The Meating Room

by T F Muir

  ‘You thought he might have done it before?’

  ‘I haven’t heard back from Jackie yet,’ he said, ‘so she’s likely found no other cases with a similar MO. Which means it’s new, and I’m wrong.’ He frowned. ‘What about surgical competence? Whoever removed the . . . the . . . must have had some idea what he was doing, don’t you think?’

  She shook her head, blue eyes creasing at the edges – tiredness from next to no sleep last night or horror from the job today, he could not say. ‘If your purpose is simply to remove the internal organs for the hell of it,’ she said, ‘then no surgical skill is necessary. A saw to cut the ribcage, a rib spreader to hold it open while you cut through the oesophagus, trachea and rectum, then lift the whole lot out in one. Lungs, too.’

  Gilchrist felt the bile rising. ‘And was a saw used?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And the ribcage clamped open?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any medical expertise evident at all?’ he asked.

  ‘The walls of the abdominal and pelvic cavities are scarred in places. So it was a bit ham-fisted. I’d say the killer has some postmortem experience, but no medical training.’

  ‘But if he is a medical professional, he might have scarred the cavities deliberately to make it look like an amateur job.’

  ‘True,’ she said. ‘So, what are you suggesting?’

  Gilchrist rubbed his temples. His mind was buzzing. He had no idea what he was suggesting.

  The phone on Cooper’s desk shattered the silence. They both stared at it for four rings, then she reached over and picked up the handset. ‘Yes?’

  Gilchrist caught the metallic resonance of a man’s voice, but when Cooper’s gaze darted his way he took it as a silent request for privacy. He walked to the door and was turning the handle when he heard Cooper replacing the handset.

  ‘That was Mr Cooper,’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t have much to say to him.’

  ‘I ran out of things to say to him years ago.’

  Silent, Gilchrist waited.

  Cooper returned his gaze for what seemed like minutes, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Andy.’

  Since her comment in Tentsmuir Forest that morning, he had been expecting her to bring their relationship to an end. After all, she was still married, and now her husband had returned from his overseas and out-of-town philandering to demand his conjugal rights, as she had so bluntly put it. Still, he’d hoped for one more evening, maybe another weekend, maybe even two.

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand at all.’

  He returned her hard look. He seemed to be good at saying nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry for getting you involved.’ She closed her eyes slowly and her lips tightened to warn him that she might be about to say something she would regret.

  He stepped towards her, touched her arm.

  She opened her eyes and he caught the faintest sparkle of tears. But two quick blinks and they were gone.

  ‘Do you love him?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I used to think I did. But I see now that I was only in love with what I thought he could provide: security, companionship, intellectual compatibility. God, how wrong was I?’ She seemed to recover. ‘And I’m starting to find out just how spiteful he can be.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gilchrist, worried about what was coming next.

  He was not disappointed. ‘He knows about you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure he does. We talk on the phone—’

  ‘Don’t minimise me, for God’s sake. Christ, I hate it when you do that.’

  He decided not to retaliate.

  ‘He knows about you and me. He knows about us.’

  ‘He suspects—’

  ‘No, Andy. He knows.’

  Gilchrist waited a couple of beats. ‘Does that worry you?’

  She looked stunned. ‘You’re missing the point.’

  He most certainly was.

  ‘Mr Cooper has thrown down the gauntlet.’

  ‘Pistols at dawn?’

  She cast him a nasty glance that warned him to be careful. ‘He phoned to remind me that he is an important man. And that an important man should be seen in the company of a professional woman – not one who is reputed to be putting it about town like the local slut. I think those were his exact words.’

  ‘Reputed?’

  ‘He’s had us followed, Andy.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, sensing the manifestation of something unpleasant.

  ‘He has photographs of us together.’

  ‘Doing what, exactly?’ He smiled at her. ‘Unless he has an X-ray camera that can photograph through stone walls, then all he has are photographs of DCI Gilchrist of Fife Constabulary talking to Dr Cooper in her professional capacity as—’

  ‘Oh, come on, Andy. I stayed over at yours last night.’

  ‘Well, there is that, of course.’

  Something seemed to shift within her, and she almost smiled. ‘Aren’t you worried about losing your job?’

  ‘Two consenting adults showing an interest in each other and developing a mutually respectful relationship that does not interfere in any shape or form with their professional responsibilities is hardly grounds for a sacking.’

  ‘Even with Chief Super Greaves in the sacking seat?’

  ‘You know about that, do you?’

  ‘That you’re not his favourite DCI?’

  ‘Ah, well, there you go.’

  She shoved her hands through her hair, tilted her head back and shook it. If he did not know better, he would have said they were back on track.

  ‘Why don’t you just leave him?’ he asked.

  Her blue eyes danced with his, then she said, ‘I’d better get on.’ She brushed past him and gripped the door handle. ‘I’ll try to get the PM report to you by this evening.’

  He shook his head. ‘The day will be done by the time I debrief His Lordship Greaves. Tomorrow’s fine.’ Then, realising he had forgotten to ask earlier, ‘Any benzodiazepine in Brian McCulloch’s toxicology results?’

  She nodded. ‘He had no intention of being saved.’

  ‘So you still think it’s suicide?’

  ‘I think you’re asking the wrong person. Isn’t that your job?’ She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned back to the door.

  ‘This might not be an appropriate time,’ he said.

  She froze, her hand on the handle.

  He hated himself for asking, hoped he did not sound desperate. ‘By the time Greaves is finished with me, I’ll be ready for a pint,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come along? We can talk about Mr Cooper, if you like.’

  She gave his words some thought. ‘Yes, you’re correct.’

  He felt a flutter of hope.

  ‘It’s not an appropriate time.’

  Then she turned and left him to fester in his self-inflicted misgivings.

  CHAPTER 8

  As Gilchrist pushed through The Central’s double swing doors, he was hit by the chaotic hubbub of a Scottish Friday night in full swing. The end of the working week – if you were not a DCI with a triple murder and another suspicious death to solve – was typically heralded by alcohol being quaffed as if in fear of a global shortage the following day, maybe even the following hour.

  Students, rich and poor; couples, young and old and in between; red-faced caddies, wind-blasted after a day on the golf courses; groups of tourists, many from overseas, looking stunned by the sight or deafened by the noise – it was difficult to tell – filled the seats or swarmed in thirsty groups around the rectangular bar.

  Gilchrist had always been intrigued by the name – The Central. Was it because of the pub’s location on Market Street, which was more or less in the centre of St Andrews, or because the bar itself – behind which bartenders glided past each other in the tight aisles with the skilled grace of dancers – was situated in the centre of the room? The conundrum usually lasted a pint or two
before it faded to nothing.

  Gilchrist located Stan seated in a corner booth with Mhairi, Jessie and Jackie, and signalled to the barman for a beer. Either the others had left early or Gilchrist was arriving late. He glanced at his watch – 8.20 – and decided the latter.

  With a pint of Deuchars IPA in hand he waded through the crowd. ‘Room for one more to squeeze in?’ he asked.

  Jackie looked up in surprise, her eyes wide behind her blackrimmed specs. Then she reached for her crutches resting against the wall.

  ‘I’ve got them,’ Gilchrist said, and held them steady as he worked his way past and sat next to Mhairi. ‘And never a drop was spilled,’ he said, then took a mouthful that turned into a gulp.

  ‘Thirsty, boss?’

  Gilchrist returned what was left of his pint to the table. ‘Was I ready for that or what?’

  ‘So, how’d you get on with Greaves?’ Jessie asked.

  Gilchrist nodded at his beer. ‘Can’t you tell? He told me to work the teams twenty-four/seven until we solved the case. I reminded him of his budget and our overtime rate.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘The word apoplectic springs to mind.’ Another gulp had his pint close to the bottom. ‘Anyone fancy another?’ he asked.

  ‘Heh, slow down there, big boy,’ Jessie said. ‘Are you on a promise or what? Talking of which, where is Veronica Lake, anyway?’

  Gilchrist pretended not to hear her, and caught the barman’s eye again. He circled the group with his hand, and mouthed, Same again. ‘I’m getting a receipt for these, which I’ll present to Greaves. That should test his heart valves for him.’

  Stan reached for his pint. ‘In that case, I’ll have another two.’

  Jackie laughed and tried to follow the quip with one of her own, but her stutter beat her every time, so she ended up just clapping her hands.

  ‘Right, Stan,’ said Gilchrist. He did not intend to stay long. He had a busy day – and probably another week or more – ahead of him, and he wanted to hear their thoughts on progress so far. ‘What’s Janice like?’

  Stan raised his eyebrows. ‘Mutton dressed as lamb, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Yeah, but is she boinking Magner?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘Well, she denied it. Said she’d heard the rumour within the company and was in the process of taking legal advice.’

  ‘Who’s her solicitor?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘She wouldn’t say, so I pressed her a bit, and she confessed that she hadn’t exactly started the process yet.’

  ‘Lying trollop.’ Jessie again.

  Gilchrist said, ‘I’m listening,’ then sipped the last of his beer.

  ‘I told her that if she was in any way prevaricating—’

  ‘That’s a big word,’ Jessie said. ‘Did the bitch know what it meant?’

  ‘She also knew what complicit meant.’

  ‘So she coughed up?’

  ‘She certainly did,’ Stan said. ‘The pair of them have been at it since Christmas.’

  Which had Gilchrist thinking about Cooper. Christmas was when their affair started, too. ‘How long has she been with Stratheden?’ he asked.

  ‘Says she was offered a job just before McCulloch and Magner hit the big time, but turned it down. Decided to stay where she was – Robertson McKellar, an accounting firm in Cupar. Better job security.’

  ‘And Magner persuaded her to change her mind, when, exactly?’

  ‘Ten years ago. Almost to the day.’

  ‘An anniversary boink.’ Jessie nodded to the bar. ‘They’re up.’

  Gilchrist pulled himself to his feet and pushed in at the counter. Something did not compute. If Janice had been with Stratheden for a decade, why had she only recently started an affair with Magner? His gut told him she was holding something back.

  He thanked the barman, pocketed the change, carried the small glasses back to the table – Drambuie on the rocks for Jackie; Bombay Sapphire and slimline tonic for Mhairi. Another trip to the counter for his and Stan’s pints of Deuchars – he’d persuaded Stan to quit Fosters – and Jessie’s half of Belhaven Best. Again, he managed to squeeze in without spilling a drop.

  ‘You’re getting good at that,’ Jessie said.

  ‘Plenty of practice.’ He gripped his glass. ‘Here’s to Greaves.’

  ‘Long may he choke,’ Jessie said. Gilchrist had the IPA to his lips when her eyes lit up and she announced, ‘You’ve got company.’

  He turned, expecting to see Cooper, then felt his heart stutter at the sight of Maureen.

  Her face, which had once been full and attractive, now looked haunted and drawn, with eyes that stared from hollow sockets. Her dark hair no longer bounced thick and glossy by her neckline, but was tied back in a tight ponytail that only accentuated how thin she had become. Three stone she had lost in total, but from a body that had been slim in the first place.

  Jessie rose to her feet, and offered Maureen her seat. ‘Here you go, Mo. I’m going outside to make a call. I’ll be back in five.’

  Gilchrist stood, as Maureen nudged his cheek in a half-hearted peck and whispered, ‘Sorry for hanging up on you earlier.’ Then she squeezed past him, nodding hello to everyone in turn. And in the passing, he sensed the lightness of her body, even though she was cocooned in a woollen scarf and thick anorak that hid her emaciated frame. She sat, black jeans slack on too-thin legs.

  ‘The usual?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’ll just have one,’ she said. ‘Then I’m heading back to the flat.’

  ‘Anything to eat with it?’

  ‘I’ve already had a bite.’

  Gilchrist doubted it, but did not have the heart to challenge her in front of the others. Instead, he returned to the bar, caught the barman’s eye again, and asked for a Cabernet.

  ‘Large or small?’

  Gilchrist wanted to reply ‘small’, but Maureen would only down it in one to remind him she never drank small measures. ‘Large,’ he said.

  When he returned to his seat and handed Maureen her drink, the conversation had already shifted to her Open University studies.

  ‘Can’t wait to get the exams out of the way,’ she said, in response to a question from Mhairi.

  ‘And then will you apply for a job with Fife?’

  Maureen lifted the glass to her lips, then shrugged, giving Gilchrist his first hint that she might soon be leaving St Andrews again.

  ‘I guess you wouldn’t want your old dad as a slave driver,’ Stan joked.

  Jackie mouthed a laugh, then clapped again.

  ‘I’m not that cruel,’ Gilchrist said, but that only encouraged Maureen to hide behind her wine, letting him know that the topic of her postgraduate employment was off limits.

  And so was his investigation. An early debriefing with the teams, followed by almost two hours with Greaves, most of which had been a waste of time, meant that Gilchrist had scarcely discussed the day’s events with Stan and the others. Although he trusted Maureen, and shown her details of previous cases, for some reason he did not want her involved in the massacre of the McCullochs.

  He gripped his pint and asked, ‘So, how’s Jon?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know. I hardly see him these days.’

  ‘I thought you liked him.’

  ‘I thought so, too,’ she agreed. Her next sip of wine almost drained the glass.

  Well, that put an end to that. Like father, like daughter, he thought. Or maybe like father, like family was more correct.

  In the several years leading up to their separation, Gail had cut back on her alcohol intake. He had since wondered if her sobriety had contributed to their break-up. Maybe through sober eyes she had seen what a failure he had been as a husband and father, which in turn had encouraged her to have the affair with Harry.

  He almost felt relieved when Jessie reappeared.

  ‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’m ready to chew nails.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘There are never enough stools whe
n you want one,’ Jessie said, looking around.

  ‘That’s ’cause it’s Friday and the bar’s busy.’

  ‘Who’s a clever Stan? Can I squeeze in beside you, Andy?’

  Gilchrist took his chance and said, ‘My turn.’ He stood, mobile already in hand, and left Jessie to take his chair. Without another word, he threaded through the crowd and exited by the side door on to College Street.

  Outside, the air felt raw, as if the temperature had plummeted ten degrees. A bitter wind brushed the cobbles, and he turned his back to it as he made the call. A gull screeched from the black skies above Church Street as he counted five rings, then six. He was about to hang up when Cooper answered.

  ‘I’ll give you a call back,’ she snapped.

  The line died before he had time to respond.

  He returned the mobile to his pocket and eyed the entrance to the bar. If Maureen had not been inside, he would have walked to the Merc and driven straight to his cottage in Crail. As it was, he returned inside with a heavy heart, saddened by the knowledge that Cooper would be sharing her bed with her undeserving husband that night.

  CHAPTER 9

  Morning hit Gilchrist with the sickening pain of a thudding headache. He lay still for several seconds, struggling to pull his mind from the dark cobwebs of sleep, before daring to open his eyes. The familiar twin skylights assured him he was at home in his own bed. He flapped an arm to the side, felt only cold emptiness. He rolled over and stared at the pillow.

  No Cooper.

  Memories of last night came back to him in fluttering moments of clarity intertwined with clouds of emptiness as dark as space. He remembered the others departing – Jackie with her crutches; Jessie leaving with her, and helping her to the door; Stan and Mhairi not long after, trying not to look like a couple, but failing comically.

  Then it had been just the two of them, daughter and father.

  He closed his eyes and counted two more pints of Deuchars, followed by two – or was it three? – Glenfiddichs, while a carefree Maureen kept easy pace alongside, downing four large glasses of wine, maybe five. So much for having only the one. He cursed himself for being too lenient. Just like her mother, once Maureen started, she did not want to stop until the bottle was finished. Gilchrist tried to convince himself that she was just a young woman with a tortured memory who liked the mental release that a hefty dose of alcohol gave every now and again. She did not do drugs – or so she told him, and he chose to believe her – so he reckoned the occasional heavy session was not all that bad.