  He held the cigarette out to her. ‘Want a puff?’

  ‘I gave up smoking.’

  ‘You?’ He rasped a laugh. ‘Wonders’ll never fuckin cease.’

  Fear and anger were morphing into deep irritation. She’d never been close to any of her family, but if she was asked who had been the least unfriendly to her, she would choose Tommy. ‘You want my help?’ she said. ‘What does that mean?’

  The cigarette glowed red as he did what he could to finish it in one hit. ‘Ah didnae kill Terry,’ he said. ‘And Terry didnae kill the auld dear.’

  ‘No, Tommy. They think you killed the old dear.’

  ‘That’s what they’re fuckin supposed tae think. Ah told you, ah’m being set up.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Fuck sake, all ah’m looking for’s your help. Is’at too much for you to take in?’

  ‘You’ve got a funny way of asking for it.’

  ‘What the fuck am ah supposed to dae, eh?’