by T F Muir
Fifteen minutes later, with Black having not uttered a word, Gilchrist knew they were getting nowhere – at least for that morning. He excused himself, and let Jessie carry on with the interview formalities. Black’s silence might not help them at that moment, but his continued refusal to co-operate would do him no favours later in court.
And all was far from lost.
Black’s non-co-operation stiffened Gilchrist’s resolve to focus all his team’s efforts on finding damning and irrefutable evidence of Black’s murderous past.
10.52 a.m., St Andrews
Gilchrist turned left into South Street, tugged his collar up against a blast of snow-laden wind. Flakes fluttered against his face like weak hail. As he passed the Criterion, he glanced inside and saw Jack seated at the bar, phone to his ear, hair ruffled as if he’d just risen from bed, or was recovering from a night on the binge.
Gilchrist pushed through the door. At the bar, he squeezed Jack’s shoulder.
Jack’s face lit up with surprise, then slipped into disappointment. ‘Hey, man.’
Not yet midday, and his eyes were already spinning. Alcohol had always been Jack’s first response to disappointment, and Gilchrist had no doubt that this instance was due to the unexpected disappearance of his girlfriend and art aficionado, Jen Tinto.
‘I was just walking to the studio,’ Gilchrist said, ‘when I happened to see you.’
Jack removed his mobile from his ear, and slapped it on to the bar.
‘Problems?’
Jack shoved his fingers through his hair, downed a shooter – double vodka, Gilchrist would guess – and signalled the barman for another. ‘Can’t get in touch with her.’
‘Who?’
‘Jen.’
‘Downing vodka like there’s no tomorrow’s not going to help you find her.’
Jack smiled, an odd twisting of his lips that didn’t suit him. ‘Yeah, well, she’s not up for the finding, is what I’m thinking. She’s gone, man.’ He made a sliding motion with his hand. ‘Pooph. Just like that.’
‘She’s not answering her phone?’
‘Disconnected.’
‘Nothing bad’s happened to her, has it?’ he asked, just to gauge a reaction.
Jack picked up his mobile, tapped the screen. ‘Here’s how it’s done, man. Heartless.’ He pulled up a text, and read it. ‘Sorry, Jack. New York has crashed and I can’t get funding. It’s over. Bye. Sad face. Kiss kiss.’ Jack snorted in derision. ‘Can’t get fucking funding? What’s she on about? The studio was covered for a month.’
Gilchrist put his hand on his son’s arm. ‘You’ll find another studio,’ he said.
‘I already had a studio.’
‘And now you don’t.’
‘The master of the understatement, I must say.’
‘Just remember, Jack, that there are two sides to every coin.’
Jack snorted. ‘Like that’s going to help me exhibit my stuff, man.’
Gilchrist knew from experience that his son was beyond listening, and would have to run the full course of getting drunk, feeling sorry for himself, getting drunk some more, then recovering with fresh ideas for sculpting or painting.
He squeezed his shoulder again. ‘Catch you later, Jack.’
‘Yeah, sure, man. Whatever.’
Outside, he turned his back to the wind, took time fiddling with his scarf while eyeing Jack through the window. His son had his mobile to his ear again and another shooter in front of him. Tough love was always hard to dish out.
But sometimes it was the only way.
Gilchrist ruffled his scarf and headed back to the Office.
6:45 p.m., Friday
Jessie swung her Fiat into her driveway, and gasped with surprise.
Her house lay in darkness, not a light on in any of the rooms.
She switched off the engine and stepped into the night.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
A tremor gripped her legs as she twisted her door key and pushed the door open.
As she stepped inside, the heavy silence told her that something had happened. Panic sucked the air from her lungs. She almost spilled her takeaway – a special fish, and a half-chicken supper from PM’s; Robert’s favourite – as she rushed into the living room.
The curtains were open, the TV off.
Her heart thudded in her chest, stifling the cry in her throat. ‘Oh no, Robert.’ She dropped the takeaway on to the coffee table and staggered into the hallway.
Upstairs, Robert’s bedroom door lay open, his room in darkness.
She flicked the light-switch, and a lamp lit up the bedside table.
Robert lay on top of his bed, on his back, eyes closed.
‘Oh God.’ Jessie pressed her hand to her mouth as she stumbled into the room towards her son’s motionless figure. ‘Oh no, God, please, no.’ Her voice was no louder than a whisper. She sank on to his bed and reached out to him.
He jerked awake, pulled himself free with surprise.
She gawped at him.
What’s the matter, Mum? he signed.
All the lights were off. I thought something had happened.
He shook his head. I couldn’t sleep last night. I was upset. I was thinking about my operation. I was tired, and I fell asleep this afternoon.
Tears welled in Jessie’s eyes. I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.
Don’t worry, Mum. It doesn’t matter if I can’t hear. I’m going to write a book, a funny story. I started it last night after you went to bed, and I wrote some more today. That’s why I was so tired. He gave her a smile that warmed her heart. Do you want to read it?
Jessie choked out a giggle. Will it make me laugh?
Robert grinned. It’s so funny it’ll make you cry.
‘Oh Robert,’ she gasped, and reached out for her son and hugged him with all her strength. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ She thought he tried to say I love you, too, but she wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that her son was going to be all right.
He was going to be all right.
10 p.m., Friday
Fisherman’s Cottage, Crail
Gilchrist took the call on his mobile – ID Dainty.
‘You didn’t hear this from me,’ Dainty said, ‘but Victor Maxwell’s on the rampage.’
Gilchrist frowned, confused. ‘About Tommy?’
‘About Jessie.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t fucking ask,’ Dainty said. ‘Apparently word’s got out that Tommy has a list of names, and that bastard Maxwell’s going ballistic. When his back’s to the wall, he comes out fighting, and he’s been putting it about that he’s going to have some fucking heads for this.’
‘But he doesn’t know for sure that a list exists, does he?’
‘This is Maxwell we’re talking about.’
‘Even if he knew the list existed, he can’t know that Tommy gave it to Jessie, or that I gave it to you.’
‘Under normal circumstances I’d agree with you. But Maxwell’s not normal, Andy. He’s got fucking eyes everywhere. So all I’m saying is – watch your back. And tell Jessie to do the same. Until that nutcase of a brother of hers turns up more likely dead than alive, then we all need to steer clear of Maxwell and the rest of his fucking team.’
Gilchrist stared into the darkness of his back garden, his heart heavy with the weight of it all. What kind of a world were we now living in where you had to tread with fear around the very people who were there to protect you and keep you safe . . .
‘That’s the wife calling, Andy. Got to go.’
‘Keep me posted, Dainty.’
‘Will do.’
The line died.
Gilchrist decided he would talk to Jessie in the morning, pass on Dainty’s concerns, and take it from there. In the overall scheme of things, the likelihood of his and Maxwell’s paths crossing was slim to zero. But if Maxwell ever found out that he’d seen Tommy’s list of names, we
ll . . .
Christ, it didn’t bear thinking about.
CHAPTER 42
11 a.m., Monday
North Street police station
Three days later, evidence was quickly piling up against Scott Black.
A velvet bag containing miscellaneous articles of jewellery had been recovered from one of the sports bags removed before the hut was set on fire. One piece in particular grabbed Gilchrist’s attention, a diamond necklace that looked similar to one worn by Janice Crichton in the photograph of her seated on the bonnet of her car – since identified as a 1995 Jaguar XJS Sovereign. If confirmed to be the same necklace, then that was powerful evidence that James Crichton and Scott Black were one and the same.
Gilchrist had each item of jewellery photographed, and copies sent to Senior Sergeant Stu Pierson in Australia with a request to find out if any pieces belonged to Alice Hickson. Kandy Lal’s family had been contacted with a similar request. As of that morning, nothing had come back, but Gilchrist was convinced it was only a matter of time before they had a positive response.
More encouraging, Matt Duprey of the IT section had managed to access two memory sticks, and discovered hundreds of voyeur videos ranging from thirty-second clips to a full twenty-four-hour coverage. A first review had failed to convince Gilchrist of their criminal value, until Matt was able to link a series of images to a number of Internet romance sites used by Black for blackmail and extortion. Disappointingly, or so Gilchrist thought, none of them provided any connection to Martha Kerr.
Still, it was early days.
Bank details, too, uncovered four separate Channel Island accounts in excess of three million pounds in total; but more importantly, they provided pseudonyms believed to have been used by Scott Black. Two new addresses – one in Inverness, the other in Fort William – led Gilchrist to contact the local police offices to establish historical ownership of these properties.
Northern Constabulary had confirmed earlier that morning that Mrs Mary Jamieson, wife of Dean Jamieson – second marriage – and lifelong Inverness resident, had drowned in a tragic boating accident twelve years earlier, having fallen overboard in wild seas. Although her children inherited the family home, her husband Dean had inherited a two hundred and fifty thousand pounds life insurance payout. He had subsequently left the area, and no one had heard from him since.
With Dean Jamieson’s Channel Island account being found on Black’s flash-drive, the file on Mary Jamieson’s accidental death was reopened and scheduled for reinvestigation by Northern Constabulary as murder. Gilchrist emailed jpeg files of all the jewellery, with a request to let the surviving family members review them. You never could tell.
With Mary Jamieson’s death likely to be added to Black’s list of victims, Gilchrist was quietly confident that he would hear a similar tale of suspicious death and inheritance fortunes from the Fort William property.
Talk about the noose tightening.
CS Smiley surprised him with a rap on his door and a curt, ‘My office.’
Once again, Gilchrist trailed after her, puzzling over her perfume, trying to place it, before realising with an intake of breath that Cooper wore the same fragrance. He entered her office and had a sense that the space was taking shape, that Smiler’s presence was slowly but surely replacing the ghost of CS Greaves.
Three new bookshelves lined the walls with hardbacks as thick and colourful as sets of encyclopaedia. Two houseplants – devil’s ivy and a large-leaved philodendron – stood in opposing corners. In another couple of weeks, he might expect to see the place wallpapered. It seemed that Smiler was imposing her personality on her office, after all, which told him she was settling in for the long haul with Fife Constabulary. Of course, the worrying converse of that equation was that his own time with the Constabulary might now be shorter-lived.
Maybe retirement was worth reconsidering.
Smiler held out a hand, not for shaking, but as an invitation for him to take one of two seats that fronted her desk.
As before, he remained standing.
‘You do realise that without a search warrant you could have compromised evidence found in Kerr’s property,’ she said.
Despite Colin and his SOCOs stripping the cottage, they’d found nothing damning to Black. On the other hand, the hut had been a treasure trove. A plastic bin, dug into the ground beneath it and accessed through a removable floor panel – the sound Gilchrist had heard when Black entered the hut and opened it – had yielded invaluable evidence.
Gilchrist shook his head. ‘We didn’t enter the cottage, ma’am, only the hut. And that was to apprehend a suspected serial killer.’
‘You’re manipulating my words, DCI Gilchrist. You entered the property per se, the land registered in the name of Kerr. And you did so without a search warrant.’
‘Not to perform a search of the property, ma’am, but to apprehend a suspected serial killer who had already attacked an innocent member of the public and stolen her car. With a suspected history of violence against women, we couldn’t risk losing him again.’
‘So you were concerned for public safety?’
He realised her questions were not being asked to criticise his or any member of his team’s actions, but as Devil’s Advocate. She wanted to know how he would answer in a court of law if – better make that when – Black’s defence argued for wrongful arrest and dismissal of all evidence on the grounds of inadmissibility.
‘I was concerned for public safety, ma’am, yes.’
‘And you believe you apprehended Mr Black without the use of undue force?’
‘He was beyond reasoning, was armed, had already attacked one police officer with intent to kill, and was threatening to attack another. He was prevented from doing so by DS Mhairi McBride acting in self-defence, ma’am.’
‘With four blows to the head?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘That could be argued as undue force.’
‘Anyone can argue what they like, ma’am, but it took four blows to the head before two female colleagues were able to disarm and handcuff this alleged serial killer.’
She nodded, as if to acknowledge the end of her interrogation. Then darkness seemed to fill her eyes. ‘Next time you need to enter a suspect’s property, DCI Gilchrist, be damned sure you first have all appropriate documentation in place. Is that clear?’
‘It is, ma’am, yes. And it won’t happen again.’
‘Good.’
‘Because I’ll make sure you never have an opportunity to sit on it again.’ He gave her one of his deadpan smiles. ‘Ma’am.’
She glared at him for five cold seconds, as if trying to work out how best to suspend him – not from the Constabulary, if he had to guess, but by his balls, from the rafters. Then the moment cleared – like clicking a switch – and she leaned forward and slid a sheaf of pages across the desk to him.
‘This came in the other day,’ she said, ‘from Blair Stevenson’s solicitors.’
Well, it had been only a matter of time, he supposed. ‘Which other day?’ he said.
‘Last Wednesday. Confirming Stevenson’s intention to file a complaint of physical abuse and wrongful arrest against this office, and you in particular.’
He looked down at the paperwork. ‘Is that my copy?’
She grinned at him then, an odd down-turning of her lips that showed white teeth and somehow conveyed a sense of amusement, which puzzled him.
‘I take it you never heard from Complaints and Discipline?’
‘Not yet, ma’am.’
‘Good.’ She then slid a separate manila folder across the desk to him.
He stared at it, strangely reluctant to pick it up. ‘Ma’am?’
‘It’s a statement from a Mrs Deirdre Cook.’
He frowned. The name meant nothing to him.
‘You should read it,’ she said.
He opened the folder and removed two sheets paper-clipped together and covered in sprawling penmanship. He noted the date as Thursday – the day
after the letter from Blair Stevenson’s solicitors – and the address as the same street as Jehane Marshall, Blair’s girlfriend.
Although I am retired ten years from school-teaching, I always set my alarm for seven-thirty every morning. At around eight-ten in the morning of Thursday, 24th inst., my breakfast was interrupted by shouting and swearing coming from across the street. On looking out my window, I observed a young man assaulting a woman, pushing and shoving her to the ground, and shouting abuse at her. I was about to phone the police when a car stopped and the driver got out and said something to the young man, who immediately leaped across the fence and attacked the driver. At first I thought the driver was physically outmatched, but he very quickly overpowered the young man with skilful expertise, and to my surprise handcuffed him to the fence. The driver then attended to the young woman. He helped her to her feet, placed his jacket over her shoulders like a true gentleman, and very gently led her indoors. Shortly after, a police van arrived and removed the handcuffed young man. On being shown photographs, I am able to identify the young man who launched an unprovoked assault on the driver of the car, as Blair Stevenson, and the young woman who was being abused, as Jehane Marshall. In my opinion, the driver of the car risked his life, and should be awarded a medal for his extraordinary bravery.
Deirdre Cook
Silent, Gilchrist scanned the statement again, then returned it to the folder.
‘We sent a copy of this to Mr Stevenson’s solicitors,’ Smiler said, ‘along with a copy of the hospital report. No broken ribs, no ruptured spleen. Bit of bruising. That’s all. We’ve yet to hear from them. But in light of this statement, I would suspect they’ll drop their case. I’m almost tempted to charge him with wasting police time.’ She frowned at him. ‘You look puzzled.’
‘Who took Mrs Cook’s statement?’
She offered him a flicker of a smile. ‘Everyone was tied up in your investigation,’ she said, ‘so I took her statement.’
‘You knew Mrs Cook?’
‘Far from it. I knocked on a few doors, and struck lucky.’ She shook her head. ‘You seem to forget that I worked my way through the ranks. I’ve done my fair share of door-to-doors, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone bad-mouth the Constabulary, or any of its staff, without good reason.’ She stood up, walked round from behind her desk, and stood before him.
