by T F Muir
‘Jessie Janes?’
‘How many Jessies do you know, for crying out loud? Of course it’s me.’
‘God, Jessie. It’s been, what – a year? Where are you? Are you in St Andrews?’
‘I’m walking up Buchanan Street, and my stomach’s grumbling.’
‘How long are you here for?’
‘I’m driving back tonight.’
‘Ditch the car. You’re staying at mine. I’ll meet you in the Rogano in ten minutes.’
‘But I’ve got to—’
The line died.
CHAPTER 25
Gilchrist moved back from his computer, stood up and stretched his arms. He glanced at the time – 19.08. Christ, they were getting nowhere. He turned to the window and looked outside. The night sky was covered by clouds as dark as his mood. He could be staring at the results of his investigation for all he could see.
A knock at his door had him spinning on his heels. ‘Yes, Mhairi.’
‘I think you should look at this, sir.’
Something in her eyes gripped him. Hope sparked as he followed her.
In the incident room, her monitor came alive to an image of an expansive gravel area that fronted what looked like a row of stables. Off to the side, where a hawthorn hedgerow ended, the gravel opened on to a country road.
‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘Angus Graham’s farm near Craigrothie. About four miles north of Montrave House, sir. PC Norris brought this in this afternoon.’
At the mention of Montrave House, Gilchrist leaned closer.
‘Mr Graham was troubled last year with vandalism, so he installed a webcam under the eaves of one of the buildings opposite. Quality’s not great, but it does the job. And it also picks up passing vehicles on the road.’ She worked the mouse, and the screen jerked through a series of staccato images as first one car, then several more, drove past.
Then the monitor froze, and she zoomed in.
Gilchrist peered at the locked image. ‘It’s a motorbike,’ he said.
‘Heading north, sir. But it’s not just any motorbike.’ She flicked open a stapled pile of A4 sheets – registration numbers, names, addresses, highlighted in yellow, struck through in red pen. ‘This is the list we’ve been working from: sixteen motorbikes picked up by CCTV on the outskirts of Leven and Cupar.’ She tapped a finger at the screen. ‘That number’s not on the list. Check it out.’
Gilchrist scanned her list. An error might have been made if one of the numbers had been mistaken for a letter – 5 for an S; 8 for a B, that sort of thing. But within forty seconds, he’d been through them all. None came close to being similar.
‘Is this webcam set to the correct time?’
‘PC Norris checked it,’ she said. ‘It is.’
‘So if this bike’s not on the list—’
‘It’s because it never made it to Leven or Cupar, and it’s still in the area, sir.’
He could see what Mhairi was getting at. But that motorbike could have been making a short journey from one farm to another, or could have turned off on to any number of roads between Cupar and Leven, beyond CCTV range. Whatever hope he’d built up evaporated in an instant. This proved nothing.
‘We ran the number through the ANPR system,’ Mhairi said, ‘but it’s not been picked up. So we checked DVLA for ownership, and it’s registered in the name of Kerr Roberts.’
Gilchrist jolted. ‘Kerr Roberts?’ he said. ‘Not Robert Kerr?’
‘Kerr Roberts, sir.’
Robert Kerr? Kerr Roberts? One and the same, or just coincidence? But if you didn’t believe in coincidence, where did that get you? ‘What’s the registered address?’ he asked.
Mhairi gave him a knowing smirk. ‘Same address in Alloa.’
Gilchrist’s world stuttered for a split second. His mind was crackling with too many options. He needed to find that motorbike, expand CCTV footage, check the Alloa address, dig into bank accounts, tax records, credit cards, utility bills, maybe even try to uncover other vehicles registered in the name of Robert Kerr or Kerr Roberts.
He took a deep breath to steady his thoughts.
‘Pull everyone into the Office,’ he said. ‘And put a marker on the PNC for that bike. Can we get someone to ID the make and model?’
‘It should be on the DVLA records, sir.’
‘Of course.’ He was thinking too fast, and not with a clear mind. But by Christ they might just have smoked Black out of hiding. And with these thoughts, he came to see that in Scott Black he was dealing with a devious killer expert in the art of deception.
The PO Box in Anstruther; the number plates nicked from a 1976 Reliant Scimitar; the abandoned Land Rover; the replacement motorbike – make and model to be confirmed; the Channel Island bank account; the surprise address in Alloa. And with Black’s historic trail now being uncovered, you didn’t have to be a genius to reach the troubling conclusion that if he’d fled the scenes of two recent murders, there was every chance he’d fled the scenes of past murders.
Why else would he change names, change home addresses, confound bank accounts, obscure mailings, abandon boats and vehicles, and live alone in a quiet cottage by the sea? The thought of Black being a serial killer on the run, to keep hidden a murderous past, hit him with such force that his heart shuddered. They needed to find this man before he established a new identity and settled into some other, unsuspecting community.
Or worse . . .
. . . killed again.
‘Prepare an appeal for national TV,’ he said. ‘And forward Black’s photograph to all police forces – Scotland only for the time being. That motorbike was heading north. He won’t be expecting us to be looking for it. So I’m banking on him not making a run to England or the Continent, but north to the Highlands, maybe one of the islands. Contact the Ports Authority, ferry terminals and airports. Let’s make sure that bastard can’t leave the mainland.’
Mhairi was scribbling like mad. ‘Yes, sir.’
Another idea struck him, that if Black changed his identity with such regularity, then it might be interesting to see what names appeared on other documents. ‘Did you have any luck with Companies House on Butterworth Holdings?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir. We should have something through in the morning.’
‘Let me know what you come up with.’
Jessie watched Fiona Lawson bustle into the Rogano, a look of expectation creasing her face, which swept into a radiant smile when their eyes met. She rushed over and gave Jessie a hug that almost crushed the air from her lungs.
Then they faced each other.
‘Jeez-oh, Jessie, you look amazing. Just amazing. Have you lost weight? Oh, I really hate you. I just need to look at food and I put on pounds. How do you do it? I bet you’re on some secret diet that you’re never going to share.’ She rubbed her arms. ‘Gosh, it’s so cold outside. Not even December yet. Are you not cold? What’re you having to drink?’
‘I’ll stick to soda water. I’m driving.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re staying at mine.’ She glanced at the glowing gantry, then said, ‘I’m going to have a wine.’ Then she dug into her handbag and removed a flower wrapped in plastic. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘That’s for you.’
Jessie held it to her face. ‘It smells lovely, Fi. What is it?’
‘A weed from my window garden,’ she said, and burst out laughing.
Jessie couldn’t help herself, and she joined in. With her infectious laugh and contagious effervescence, Fi lived life as if she were the most carefree person in the world.
But it hadn’t always been that way.
Fi had been the only girl in a family of four brothers, whose alcoholic mother could do nothing to stop the sexual abuse Fi suffered at the hands of her abusive father. As if that wasn’t bad enough, when Fi was ten her mother died – choked to death on her vomit – and Fi became the skivvy, a replacement mother to her brothers, a slave who cleaned the house, did the washing, cooked the meals, the
n was screwed by her father whenever the mood took him. It hadn’t taken long for the brothers to catch on, and by the time Fi turned sixteen, she was being passed around the house like a sexual toy.
That was when Jessie first came across her.
As a fresh-eared PC with Strathclyde Police, Jessie had been the youngest member of a team investigating the fatal slashing of a local hoodlum. She had been assigned to door-to-door interviews, checking with neighbours who might have known the victim, or witnessed the offence taking place. She had rapped on the Lawsons’ door as part of a routine process, and had to exchange words through the closed door before it was finally opened.
Old man Lawson stood before her, sweat beading his forehead. ‘Fucking screws,’ he said. ‘What the fuck’re you bastarts wanting now, eh?’
Jessie held out her warrant card, and explained that she was making enquiries with respect to a fatal attack on a resident of the block of flats. She was returning the card to her top breast pocket, when she caught movement in the hallway. Lawson shifted his stance to block her view. Even so, she glimpsed a girl over his shoulder, in T-shirt and knickers, running across the hallway. Her back was to Jessie, but as she entered the room, she cast a tearful glance Jessie’s way.
Then she was gone, the door closed behind her.
‘Who’s that?’ Jessie asked.
‘Who’s what?’
‘The girl.’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Just asking.’
‘Thought you were here to ask about thon fuckin murder.’
‘I am, but maybe your daughter saw something.’
‘Who says that was my daughter?’
‘Isn’t she?’
Lawson’s eyes danced, as if unsure about admitting he had a daughter, albeit running about half-naked, or coming up with some other story. In the end, he settled for the truth. ‘She is, aye, but she’s fuckin stupit. Widnae’ve seen a thing.’
‘Who else lives here?’
‘The boys.’
‘How many?’
‘Four.’
‘And your wife?’
‘Deid.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Jessie flicked a smile. ‘Can I speak to your boys?’
‘They’re no in.’
‘Out working, are they?’
‘Something like that.’
‘So it’s just you and your daughter that’s in all alone, then?’
Lawson narrowed his eyes. ‘What the fuck’re you saying, eh?’
‘Just trying to ascertain who lives here.’
‘Aye, well, fuck that. You want my help answering questions, you fuckin wee cow, you’d better get a fuckin warrant, then. Eh? Fuck you.’
The door slammed.
Later that night, at the conclusion of her shift, Jessie did some work on her own. The look that girl had given her stayed with her. Although she could guess what was going on, without any evidence of abuse her Office would not assign already depleted resources to investigate. So, Jessie sniffed around, but found nothing on the PNC associated with the Lawson household. A talk to a friend in Social Services also confirmed no reported incidents.
But the girl’s look haunted Jessie. If she closed her eyes, there it was. If she tried to sleep, it came to her in her dreams. She pleaded with her superiors to take action, and a mobile unit was eventually sent to the address, but reported nothing untoward. She met with Social Services in person, and someone was sent to talk to the girl – Fiona – but nothing seemed out of order. Jessie might not like Fiona being the only female in a household of five males, but that was no reason to take action. Jessie realised that it needed more than the memory of a furtive glance from a half-naked girl for something to be done.
So she decided to take matters into her own hands.
It took her six days, watching that house at night, after completing her shift. But she struck lucky on a Saturday when she spotted Fiona walking to the local Tesco supermarket. She followed her into the store, and made a point of bumping into her in one of the aisles.
‘Sorry,’ Jessie said, then added, ‘you look familiar. Have we met before?’
Fiona lowered her eyes and walked away.
‘Fiona.’
She stopped at the sound of her name, and turned to Jessie, eyes glistening.
Jessie walked up to her. ‘I know what’s going on, Fiona. Let me buy you a coffee. Will you let me do that? Please? And we can talk. I’m only trying to help.’
‘You can’t help,’ she said.
‘Fiona. Look at me. Look at my eyes.’
Her eyes flickered to Jessie, struggling to return her look.
Jessie reached for her hand. ‘It doesn’t need to happen, Fiona. I know it doesn’t. We can stop it. No, don’t, Fiona. Listen to me. Please.’ She tightened her grip as Fiona tried to pull away. ‘We can stop it, Fiona. I know we can, because it happened to me.’
Fiona’s eyes searched Jessie’s, pleading for the truth.
‘I can help you, Fiona. But to do that, you must help me.’
Without another word, Fiona fell into Jessie’s arms and sobbed her heart out.
Two days later, Joe Lawson and his four sons were arrested and jointly charged with multiple counts of performing sexual acts with a minor, rape, and physical and mental abuse. Jessie was praised for her standalone efforts, and it was that single incident that changed her career, and put her on the path to becoming a detective.
Fiona was placed in a foster home, and she and Jessie kept in regular contact, up to and beyond the trial. All would have ended well, if not for one disappointing outcome, which came from one of Jessie’s own. DS Brian Wheelan, who worked out of the Rutherglen police station, provided character references for Davie and Joey Lawson, Fiona’s oldest brothers. He accused Jessie of making a scapegoat of the Lawsons for being sworn at during her door-to-door enquiries all those months earlier. His statements almost brought down the case, but in the end were sufficient only to mitigate the charges against Davie and Joey, who escaped custodial sentences. Joe Lawson was sentenced to ten years, and his other sons, Billy and Freddy, to four years each.
All that happened twelve years ago.
Fiona applied to the courts for a non-harassment order against her family, and as far as Jessie knew, that order was working. It was helped, of course, by Fiona’s brothers having since left Glasgow; one to London as a sales rep with a major beverage distributor, two to Saudi Arabia as corporate security advisors – thugs, in other words – and one to Australia as a computer salesman. Her father, too, left the area, marrying some unfortunate Dutch woman and moving to Amsterdam. Fiona now worked with Strathclyde Police, in the payroll section, and was always a good source of gossip – and other information.
Jessie finished her soda and said, ‘Want another glass of wine?’
Fiona shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t, should I? Are you having one?’
‘I’ve got to get back for Robert.’
‘How is your wee boy?’
‘He’s not wee any more.’ The thought of the conversation turning to Robert’s deafness had Jessie rushing on with, ‘He’s doing great at school, and my friend Angie – she’s a part-time English teacher – helps when I’m not there. But she’s got a hubbie to get back to.’
‘So you can’t stay at mine.’
‘Sorry, Fi.’
‘Well, have a wine then.’
‘Maybe later. But that should’t stop you having one now.’
‘Go on, then. I’ll worry in the morning about having a sore head.’
Jessie placed the order – large house red, soda water – and said, ‘So what’s the gossip, then? Do you ever come across Brian Wheelan?’
‘He’s still a DS. Nobody’ll have him.’
‘Other than Victor Maxwell, that is,’ Jessie said.
‘Scum of the earth, they are. I don’t know why they don’t get fired. Rules for us, then there’s rules for them.’
Jessie leaned closer, gave a conspi
ratorial look around the bar, then cupped her hand to her lips. ‘I know it’s been a while, but did you ever get to the bottom of why he stood up for your brothers, Davie and Joey?’
‘Why’re you asking that now?’
Jessie shrugged. ‘Just something I’m working on.’
Their drinks arrived then, and Fiona clamped shut.
When the waitress left, Fiona said, ‘Freddy phoned when he got out of jail. Wanted to meet me. But I was having none of it. Besides, he’s not allowed within fifty yards of me, or he’d be in breach of the non-harassment order. So I told him to eff off.’
Jessie chinked her glass against Fiona’s. ‘That’s my girl.’
‘He was really pissed off that he got sent to jail while Davie and Joey got away with it. Said he couldn’t prove it, but he was sure Wheelan was their supplier.’
Jessie gave a tight smile. She had always suspected Wheelan was dealing drugs. But suspecting and proving could be on opposite poles of the planet. ‘So when it came to crunch time, Davie and Joey had Wheelan by the curlies,’ she said. ‘And if he didn’t put in a good word, they were going to dob him right in it.’
‘Good and proper,’ Fiona agreed. ‘But I don’t think Wheelan’s ever stopped. He’s got a big villa in Spain somewhere. You can’t afford one of those on what a DS earns, I can tell you. And I should know.’
Jessie’s mobile rang. She looked at it – ID Boss – glanced at Fiona and mouthed, Got to take this.
‘We’ve got an early start in the morning,’ Gilchrist said.
She pushed through the door into Exchange Place. ‘When and where?’
‘Briefing in the Office at seven a.m. Then we’re going for a drive.’
‘What’s on?’
‘I was right about Black’s motorbike,’ he said. ‘It’s been picked up on the ANPR in the small hours of Sunday morning, heading west on Clackmannan Road.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Outside Alloa. But then we lose him again.’
‘Are you going to put a team on it?’
‘No. Too much manpower to cover too wide an area. Until we get a better fix, it’s going to be just you and me. I’ll pick you up at quarter to seven.’
