The Killing Connection

by T F Muir

A grin slid across Black’s face like a shadow.

  ‘There’s no escape,’ Gilchrist tried. ‘The local police are on their way.’

  But Black said nothing. Instead, he lowered the axe and swung it backwards and forwards like a pendulum, each sweep becoming greater until one forward swing continued in a looping arc over his head. Then down and up and over again, and again, getting faster with each revolution until the axe seemed to be swinging in time with Gilchrist’s racing heart.

  You had to be strong to do that. But Black was powerful, and with each revolution he edged closer. Gilchrist kept his eyes on the spinning axe, waiting for the moment of its release. He would have to be lightning fast to step aside in the time it would take – only a fraction of a second – for the axe to cross that ever-shortening distance between them.

  ‘You’re only going to make matters worse,’ he told Black. ‘Killing me isn’t going to help. Think what you’re doing.’ But trying to reason with a madman in full maniacal heat was worse than useless, and Gilchrist found himself backing deeper into the garden – one step, two steps, three . . .

  His heels caught on a hard tuft of grass, and he tried to shift his stance at the moment Black took a step forward and released the axe with a raging howl. He had time only to twist away as the axe head clipped the side of his body armour beneath his left armpit. But the handle caught his unprotected arm on the passing, and a pain like a bone snapping shot through him with the force of an electric shock.

  He grunted, clasped his arm, and felt his heart stop as Black walked towards him, sledgehammer now gripped in two hands, raised above shoulder height, the look in his eyes telling Gilchrist that he was about to have his head driven into his groin.

  ‘Don’t,’ he gasped.

  But Black was beyond listening. Nine feet, six feet, three . . .

  Gilchrist turned to run, but his shoes slipped on the snow, kicking his legs from under him. He fell on his back as Black reached him, and only just managed to roll to the side as the sledgehammer buried itself into the ground by his head with a force that could have started an earthquake—

  ‘Scott Black.’

  Gilchrist’s world froze at the high-pitched scream. He watched Black remove the sledgehammer from the ground at the same time as turning to the sound of Jessie’s voice.

  ‘Yeah, you, you fucking psycho.’

  Black grunted, ‘What?’ as disbelief twisted his features.

  ‘That’s right, you demented wanker. The lot’s going up in flames if you don’t put that hammer down.’

  Black roared like a wounded animal, than hefted the sledgehammer in both hands and strode towards Jessie.

  ‘Stop’, she shouted. ‘Stop. Or it’s going up. I’m not kidding.’

  Gilchrist could hear the raw panic in Jessie’s voice. He raised his head off the ground in time to see Black running along the front of the cottage towards the ruin of the hut, sledgehammer high, voice trailing after him in an unearthly howl.

  Jessie stood beside the battered hut door, a lighted roll of paper as thick as a medieval torch held head-high, flames whipping and flaring in the bitter wind. She showed no signs of the panic Gilchrist had detected in her voice, but just stood there, as if fearless, as Black ran towards her. Then with fluid deliberation, she threw the torch into the hut, and stumbled back as the hut exploded with a roiling orange whumpf.

  Black howled like a dying wolf.

  ‘Run’, Gilchrist shouted. ‘Run, Jessie.’ He struggled to pull himself upright, managed to stumble against the roughcast wall. He cried out again, but his voice was as good as lost in the wind.

  Jessie had recovered from the shock of the explosion, and stood shielding her face from roaring flames that cast an eerie glow over everything. She then noticed Black bearing down on her, and she backed off from the unstoppable advance of a sledgehammer-wielding madman.

  ‘Run, Jessie,’ Gilchrist screamed.

  But she just stood there, deaf to his cries.

  Black reached the far end of the cottage, arms rising higher, ready to deliver the blow that would surely open Jessie’s skull like a ripe tomato splitting.

  Gilchrist stumbled on the snow-covered gravel, shouting for all he was worth. But again, his words blew away on the wind. He could never reach Jessie in time to help her. From behind, off in the distance, he thought he heard the high-pitched wailing of police sirens while a voice in his mind whispered, They’re too late. They’re too damn late.

  Just like he was.

  Too damn late to save Jessie—

  Something whipped out from the gable end of the cottage.

  Black stopped in his tracks, staggered to the side.

  Mhairi stepped out from the gable end and hit him again. This time, Black dropped the sledgehammer. Another blow to the head sank him to his knees. Two more steps and she stood over Black’s body, her arms raised as high as an executioner.

  Gilchrist shouted, ‘Don’t!’

  Mhairi seemed to hear him, for she glanced at Gilchrist, but for only the briefest of moments, before turning her attention back to Black and despatching him with a blow that could have split rock.

  Black thudded face-first to the ground, and Mhairi stood back to let Jessie take over.

  She kneeled on the snow and cuffed Black’s hands behind his back while rattling out his rights: ‘You’re not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be noted and may be used in evidence . . .’ Not that Black could hear any of it, with a bleeding skull that told Gilchrist he was unconscious, or worse.

  When he reached Black’s prostrate body, he pressed a finger to his neck to confirm he was still alive. But from the way Mhairi had hammered him, it must have been a close thing. A quick examination of Black’s skull suggested it was nothing more than a head wound, but they would need to have him checked out in hospital.

  He reached over Black’s body for the sledgehammer, threw it beyond his reach – just in case – then pushed to his feet. His arm throbbed from the pain of a broken bone, but it could only be a fracture at worst, he was sure of that.

  He said to Mhairi, ‘What did you hit him with?’

  She held up her weapon. ‘Sledgehammer, sir, without the hammer.’

  Gilchrist eyed the wooden handle, then turned to the bonfire. By the time the fire brigade arrived, if they ever did, the hut would be nothing more than blackened ash, with everything it had once stored beyond salvage.

  Jessie pressed her hand to his shoulder. ‘Are you all right, Andy?’

  ‘Just about,’ he said.

  She frowned at something on his side. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  He looked down at his body armour, and saw that the axe had sliced it open as it had hurtled past. He tried to take his jacket off, but a stab of pain in his arm stopped him short.

  ‘Want a hand?’ Jessie said.

  He said nothing as she examined the cut, then helped him remove his body armour.

  ‘Looks like it didn’t go right through,’ she said. ‘You’re lucky.’

  With the body armour off, the wind chill hit him anew, and he stepped closer to the blazing hut, seeking warmth. ‘Quite a campfire we’ve got here. What did you use?’

  ‘Plastic container of petrol that was lying in the hut. Just poured it over everything.’

  He waited for her to explain how she’d set it alight, but he sensed reluctance. ‘So it lit itself, did it?’

  She put her hand into her pocket and removed a packet of cigarettes – Rothmans King Size, ten pack – and a plastic lighter.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘You’re smoking again?’

  ‘Bought them after telling Robert about his operation. And this cheapo lighter.’ She cupped the cigarettes and lighter in one hand, as if weighing them, then shrugged. ‘Lost the urge now. Must be an omen. Somebody up there’s watching over me.’ She tossed the lighter and ten pack into the flames.

  Gilchrist gave a wry smile, then closed his eyes for a moment. Heat bathed him like a burning sun, ret
urning warmth and life to his frozen limbs. ‘Would’ve been useful to have saved the hut’s contents for evidence,’ he said.

  Jessie nodded to Mhairi, who said, ‘Sir?’

  He frowned when she held out a red and white sports bag with both hands. He took it, surprised by its weight. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The evidence you were talking about, sir. Money. Lots of it.’

  Jessie said, ‘Stacked with rolls of fifty-pound notes, security bonds, memory sticks, CDs and other stuff. We removed three bags in all, before I set it alight. Best guess?’ she said, screwing up her face. ‘Several mill. Maybe more. Who knows?’

  The distant sound of wailing sirens had the three of them turning in unison to look down the road that led to town. A string of four mobile police units, as best Gilchrist could tell, were racing up the hill towards them, lights flashing.

  ‘Here comes the cavalry,’ he quipped.

  ‘Just in time to put the kettle on,’ Jessie said. ‘I hope they’ve brought the biscuits.’

  He nodded to Black at his feet, who was stirring awake. ‘Let’s get him taken care of first, and while you’re at it, get hold of the fire service. We need to get this fire under control. There might be more in there that’s worth salvaging.’

  ‘Already on it, sir,’ Mhairi said, mobile to her ear.

  He tried to retrieve his own mobile from his pocket, but grimaced from a jolt of pain that fired the length of his arm. He eased his hand to shoulder height, attempted to flex his wrist, move his arm about, but the pain in his biceps burned like a torn muscle.

  Defeated, he returned his hands to his pockets and walked towards the road entrance. Away from the blazing hut, the winter wind hit him with a vengeance. By the time he reached the entrance, the cavalcade was slowing down, doors opening in readiness to spill the team out.

  They would want to speak to him, but his bones hurt, his arm throbbed, and a dull ache behind his eyes was doing what it could to sharpen itself into a migraine. Just thinking of asking what the hell took them so long had him gritting his teeth.

  He was through. He was done with it all.

  Jessie and Mhairi could debrief whoever was in charge.

  He barely acknowledged them as he shuffled past, heading to his car.

  CHAPTER 41

  8.10 a.m., Friday

  By the time Gilchrist had driven back to St Andrews, filled out a report on the arrest, then headed home to his cottage in Crail, it was after four in the morning when his head finally hit the pillow and sleep sucked him into unconsciousness.

  When his alarm went off at 8 a.m., he’d had to unfold himself from bed.

  Under a gloriously hot and restoring shower, he scrubbed life back into his aching body, taking care around a raw graze on his left ribcage. If Black’s spinning axe had hit him an inch to the side, he would have been in serious trouble. He positioned a square of antiseptic gauze over the wound, secured it with a couple of strips of Elastoplast, then put on his clothes with some difficulty. A walk down the garden path in a frosted sea haar had him shivering from the cold by the time he filled Blackie’s bowls.

  It really was time for a holiday in the sun.

  Back indoors, he phoned Jack who, to his surprise, picked up on the third ring.

  ‘Hey, man. What’re you doing up so early?’

  ‘I should be asking you the same question.’

  ‘Jen’s an early riser. What can I say?’

  ‘Is she there?’

  A pause, then, ‘No, why?’

  ‘Just wondering why she’s up so early.’

  ‘She’s getting her studio ready to exhibit my stuff, man.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be helping her with that?’

  ‘I’ll head down there later in the morning.’

  Gilchrist saw his opportunity. ‘I’ll see if I can squeeze in half an hour before lunch and swing by and take a look at it all.’

  ‘Whoa, cool, man.’

  ‘Catch you then.’ Gilchrist hung up.

  He found the business card for Tinto Gallery and dialled the number.

  The call was answered with, ‘Jen Tinto?’

  Gilchrist faced his kitchen window and stared into a November dawn as dark and cold as his feelings for this woman. ‘This is DCI Andrew Gilchrist of St Andrews CID.’

  Silence for two seconds, then, ‘Oh, hello, what can I do for you this morning?’ in a voice that sounded chirpy and cheerful.

  But she wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all Gilchrist.

  ‘You are required to present yourself at the North Street police station today,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We have concerns over the legitimacy of the Tinto Gallery in London.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you drive?’

  ‘Eh . . . yes. Why?’

  ‘Good. Bring your driving licence with you. We need to see that.’ He let a couple of beats pass, then said, ‘Ten o’clock this morning. You know where the police station is? It’s just around the corner from the Central Bar.’

  ‘I . . . eh . . . I . . . what type of concerns?’

  ‘We’ll discuss that when you get here, Ms Tinto.’ He hoped the formal address would have the effect he was looking for, but just to be sure, added, ‘If you have a solicitor, I would urge you to bring him or her along with you. And one other thing . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t be late.’

  He ended the call, and stared into the garden shadows.

  He didn’t think she would call Jack. And he didn’t want to open an investigation into Jen Tinto, or whoever the hell she was, or the Tinto Gallery for that matter. Nothing to do with the current lack of resources. Rather, doing so would harm his relationship with his son. No, he thought, he’d put money on Jen Tinto slipping out of Jack’s life without a word of thanks or a backward glance.

  He placed his mobile on the kitchen counter and switched on the TV.

  9:45 a.m., Glenrothes police station

  Gilchrist entered Interview Room 1.

  Despite his earlier concerns, Black’s injuries turned out to be superficial. X-rays and a CT scan confirmed his skull to be intact, not even fractured – a result that astonished Gilchrist. A cut to the back of the head, from the last of the four blows administered by Mhairi, needed ten stitches, which striped his shorn skull like a misplaced zipper – no subtle butterfly stitches for this murdering bastard. His face, on the other hand, looked as if it had been used as target practice for the Scottish kick-boxing team – no longer sculpted like a statue, but puffed and swollen purple-blue. Tape was strapped across a flattened nose with nostrils blackened from dried blood. Eyes as thin as gun-slits tracked Gilchrist as he followed Jessie to the table on which lay a couple of business cards, courtesy of Black’s solicitor – Dominic Haggerty of Haggerty and Associates.

  As Gilchrist and Jessie took their seats, Haggerty sat tight-lipped, a pin-striped tailor’s dummy with a bald pate and white moustache that somehow reminded Gilchrist of a WWII Spitfire pilot. He looked the picture of health beside his client.

  Without introduction, Haggerty said, ‘Do you really intend to proceed with this charade for an interview?’

  ‘Charade?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘My client should be in hospital. Not here. He’s in no fit state to be interviewed.’

  Jessie slapped open a folder and fanned a spread of colour photographs across the table. ‘Your client’s victims are in a worse state.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘No. They’re dead. Your client’s alive.’

  Gilchrist raised a hand to take control, and waited until he had everyone’s attention. ‘We can do this now,’ he said, ‘or we can come back and do it later. It makes no difference to me.’ He nodded to Black. ‘Why don’t you let your client decide?’

  Haggerty twisted in his seat, put a hand to his mouth and whispered into Black’s ear.

  From all the reaction Black gave, Haggerty could be ta
lking to a mannequin. Then he sat back, and scowled at Gilchrist. ‘I would advise you again, that my client is in no fit state to be interviewed, and that if you proceed with this travesty, I will seek to have the entire interview struck from the records for having been obtained under duress.’

  Gilchrist signalled to Jessie. She switched on the recorder, noted time and date, and announced the names and appropriate titles of everyone present.

  Introductions over, Gilchrist said, ‘The interviewee, presently known as Scott Black, is being represented by his solicitor, Mr Dominic Haggerty of Haggerty and Associates. Mr Haggerty, do you practise medicine in any form or capacity?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just answer the question, please. For the record.’

  As the penny dropped, Haggerty grimaced and said, ‘No.’

  ‘So, as a legal practitioner you have no professional medical experience or knowledge and are therefore in no position to say if your client is medically fit to be interviewed, or not.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no,’ Haggerty said. ‘Although it should be clear to everyone present that the significant injuries sustained by my client during his arrest are—’

  ‘Save that for court,’ Jessie snapped at him.

  ‘I really must object—’

  ‘You just did.’

  Gilchrist gave Haggerty a deadpan smile, then removed a sheet of paper from his files – a handwritten report from the A&E doctor, Dr Julie Cardon, who had examined and treated Black at Ninewells Hospital in the small hours that morning. He read it out for the record, a statement that confirmed Black’s injuries were not life-threatening, that he’d remained conscious and coherent throughout her examination, and had suffered no apparent mental impairment from his injuries.

  It didn’t matter to Gilchrist that Haggerty would raise objections in court, nor that they might be overruled by Dr Cardon’s testimony. What he wanted was to put pressure on Black now, let him know that they had him for the murders of Alice Hickson and Kandy Lal, and were looking into his past, too. But after his first question, ‘Can you confirm your name for the record?’ he knew his efforts would be a waste of time. In response, Black stared at him in silence, not even offering so much as a No comment.