The Killing Connection

by T F Muir

Gilchrist walked to his car.

  Darkness had fallen, and the town’s thoroughfare sparkled like a Christmas oasis at night. Shop windows glowed with warmth from within. Festive displays enticed passers-by to step inside, come out of the cold. An iced wind shuffled over roads and pavements, rattling bin lids and threatening snow. Specks of frost glittered like diamonds.

  Jessie caught up with him. ‘A penny for your thoughts?’ she said.

  ‘She’s making a fool of us, by acting the fool herself. But she’s hiding something.’ He shivered against the wind, found himself fighting off the inexplicable need for a cigarette. ‘She’s full of shit. I mean, who in their right mind would act like that? I don’t get it.’

  ‘You think McGarry will get her to come clean?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ he said. ‘But I don’t think McGarry’s got it in him to help our cause. Did you see the way he looked at her, almost willing her not to be helpful?’

  ‘We could charge her as an accessory to murder,’ Jessie said. ‘That might get their attention.’

  Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I don’t think she cares.’

  ‘How about just throwing the book at her?’

  ‘I’m thinking more along the lines of letting her go.’

  Jessie rubbed her arms. ‘Is it just me, or is it getting colder?’

  ‘It’s getting colder.’

  ‘Well, I think the cold’s freezing the thinking part of your brain.’

  ‘What will throwing the book at her achieve? That’s not going to help us find Black, is it? And you know what? I don’t think she knows where he’s gone.’

  ‘So, what . . . we just let her go?’

  ‘I’m thinking we release her, yes, but keep tabs on her mobile. It’s how she and Black communicate.’

  ‘He’s not going to phone her,’ Jessie said. ‘He must know we’ll be watching her.’

  Gilchrist found an idea pushing to the front of his mind. ‘What if we keep her name from the press?’ he said. ‘What if we don’t mention that we’ve interviewed her? What would Black do then?’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Curiosity’ll get the better of him. I’m willing to bet that after a few days, he won’t be able to resist contacting her to find out what went on.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea.’

  Gilchrist stamped his feet on the ground, trying to force some warmth into his system. Jessie was right on a couple of points: firstly, it always seemed to be colder this side of the River Forth and secondly, not charging Martha Kerr as an accessory wasn’t a good idea. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘when you come up with something better, let me know. But in the meantime, here’s how we’re going to play it.’

  * * *

  As expected, the second interview offered nothing new. If anything, Gilchrist would have to say it was even less productive than the first. All their questions were answered with a No comment, and when Jessie accused McGarry of giving his client incompetent legal advice, McGarry simply shrugged and grinned at her.

  Jessie excused herself, and made a point of leaving the interview room loudly.

  ‘DS Janes has a bit of a temper on her,’ McGarry observed.

  ‘She’s frustrated by your client’s refusal to answer.’

  ‘My client’s not refusing to answer. No comment is her answer.’

  Gilchrist shuffled his papers, preparing to bring the interview to an end.

  Sensing this, McGarry smiled, pleased with the outcome.

  It never failed to amaze Gilchrist how obstructive some solicitors could be, using every legal tool at their disposal to clear their client’s name, even though it was obvious to everyone present, including the solicitor, that their client was guilty. Often court cases were not about determining right from wrong, but about finding some legal technicality to twist the interpretation of the law to one party’s advantage.

  ‘We won’t be pressing charges at this point in time,’ Gilchrist said, ‘although we would advise your client that she may be called in for further questioning.’

  McGarry reached across the table and squeezed Martha’s fingers.

  She seemed not to notice.

  Gilchrist ended the interview for the record, and switched off the recorder.

  Outside, he found Jessie in the car park, pacing up and down in the chill wind, mobile to her ear. He threw his papers on to the back seat of his BMW, then fired the ignition. By the time Jessie clipped on her seatbelt, the car had warmed up quite nicely, thank you.

  ‘You get it sorted?’ he asked her.

  ‘All done,’ she said. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is wait.’

  Gilchrist drove from the car park, keeping to the speed limit as he headed out of town. Neither of them said a word as he drove along Clackmannan Road. The Ochil Hills rose into the night sky to their left, and he found himself searching the dark backdrop for the tell-tale light of Raven Cottage. But he couldn’t locate it.

  He passed the spot where he’d abandoned his car that morning – Black’s motorbike, too – and drew to a halt at the five-way roundabout, again testing his rationale for Black’s escape. Flashing headlights from a car behind forced him to nudge forward.

  He took the road north.

  They had gone only five miles when he said, ‘Are you hungry?’

  Jessie glanced up from her texting. ‘I’m always hungry.’

  ‘Like to stop for a bite to eat?’

  ‘Can’t, Andy. I’ve got to get something in for my wee boy.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t know what it is with boys. If their mums don’t feed them, they’d starve to death, I swear.’

  ‘You need to teach him how to boil an egg.’

  ‘So he can set the house on fire? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Tea and toast?’

  ‘Just as bad.’

  ‘How about Rice Krispies?’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ She giggled at the screen. ‘Do you want to hear a joke?’

  ‘One of Robert’s?’

  ‘I think so.’ She chuckled again, then read the text. ‘My granny is eighty years old and she doesn’t need glasses. She just drinks straight from the bottle.’ She slapped her hand on her knee and guffawed – a bit forced, he thought. ‘Don’t you just love him?’

  ‘He’s got a great sense of humour,’ Gilchrist said, then eased into the next question. ‘I take it the granny mentioned in the joke is a generic granny?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  He hadn’t intended to broach the subject, but the opportunity had just presented itself. Now seemed as good a time as any. ‘Have you told Robert about what happened to his . . . his real granny?’

  ‘He’s never had a real granny,’ Jessie said. ‘So let’s end this conversation right now, before it starts.’ She glared at him. ‘OK?’

  Gilchrist drove on, in silence.

  The most difficult issue with Jessie was not her criminal family, but her reluctance to talk about her personal life. He should have known not to mention Robert’s name in the same sentence as her mother. But even so, he made a mental note to give Dainty a call, to find out if he’d uncovered anything about the list Jessie’s brother Tommy had handed her.

  It took fifteen minutes of driving in silence, and another offer to stop off for a bite to eat, and a tea or coffee – or something stronger – before she said, ‘Sorry, but you know I can’t stand you talking about my family.’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘And especially when you bring Robert into it.’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘So why do you do it?’

  ‘So that I don’t stick my foot in it when I see him.’

  ‘But you hardly ever see him.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But when I do, I want to make sure that I don’t tell him something I shouldn’t have.’

  It took another mile of countryside darkness before Jessie said, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you can be a smarmy bastard?’

  ‘Not in as man
y words, no.’ He was saved by his mobile ringing – ID Mhairi. He took the call through his car’s speaker system. ‘What’s the latest?’ he asked.

  ‘Just got a message from Dunfermline. A Mr Thomas Loughlin reported that the number plates on his wife’s Mini were stolen today.’

  Gilchrist snapped his fingers, instructing Jessie to take notes. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘She’s a member of Canmore Golf Club, just north of Dunfermline, and he thinks that’s where they were removed.’

  ‘He thinks?’

  ‘His wife spent the day at a ladies’ outing, and drove home without realising her plates had been stolen. Mr Loughlin says he only noticed when he was driving his own car into the garage.’

  ‘What’s the Mini’s number?’

  Mhairi told him. Jessie scribbled it down.

  ‘Anything on CCTV or the ANPR?’

  ‘Not a thing, sir.’

  Gilchrist frowned. ‘When did his wife arrive at the Golf Club?’

  ‘She’s been there all day, sir.’

  ‘From early morning?’

  ‘Mid-morning, sir.’

  ‘So Black could have taken her plates shortly after he discarded the ones on the silver Ford Fiesta.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thanks, Mhairi. And spread that number around the local police stations.’

  ‘Already doing that, sir.’

  He disconnected.

  Jessie said, ‘Why rip off one set of number plates so you can steal another?’

  ‘Because he’s going on a long journey, and couldn’t risk driving around without any number plates.’

  ‘But he must’ve known we’d find out he’d stolen new plates.’

  ‘Of course, but the number’s not been picked up by the ANPR system, has it?’

  ‘So what am I missing?’

  ‘Read out that number to me.’

  She did.

  ‘Now write down variations of it by changing letters and numbers – S to an 8, 5 to a B, that sort of thing. Imagine you’ve got black tape to change any letter or number.’ He glanced at the registration number again. ‘That C could be an O or a zero.’

  ‘If he had white tape,’ she said, ‘he could blank out a letter or two.’

  ‘He certainly could,’ Gilchrist agreed.

  ‘Even change that zero to a C,’ she said. ‘So it’s limitless.’

  ‘Not quite. But try to think like Black. You don’t have time. You’ve just nicked a pair of plates, so you don’t want to hang about.’

  ‘Got three already,’ she said.

  ‘Keep going. When you get half a dozen, call Mhairi and have her run them through the ANPR. All we’re trying to do is get a hit on a silver Ford Fiesta. Once we have that, we can track him.’

  ‘Sounds simple when you say it quickly.’

  Gilchrist gritted his teeth. Nothing about this investigation was simple. Scott Black was proving to be devious and slippery, an elusive killer with a high intellect, and prepared to do whatever was necessary to avoid being arrested.

  Even kill again if he had to. Which told Gilchrist they were running out of time.

  CHAPTER 31

  By the time Gilchrist dropped Jessie off at her home in Canongate, she’d had Mhairi feed sixteen variations of the number into the ANPR system. But so far, they’d had zero hits.

  Back in his office, Gilchrist tried playing with the numbers himself, and realised there were many more he could create without too much effort. Simply placing strips of white tape over part of some letters could change B to P, or J to I, or to T if you added a strip of black tape. And it didn’t help that the original number contained seven digits in total. For all he knew, that might have been why Black stole that number plate in the first place.

  He put another six numbers through the ANPR system, and was almost rewarded with an immediate hit on a silver Ford Fiesta in Cupar. But a mobile team from the Cupar Office confirmed the plate was genuine, and that the Fiesta belonged to an upstanding and long-term resident of the old market town.

  By 9 p.m. they still didn’t have a hit. Scott Black could be anywhere in Scotland, or England for that matter. Gilchrist stared at the number, forcing his mind to think like Black. Which letters would he change? And once he’d changed them, where would he go? But by 10 p.m., he was as good as washed up, and none the wiser.

  Time for a breather, or more to the point, time to go home to bed.

  But first, a bite to eat.

  He walked past the Central Bar and crossed Market Street, intent on having a pint and a pie in the Criterion. But when he turned in to South Street, the night air throbbed with the sound of electric guitars. He’d forgotten that Tuesdays were open mic nights, and the bar would be packed to the rafters with students and music-lovers wanting a slot in that night’s short-lived spotlight. Any other Tuesday he would have been happy to stand at the bar and enjoy the raw sounds of eclectic jamming, but that night all he wanted was to sit in some peace and quiet, and try to put his thoughts into place.

  He doubled back to the Central Bar.

  Although the Central heaved with the swell of student revelry – how could they afford to drink and eat out during the week? – it was much quieter. Muted TVs high in the corners showed the highlights of some football match, Liverpool and Chelsea, as best he could tell. He managed to find a spare stool at the back of the bar and ordered a pint of Fosters – lager for a change – and a bowl of soup.

  He checked his mobile, and found a missed call from Mo. He thought of calling her back right away, but with the ambient din, he would have to make the call outside. Instead, he took a sip of his pint, removed his notes from his pocket, and studied the letters and numbers again, trying to work out what he was missing.

  When his soup arrived with a side-plate of bread, he had reached the conclusion that he was wasting his time. In addition to adjusting some digits, Black might have deleted one or two completely – the end ones either side, for example – which multiplied the number of variations by a factor of three, or of that order.

  No wonder he hadn’t found the sneaky bastard.

  He took a few spoonfuls of soup, but felt out of sorts, and spread dollops of butter over the bread and finished that off, instead. He shoved his half-finished soup and pint of lager – next time he’d stick to real ale – and left the bar.

  In College Street, on the walk back to the Office, he phoned Maureen.

  ‘Hi, princess. Sorry I missed your call. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  He stopped mid-stride. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘It’s nothing serious, Dad, it’s just . . .’

  He pressed his mobile hard to his ear, waited for her to continue.

  ‘It’s just that Tom got a call from the company that offered him the job, and they’re keen for him to start as soon as possible.’

  ‘In Australia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, right? Great, even.’

  ‘Well, yes . . . but Tom being Tom won’t be pushed into anything without checking it out first. So he dug in his heels, and they’ve offered to fly both of us out to have a look at the place – the city, the office where he’ll be working, and where we might want to live. If Tom likes it, then he’ll stay on while I fly back to sell the flat.’

  ‘If Tom likes it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you have to like it, too?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do, Dad. You’re misconstruing my words. And missing the point.’

  Gilchrist frowned. ‘And the point is?’

  ‘That we’re flying from Edinburgh in a couple of days.’

  ‘This week?’

  ‘Thursday or Friday.’

  ‘To Australia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gilchrist puffed up his cheeks, and exhaled. ‘Well, that’s sudden.’

  ‘That’s why I called, Dad. To let you know.’ A pause, then, ‘You’re not angry, are you?’


  ‘Why would I be angry?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just thought . . . in the bar, when we said we were emigrating to Australia . . . I thought you didn’t want me to go.’

  What could he tell her? Of course he hadn’t wanted her to go. He wanted her to stay here, in St Andrews, so they could be a family, stay in contact, meet each other for a chat. On the other hand, he knew she had to make a life of her own, and he couldn’t stand in her way.

  ‘It was all so sudden, Mo. I mean, one second I’m finding out you’re engaged to Tom. And the next that you’re emigrating.’ The hiss of digital ether had him worried that he’d been too blunt. He softened his tone. ‘Is that what you want to do, Mo? To emigrate to Australia?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘And do you want to spend the rest of your life with Tom?’

  ‘Don’t say it like that, Dad. You make it sound like some prison sentence.’

  ‘Force of habit,’ he said, then chuckled to let her know he was joking. ‘What I meant was, do you truly love Tom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you want to marry him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then go to Australia, and don’t you worry about leaving your old dad on his own for a single second. As long as you’re happy, Mo, then I’m happy, too.’

  ‘Aw, Dad, you’re absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘But I have to warn you about one thing.’

  Silence for a couple of beats, then, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Box jellyfish.’

  ‘Box what?’

  ‘Jellyfish. In the sea. You get them mostly in Australia, the deadliest poison of any sea creature.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I am, yes. But you don’t have to worry,’ he said, wishing he’d never brought up the topic in case she saw it as his underhand way to make her change her mind. ‘You just have to be careful, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll have Tom to look after me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, struggling to remain cheerful. ‘Tom’ll look after you.’

  ‘Will you come and see us off at the airport?’

  Oh, shit. He squeezed his eyes shut. Of all the times to ask. ‘I’d love to, Mo, but it all depends on the job.’

  ‘For crying out loud, Dad, can’t you just take a day off? It’s not like they don’t owe you the time.’