by T F Muir
Gilchrist turned back to Cooper. ‘How’s it looking?’ he asked.
‘Nothing so far that would suggest it’s anything other than suicide.’
Jessie smirked.
‘Any bruises around the neck?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘Signs of a struggle?’
‘Nothing.’
Gilchrist waited until Cooper pulled herself upright, then he leaned into the car to inspect the body. Jessie had obviously seen something Cooper had missed, and he did not want their ongoing antagonism to turn into something nastier.
The first thing that struck him was how trim and well dressed McCulloch was – short back and sides, black hair greying at the temples, white twill open-necked shirt, gold cufflinks, dark blue suit, black leather belt, trousers neatly pressed, black polished shoes. The second was the empty bottle of Grey Goose vodka in the passenger footwell. But as he tilted McCulloch’s head from one side to the other, parted his lips, peered into his mouth, checked his hands, fingernails and wrists, he found nothing out of the ordinary. He eyed the settings on the car’s controls, confirming what Cooper had said. Then the sliver of an idea came to him.
He pulled back from the car’s interior and turned his attention to the door lock.
‘How did Mhairi get in to switch off the engine?’ he asked.
Jessie glanced at Cooper, then smiled at Gilchrist. ‘It was unlocked. Odd, don’t you think?’
Gilchrist gave it some thought. ‘You attach the hose, you take your seat, you switch on the engine, then you wait to pass out from carbon-monoxide poisoning, knowing there will be no coming back,’ he said. ‘But you don’t necessarily lock the door . . . because . . .’
‘Because someone put you there.’
Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Because you have doubts. Maybe McCulloch didn’t really want to go through with it. Maybe he was hoping someone would find him—’
‘Except that he was unconscious when they closed the door on him,’ Jessie said.
‘They?’ Cooper asked.
‘Figure of speech.’
‘We’ll check for fingerprints on the bottle.’ Gilchrist glanced at Cooper. ‘And alcohol in his system. And any narcotics, of course.’ Then he turned to Jessie. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’
‘Check the window.’
Gilchrist stepped back and swung the door shut. It felt solid, smooth, and closed with an easy click. The rubber tube still led to the exhaust pipe, the window still open a crack at the top, the gap stuffed with a black scarf. A quick look confirmed that McCulloch was not wearing a tie, so the scarf could have been his. Forensics would confirm that, or not.
What was he missing?
He pressed the door handle, pulled the door open again, studied the window, but still found nothing. He was about to give up when his eye was drawn back to the scarf. It was stuffed into a gap that was no more than an inch wide, narrow enough to nip the rubber hose and prevent it from slipping, but wide enough to leave someone thinking it needed to be sealed.
He glanced at Jessie and she raised her eyebrows. ‘Agree now?’ she asked.
He almost did.
‘The scarf’s been stuffed into the gap from the outside,’ she said. ‘See the way it’s folded? Someone’s pushed it in with their fingers. It would be impossible for it to lie that way if you pushed it in from the inside.’
‘That would indeed be impossible,’ he said. ‘I have to agree.’
Jessie’s smile hung for a moment, then faltered. ‘But . . .?’
‘But McCulloch could have set the hose in place by snecking it with the window, then stuffed the gap with his scarf from the outside, then got in the car and closed the door behind him. In fact, that’s how I would have done it.’ Although he would have chosen the passenger window, or one of the two rear windows – not the driver’s.
He thought it odd the way Jessie’s lips tightened, how she glanced at Cooper before lowering her zip, retrieving her mobile, and striding off into the fucking freezing cold, presumably to continue the conversation he had interrupted on his arrival.
Cooper said, ‘Not a good loser, is she?’
Gilchrist gave a quick smile. ‘She’s a good detective.’
‘I’m sure she is.’ Cooper pulled the coverall’s hood off her head, raked her fingers through her dark blonde hair, and tossed it in that way of hers that always teased him. Then she nodded at McCulloch’s body. ‘Is this a rush job?’
He shook his head. ‘After the weekend’ll be fine.’
‘If I find anything untoward, I’ll let you know.’ She strode away, then stopped and turned to face him. ‘Are we still on for this evening?’
It seemed such an odd thing for her to ask. Of course they were on for this evening. They had been on for every Friday evening since Christmas. ‘Like me to pick you up?’ he said.
She grimaced. ‘It might be better if I come to yours instead.’
He frowned, cocked his head, asked the silent question.
‘Mr Cooper’s come back,’ she said. ‘No doubt to demand his conjugal rights.’
It took Gilchrist a full two seconds before he could reply, ‘Ah. Right.’
‘I am still married,’ she said.
‘You are indeed.’
Another toss of her mane, then she turned and strode off to the Range Rover. He tried not to watch her, but they were still in the exploratory phase, and he found himself leering after her before he managed to turn away.
He had no right to be jealous. He knew that.
But it surprised him to feel how much it hurt.
CHAPTER 3
Gilchrist found Jessie in the dunes again, walking towards the sea, head down, kicking her feet through the sand – and no mobile in sight. He followed her in silence, closing the gap with every step, until she heard him and turned on her heel.
‘You hoping to catch me dropping my knickers for a pee?’ she said.
‘It’s too cold for that.’
‘Watching? Or peeing?’
‘Both.’ They stared at each other for several silent seconds, then Gilchrist said, ‘Can I help in any way?’
She shrugged, turned back into the wind, tilted her head as if to breathe in the ice-cold air. ‘I sometimes struggle with it all,’ she said.
He walked up to her, stood by her side, followed her line of sight.
Waves chased each other to the shore, their peaks rising, arching forward, about to break, but somehow carrying on, as if they were all rushing to see which of them would arrive at the shoreline first. There was a strange urgency about the scene, which pulled up memories of his son’s late girlfriend. Although Chloe had been a talented artist, she had refused to paint seascapes, arguing that she could never capture the ocean’s beauty in its stillness.
‘You have to see the ocean moving to appreciate its beauty,’ Gilchrist said.
Jessie looked at him. ‘You what?’
He shrugged. ‘Something someone once told me.’
Jessie nodded, returned her gaze to the sea. ‘That was Lachie on the phone earlier.’
‘Still making a nuisance of himself?’
She snorted. ‘Useless fat fuck.’
‘Well, he is fat. And probably useless, too. Most chief supers are. As for the fucking, I’ll leave that for you to decide.’
She chuckled, then shook her head. ‘I mean, what is it with you guys? You’d crawl five hundred miles on your hands and knees for a shag, but when it comes to shopping, oh, bugger that, it’s too much like hard work.’ Then her mood darkened.
Like clicking a switch, Gilchrist thought.
‘I wish you hadn’t made me look like an idiot in front of you-know-who.’
‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘It’s called brainstorming. It was a good theory. Very good, in fact.’ He shrugged. ‘For all we know, you might be right.’
‘I just had a feeling about it, you know? You ever get that?’
All the time. But he said, ‘Sometimes.’
‘Business partner of alleged serial
rapist Thomas Magner murdered in forest. It just made sense to me. I mean, McCulloch’s loaded, drives a big, flashy Jaguar whatsit. Why commit suicide? I don’t get it. Murder seemed like the right answer.’
‘It still could be.’
Jessie’s eyes squinted against the blank whiteness of the haar. ‘He’s got a wife and two kids. No doubt he lives in a mansion—’
Her mobile rang and she removed it from her inside pocket with a sleight of hand that would have shamed pickpocket Wee Jimmy Carslaw. She scowled at the screen for a moment, took a step away from Gilchrist, and pressed it to her ear.
‘What’s it now?’ she snapped.
Gilchrist thought it best to give her some privacy and headed back to the forest. Just the act of walking with the wind killed some of the chill, and he increased his step when he noticed Mhairi had returned, cup of coffee in hand – it looked like a Starbucks – steaming in the frosty air.
He reached her. ‘Got another one of those?’
‘There’s one for DS Janes in the car, sir. Would you like it? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’
He grimaced. ‘What do you know that I don’t?’
‘She doesn’t bite.’
‘You sure about that?’
Mhairi took a sip from her drink, then handed it to him. ‘Have some of mine, sir. Excuse the lipstick.’
‘I like lipstick,’ he said.
‘So I’ve heard.’
Gilchrist stopped mid-sip. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry, sir. Just a joke that came out wrong.’
The coffee was far too sweet, but he welcomed the way its heat sank to his stomach. He handed it back. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Is there sugar in DS Janes’s coffee, too?’
‘Too fattening.’
‘Good. I’ll risk being bitten, then.’
He walked with Mhairi back to her car, and waited while she reached in and retrieved another cardboard cup. He enclosed it in his hands. ‘You chased the ambulance away?’
‘I did, sir, yes.’ She nodded to the Jaguar. ‘The driver was clearly beyond help.’
He eased back the lid, took a sip – latte, no sugar – perfect.
‘I thought he might still be alive, sir, so I opened the door . . . but . . . he . . .’
Gilchrist was surprised to catch a glimmer of a tear. Or maybe it was just the cold air nipping her eyes. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Did you know McCulloch?’
She gave a long blink, and nodded.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘My mum knew him. I mean, a friend of hers knew him. I think they went to the same school. I only met him a couple of times. He seemed a nice man. You know what I mean, sir?’
Gilchrist smiled.
‘His name popped up from time to time. That’s about it. But Mum’ll be upset.’
Although Gilchrist had not known Brian McCulloch personally, he had already heard enough about the man to know he was that rarest of breeds – a local boy made good, who had clawed his way out of the doldrums and made something of his life. By all accounts, he had started out as a brickie, moved on to general contracting, mostly small jobs – roofs, extensions, garden walls – and hit the big time after meeting Thomas Magner, an out-of-towner with stars in his eyes, as Gilchrist’s father would say. A major contract with Fife Council fifteen years ago had been the first of many, with McCulloch keeping every project on schedule and budget, and Magner drumming up ever more lucrative business. No one had a bad word to say about McCulloch. He had married his childhood sweetheart, never forgotten his roots, and given plenty back to the local community.
Gilchrist took another sip of coffee, then replaced the lid. It was Jessie’s, after all. ‘When you first arrived,’ he said, ‘and had a look around, did you see anything suspicious?’
Mhairi grimaced, wobbled her head in a yes-and-no answer. ‘Not really, sir.’
‘Except . . .?’
‘Except that I don’t understand why he would commit suicide.’
‘Did you mention that to DS Janes?’
‘I did, sir, yes. We had a chat about it. And she agreed it seemed suspicious.’
‘So, who came up with the murder theory?’
‘DS Janes, sir.’
He nodded, caught a glimpse of Jessie emerging through the trees, and tilted the coffee cup. ‘I’d better give this back to her.’
Jessie met them halfway back from Mhairi’s car. She took the coffee and asked, ‘You leave me any?’
‘Just the top half.’
She cracked open the mouth-slot, peeled it back, peered inside. ‘Very funny,’ she said, and swallowed a mouthful as if trying to burn her throat.
‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Oh, sure,’ she said. ‘Jabba’s on his way to St Andrews tomorrow. Says he’s going to take me out for lunch. Got something he wants to tell me. I’m on a diet, I tell him. I’m taking karate lessons. I don’t do lunch. Don’t worry, love, he says. We can walk it off on the West Sands.’ She gulped another mouthful. ‘Love?’ she said, with a grimace. ‘Wanker.’
‘What’s he want to tell you?’ Mhairi asked.
Jessie glared at her. ‘That’s the scary part. I think he’s really gone and done it this time. Left the wife.’
‘Fucking hell,’ Mhairi said.
‘Exactly,’ Jessie declared. ‘Fucking hell’s exactly where Jabba’s headed if he tells me what I think he’s going to tell me.’ She shook her head, blew out a gush of air, then held the cup out to Gilchrist. ‘Want to finish it?’
He took it from her, more to keep the peace than for the heat or the caffeine, then said to Mhairi, ‘Would you arrange for a liaison officer to visit Mrs McCulloch?’
‘I don’t think she’s home, sir.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Mum says they have a house in Spain, one of these luxury villas, and that she’s there more often than she’s at home.’
‘You think she’s there now?’
‘Mr McCulloch didn’t get home last night, sir, and Mrs McCulloch never phoned the Office to report him missing. I’ve already checked with North Street and Anstruther. And we’ve left I don’t know how many messages on their voicemail, so I’m thinking that’s where she’s at.’
‘Maybe he told his wife he’s away on business,’ Jessie offered. ‘Maybe staying out all night is par for the course.’
‘I don’t think he’s that kind of a man,’ Mhairi said, which received a snort from Jessie.
But something far more troubling was stirring in Gilchrist’s mind. ‘They’ve got two children, right?’ he asked Mhairi.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ages?’
‘Not sure, sir. Teenagers, though.’
‘School age?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘We’re not in the school holidays, are we?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, sir. No.’
Jessie said, ‘You got an address?’
Mhairi rattled it off from memory; the McCullochs’ home phone number, too.
Gilchrist recognised it as somewhere on the other side of Kingsbarns. Or maybe he had heard about the luxury residence while having a pint at the bar. Not that it mattered. What did matter was that the nearest police station was Anstruther. ‘Do you think the children go to boarding school?’ he asked, as he dialled McCulloch’s home number.
Mhairi shot that idea down with, ‘Mrs McCulloch’s too down to earth for that.’
Gilchrist turned to Jessie. ‘Can you get directions? We’ll take my car.’
Jessie passed her keys to Mhairi. ‘Have someone drop the Batmobile off at the Office,’ she said, then wriggled out of her coveralls.
Mhairi pocketed the keys without a word, her thoughts elsewhere.
Gilchrist got through, but after a couple of rings he heard the automatic recording – a woman’s voice with a soft lilt to it – and ended the call. He unzipped his coveralls and slid his phone into his jacket pocket. ‘Get hold of
that liaison officer regardless,’ he said to Mhairi. ‘In case we’re wrong.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And call the Anstruther Office, give them the address, tell them to send a couple of uniforms round, to check up.’ Only then did he glance at Mhairi and realise how thoughtless he was being. He offered a short smile of reassurance. ‘I’m sure there’ll be a simple explanation.’ Then he turned and strode to his car, Jessie by his side, still fiddling with her mobile. ‘You got those directions yet?’
‘Hang on, nearly there. Got ’em.’
He clicked his fob and the Merc’s lights flashed.
Without a word, he slid in behind the steering wheel and stuffed his coveralls under the seat.
Jessie strapped herself in as the Merc bumped across the clearing, then accelerated on to the tarmac road. ‘You know what I’m thinking?’ she said to him. ‘I’m hoping I’m right about it not being suicide.’
As Gilchrist pressed hard down on the accelerator, his mind worked through Jessie’s thought process. When the logic hit him full force, he gritted his teeth and hissed, ‘Christ. Surely not.’
CHAPTER 4
It took just over twenty minutes to reach McCulloch’s home, a renovated farmhouse with a pair of barns-cum-extensions on either side, and a U-shaped paved courtyard with a raised pond in the middle. A hideous-looking statue in the shape of an angel spouted water from its mouth. Netting as fine as muslin covered the pond, to prevent marauding herons from taking the koi carp. The pristine farmyard overlooked acres of open fields that spilled downhill, beyond which the North Sea glinted like diamonds on a grey canvas.
A police car, its doors open, sat beside a Lexus SUV with a private number plate – one letter and two numbers. Clearly the McCullochs had more money than they knew what to do with. The main door of the house was open too, and not a uniform in sight. It seemed that Gilchrist’s worst fears were about to be realised.
‘I don’t like the look of this,’ Jessie said, as she stepped on to the courtyard.
‘Call Anstruther. See if they’ve heard anything.’
He strode towards the farmhouse and entered without announcement. In the entrance vestibule, his hopes soared when he heard voices. Had Mrs McCulloch invited the uniforms inside for an early morning chat and a cup of tea? But a pair of school blazers hanging on a couple of hooks, and a phone on a corner table, its red light blinking to remind the McCullochs they had unanswered messages, dashed his hopes in the next breath.
