The Meating Room

by T F Muir

  ‘No comment.’

  Jessie smiled, but Gilchrist could tell it was forced. He also noted Magner’s lack of reaction to the mention of Grey Goose vodka, so he took up the questioning again. ‘What car do you drive, Mr Magner?’

  ‘Aston Martin Vantage.’

  ‘Company car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many company cars does Stratheden Enterprises have on its books?’

  ‘Only two. Brian’s and mine.’

  ‘Only two?’ Gilchrist frowned in disbelief, and glanced at his notes. ‘But Stratheden’s turnover was in excess of sixty million last year.’

  ‘We broker the development side of the business to subcontractors and consultants. They have their own cars. We have in-house administration and accounting sections, a staff of about thirty, but they’re salaried – no cars or car allowances. Strictly speaking, and legally speaking, too, Brian and I are the only executives of Stratheden Enterprises.’

  ‘And now it’s only you.’

  Something shifted behind Magner’s eyes. He unfolded his arms and gripped the edge of the table, as if to prevent himself from accidentally reaching out and throttling Gilchrist. ‘Brian and I were in business together for many years. We were close friends. I adored Amy and I loved Eilish and Siobhan. I volunteered my time to help you investigate the deaths of my friend and his family, and you talk to me as if I’m some kind of—’

  ‘You’ve been accused of sexually abusing eleven women,’ Jessie barked.

  ‘Which my client categorically denies,’ said Pettigrew, pushing back his seat to let them know the interrogation was over. ‘Now, if you’ve no further questions, my client herewith revokes all voluntary assistance—’

  ‘Just one more,’ Gilchrist said.

  Pettigrew’s face contorted into an irritated scowl. ‘What is it?’

  Gilchrist leaned across the table, pressing closer to Magner.

  ‘How did you get that cut on your right hand?’

  CHAPTER 6

  Magner’s scowl turned into a smile, and he held out his hand.

  The injury was on the right palm, at the base of the thumb, and taped with a stretch plaster streaked with the rust-coloured stain of dried blood.

  ‘It looks fresh,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I cut myself in the hotel room last night, slicing fruit.’

  ‘What kind of fruit?’

  ‘An apple.’

  ‘Don’t you bite them like a normal person?’ Jessie again.

  ‘I prefer to slice off chunks.’

  ‘You must be left-handed,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So you held the apple in your right hand, and sliced a chunk off with your left?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And the knife slipped?’

  ‘It did.’

  ‘You didn’t need stitches?’

  ‘Thankfully, no.’

  ‘Where did you find the plaster?’

  ‘I always have some in my toilet bag.’

  ‘I bet you do,’ Jessie said.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Pettigrew snapped.

  ‘That your client gives the impression of always being prepared.’ She glared at Magner, anger shimmering off her like heat from rock. ‘I bet you spent a fortune on johnnies in your heyday—’

  ‘Right. That’s it.’ Pettigrew pushed himself to his feet. ‘This charade of an interview is now terminated. I am instructing my client not to utter another word. If you wish to speak to Mr Magner again, you will have to find some reason to detain him.’ Pettigrew gripped Magner by the elbow and pushed him, rather unceremoniously Gilchrist thought, towards the door.

  Jessie announced, ‘Interview terminated at thirteen-eighteen.’

  Gilchrist waited until the door closed behind them, then let several more seconds pass before he turned to Jessie. ‘Want to talk to me about it?’

  She grimaced, shook her head. ‘I hate cunts like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Cocky, arrogant, thinks he’s God’s gift to women.’

  ‘He’s handsome, in a rugged sort of a way,’ Gilchrist tried, looking for a reaction.

  ‘If you plastered over the pockmarks, maybe. You should have seen the way he looked at me when I walked in. Stripped naked and screwed by the time I’d sat down. I’d bet a year’s salary he’s guilty of raping every one of these women. I can see it in his eyes.’ She shuddered. ‘Gives me the creeps just thinking about him touching me.’

  ‘And his involvement in the McCulloch’ – he almost said massacre, but settled for – ‘case?’

  ‘His alibi seems solid,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know. His answers were too quick, like he’d prepared them, particularly about the cut on his hand. I mean, who cuts their hand eating an apple, for crying out loud?’

  ‘If you hadn’t been so determined to rile him, he might have agreed to give a DNA sample—’

  ‘Like hell he would. That slime-ball solicitor would never have allowed it.’ She scraped the business card from the table and stared at it. ‘Thornton Pettigrew. I mean, what mother would ever call her child Thornton?’

  ‘Pettigrew’s mother?’

  Jessie glared at Gilchrist. ‘You’re such a smart-arse at times.’

  Gilchrist pushed his chair back. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I believe Magner. I want you to find out who was at the convention last night. Check CCTV footage, establish who he talked to, who he had a pint with, who he shared his bed with—’

  ‘So, you’re thinking he spent the night with someone?’

  ‘Well, he’s divorced, isn’t he?’

  ‘As if that makes any difference. Husbands screw behind their wives’ backs all the time.’

  An image of his late wife Gail having it off with her lover Harry flashed into Gilchrist’s mind, thankfully replaced by a picture of Cooper settling on to him. And wives do the same to their husbands, he thought.

  ‘Maybe he’s looking for wife number two,’ he said.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Same age as McCulloch, I’d say. Late forties, early fifties.’

  ‘Check it out. See what you can find out about his past. And have a talk to the PF about the rape allegations. Maybe we need to set up a meeting. Then ask Stan about McCulloch’s phone records. He must have something by now.’

  ‘And while I’m trying to cram a week’s work into a Friday afternoon, what exactly will you be doing, sir?’

  ‘Checking up with Cooper.’

  ‘Typical.’ She left the interview room, flashing a wry smile.

  On the drive to Dundee, Gilchrist took a call from his daughter, Maureen.

  ‘Hey, Mo,’ he said. ‘Long time.’

  ‘It’s only been a week, Dad.’

  ‘But we live in the same town now,’ he complained. ‘Shouldn’t we be seeing a bit more of each other these days?’

  ‘Okay, what are you doing tonight?’

  ‘I can’t tonight. I’ve got a major case on the go . . .’ He let his voice trail away as he realised she was winding him up.

  ‘I know, Dad. It’s all over the news.’

  ‘How about tomorrow night?’ he suggested, trying to change the subject.

  ‘I’m working on my final thesis. You know how busy I am.’

  Three years earlier, Maureen had been involved in a terrifying incident that almost claimed her life. And after her mother’s death, Gilchrist had managed to persuade both Maureen and his son, Jack, to return to St Andrews from Glasgow. Maureen now lived alone in an attic flat in South Street. But rather than hide in the shadow of her horrific experience, she had tackled the devil head on and applied for an Open University course in forensic science. She expected to graduate in the summer, and was always on the lookout for first-hand experience of crime scenes.

  Which was why Gilchrist gritted his teeth. He knew what was coming.

  ‘Any chance of being shown around?’ she
asked.

  Shown around was Maureen’s way of asking for access to a crime scene.

  ‘Not this one, Mo. It’s too high profile.’

  ‘But that’s exactly the kind of case I need—’

  ‘I can’t, Mo. I’ve got to play by the rules this time. McVicar and Greaves are all over it. The press are camping out by the front gate. If you showed up, I’d be fired on the spot.’

  For a moment he thought she had hung up, but then she said, ‘Okay. If that’s what you want.’

  He felt a hot surge of irritation flash through him. This was Maureen at her worst. Just like her mother, she could twist his words to make him feel guilty. ‘It’s not what I want, Mo. It’s what I have to do. There’s a difference.’ He waited a beat. ‘Why don’t you join us in The Central tomorrow, and we can have a chat about the case?’

  ‘Won’t you be too busy for that?’

  Gilchrist bit his tongue. ‘It doesn’t matter how busy it gets, princess, we all have to eat. The Central’s convenient, and it serves a great pint. We’ll be there around one.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  He knew from experience that Maureen would not show up. ‘I can come by and pick you up, if you like.’ But the line was already dead.

  He threw the mobile on to the passenger seat and cursed under his breath.

  Gilchrist arrived at Bell Street Mortuary just before 2 p.m.

  He stepped from the Merc and called Stan before entering. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Early days, boss, but it looks like Stratheden’s not as successful as we thought it was. They’re making money, which I suppose is some measure of success, but it looks like they’re making it at the expense of their subs.’

  Gilchrist pressed his mobile tighter to his ear.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Bea, their book-keeper. Apparently they owe over six million quid in disputed billings.’

  Gilchrist grimaced at the amount. ‘Six million?’

  ‘Listen to this, boss. One hundred and seventy-three thousand to MTT3 Architects—’

  ‘One bill?’

  ‘An aggregate of ten invoices dating back over a year. Then there’s ninety-five thousand due to MacksiWorks Contractors. They specialise in earth-moving. You’ll have seen their equipment around.’

  Gilchrist wouldn’t know a MacksiWorks earth-moving machine from a lawnmower, but he mumbled his agreement.

  ‘Another contractor is owed two-fifty thousand. A few more just under a hundred grand each. And on and on.’

  ‘Any idea what part McCulloch played in all of this?’

  ‘Haven’t had a chance to grill many of the staff yet. Some are still in shock, and in no state to talk about it. But according to Bea, the general gist is that McCulloch and Magner’s relationship was on the decline. They didn’t see eye to eye on a ton of stuff, including the financial side of the business.’

  ‘Is Stratheden going under?’

  ‘I’m not the man to ask, boss. But a number of subs have already taken legal action, which Bea says has never happened before. She had a meeting last week with McCulloch and Magner and some others from accounts, and she reckoned you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.’

  Gilchrist felt a spit of rain and looked to the sky. Grey clouds were rolling overhead. ‘So what’s her take on McCulloch versus Magner?’ he asked.

  ‘McCulloch was definitely the more pleasant of the two – a bit aloof sometimes, according to Bea, but at least he took the time to listen. As for Magner, Bea says she can’t stand being in the same room as him.’

  Well, there he had it – Jessie’s summary of Magner had just been confirmed by someone who had known him for years. It never failed to amaze Gilchrist how some women could see straight through a man’s façade, while so many others seemed blind to it. Witness the women who returned time and again to an abusive lover, partner, or husband.

  ‘What are they saying about the Magner rape investigation?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘As yet, no one’s been willing to talk about it. Bea showed me a copy of an office memo sent by Magner when the press first got wind of the allegations two months ago. It said he would terminate the employment of any member of staff who discussed the matter during office hours, and that if anyone spread rumours about him outside the workplace, then that would be just cause for instant dismissal, too.’

  ‘What did Bea make of that?’

  ‘She said six of them handed in their notice that day, and Magner told them to leave immediately. No compensation, nothing. Bea said she couldn’t afford to lose her job, or she would have walked with them.’

  ‘Doesn’t make for good employee relations,’ Gilchrist said. ‘And McCulloch? Where was he when all this was happening?’

  ‘Up in arms, apparently. Bea said she’d never heard him swear before, but he and Magner went at it big time.’

  ‘This was two months ago, you say?’

  ‘And again, last week, boss.’

  Gilchrist blinked as a spot of rain hit his forehead, then another. He shielded the mobile and strode towards the entrance. ‘It seems to me, Stan, that Magner and McCulloch did not have the warm relationship their corporate image liked to portray.’

  ‘Bea said I should talk with Janice Meechan.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘Stratheden’s chief financial officer and – get this, boss – Amy McCulloch’s sister.’

  Gilchrist sensed that more was coming. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The talk in the steamy is that Magner’s been giving Janice one.’

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘Happily, allegedly, with three kids.’

  ‘Did McCulloch know about the affair?’

  ‘Bea says if he didn’t, he must’ve been blind.’

  Gilchrist picked up his pace as the skies opened. ‘Okay, Stan. Get hold of Janice and find out if there’s any truth in it. We might just have uncovered a motive.’

  ‘I hope so, boss, because McCulloch’s phone records have given us nothing.’

  ‘Define nothing.’

  ‘Nothing to connect McCulloch with Magner.’

  Gilchrist almost stopped. ‘Nothing at all? Are you saying they never spoke to each other?’

  ‘I’m saying they never phoned each other.’

  ‘Keep looking, Stan. There must be something.’ He killed the connection and ran inside.

  CHAPTER 7

  Gilchrist found Cooper in the post-mortem room, leaning over a hollow carcass – the lump of flesh that had once been the living, breathing body of Amy McCulloch. Two smaller bodies lay on gurneys locked on to the sinks, ready for their own PM examinations. The PM room could handle only three bodies at a time, so Brian McCulloch’s corpse would still be in cold storage, the forensic examination of his murdered family having taken priority.

  The sight of the smallest body – Siobhan’s – had Gilchrist’s throat constricting. Life was far too short for fathers to fall out with daughters, so he resolved to phone Maureen, tell her he’d had a change of heart. He would swing by her flat, take her out, answer all her questions about the McCulloch massacre, maybe even show her some crime-scene photographs. He was in Greaves’s bad books anyway, so what difference would it make? He was about to make the call when he caught Cooper signalling to him to come to her office. Once there, he thought Cooper looked tired, as if the morbid task of confirming causes of death for an entire family was too much to bear, even for a pathologist. Or maybe too much bed and not enough sleep had finally caught up with her.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  She raked a hand through her hair, then tossed it. No sexual innuendo in sight. ‘I’d put time of death between three and six yesterday afternoon,’ she said.

  ‘After the girls got home from school?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘Initial blood results on the girls show high levels of benzodiazepine. Not enough to kill them, but it would have put them into a state of unconsciousness. I suspect they were then simply smothered. I�
�ll be more certain once I’ve examined them.’

  All of the date-rape drugs – Rohypnol, GHB, Dormicum, Hypnovel – contained benzodiazepine. Cheap, easy to find, easy to administer. Slip one into a drink and the girls would simply have fallen asleep.

  ‘What about the mother?’

  ‘No benzodiazepine,’ she said. ‘Different story entirely.’

  ‘Alcohol?’

  ‘Not sufficient to suggest she was anywhere near incapable of defending herself.’

  Gilchrist thought for a moment. ‘Did he want her to feel pain?’

  ‘Even if he did, I don’t think she would have lasted long.’

  ‘Maybe he was in a hurry.’

  Gilchrist had a mental image of Magner’s Aston Martin speeding from Fife to Stirling to establish his alibi. But could anyone really walk into a conference and act normal after doing this? – smothering the girls, and beheading, gutting, skinning their mother, then killing their father to make it look like suicide?

  ‘So far, I’ve identified five knife wounds in the chest, all apparently from the same blade. Any one of them would have been fatal. Considerable force was used,’ she added. ‘One of the wounds was deep enough to nick the spinal cord.’

  Gilchrist grimaced as a cold frisson coursed through him. ‘So . . . strong man, not woman?’

  ‘That would be my guess.’ Cooper looked away for a long moment, as if her mind were elsewhere. Then she faced him again. ‘Almost all of her internal organs have been removed.’

  ‘Almost?’ he heard himself say.

  ‘The kidneys have not been touched. They’re retroperitoneal, so would need to be taken out separately.’

  Gilchrist felt his breath leave him. An unhealthy spasm gripped his chest. Head, skin, guts, fingernails, toenails, and now most of the internal organs. He sucked in air for all he was worth. What drove someone to kill another human being, then violate their corpse in such a cruel fashion? If the force used to kill Amy McCulloch had been sufficient for one of the knife blows to pierce her body all the way through to the spinal cord, the killer must have exhibited monumental fury.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Cooper admitted.

  ‘No,’ was all Gilchrist could think to say.