by T F Muir
He had some difficulty squeezing past patrons ordering drinks at the bar, but he broke through and reached Gilchrist, skin glistening as if he had just stepped out of a piping-hot sauna. He placed a fat hand on Jessie’s shoulder, and Gilchrist was surprised that she did not slap it off.
‘Jessica,’ he said, ‘it’s nice to see you again.’
She tilted her head. ‘Give me a few minutes, Lachie, will you?’
He removed his hand. ‘I’ll be outside,’ he said, then gave Gilchrist a half-smile and the tiniest of nods.
Gilchrist waited until McKellar worked his way back along the bar before saying, ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’
Jessie took a quick sip of coffee and returned the mug to the table. Gilchrist could not fail to catch a tremor that gripped her hand and seemed to be working its way up to her face. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said, rising to her feet and following McKellar outside.
From his seat, Gilchrist watched the two of them face each other on the pavement, a couple of feet apart. Lachie lifted his hand to Jessie’s cheek, as if to caress it, but she turned away. Gilchrist thought it odd that the fire in her seemed to have been dowsed, as if McKellar’s sheer physical presence had suffocated—
His mobile rang. It was Cooper.
He made the connection. ‘Good afternoon, Becky.’
‘Where are you?’
‘One guess.’
‘Are you free?’
‘I can make myself available.’
‘I’ll be with you shortly. I’ll call when I’m closer.’
‘Any problems?’ But the line was already dead. He thought of calling back and asking what was so urgent that she could not talk over the phone. Then he decided against it, and returned the mobile to his pocket.
Outside, the conversation between Jessie and McKellar seemed more animated, with Jessie back to her spirited self, face flushed with anger, arms flailing. Something in the way McKellar stood – impassive, not rising to the heated bait of Jessie’s vitriol – told Gilchrist that whatever they were talking about, the big man had the upper hand. And he knew it.
Then, like a switch being clicked, Jessie turned on her heels and left him standing there.
McKellar seemed unfazed as he watched her return inside. A quick glance in Gilchrist’s direction had their eyes meeting for an instant. Then he turned and strode across the cobbles, light grey overcoat flapping in the wind but not a crease in sight, black polished shoes reflecting a flicker of rare sunlight. Maybe the day was going to clear up after all.
Jessie eased back into her seat as their food arrived. She seemed unable to meet Gilchrist’s gaze. Instead, she unwrapped the cutlery from the paper napkin, then wiped the knife clean with slow deliberation.
Gilchrist waited a respectful couple of mouthfuls before saying, ‘Cooper called. She’s on her way.’
‘That should cheer you up.’
‘I was hoping she might throw some light on how Brian McCulloch died.’
Jessie flashed him a look that he had difficulty deciphering, then stabbed her fork into the pie. The meat could have been as tough as gristle from the way she chewed it. Or maybe she was thinking it was McKellar’s heart.
Gilchrist placed his own cutlery across his plate.
Two mouthfuls later, Jessie said, ‘You not eating that?’
‘I’d like you to tell me what’s going on.’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘If it interferes with an ongoing murder investigation, then it’s very much my business.’
‘What’s interfering? I’m here, you’re here, Lachie’s there, and Veronica Lake’s going to join us in a few minutes, whoopity-do.’ She skewered another mouthful, then turned the full force of her glare on to the plate.
Gilchrist gave her another minute, then said, ‘I didn’t like the way Chief Super McKellar talked to you.’
Maybe it was the use of the formal title, or the tone of his voice, but Gilchrist detected a softening in her attitude. Even so, she was not giving in lightly.
‘Didn’t know you had bat ears.’
He smiled. ‘I don’t lip-read, either. But Lachie seemed a bit . . . self-assured for my liking.’
Jessie seemed to make a conscious effort to relax. She forked the next mouthful with care, then took a sip of water. ‘He’s giving me a hard time.’
Gilchrist held on to his beer. ‘In what way?’
She placed her fork and knife on her plate with resignation, then sat back and stared out the window. Maybe she was replaying the conversation with McKellar, trying to work out how she could have handled it better. Gilchrist didn’t push.
After a long minute, she pulled her gaze back and said, ‘I suppose you’ll find out eventually.’
He scooped up a forkful of meat.
‘You remember the resetting allegations against me?’
Gilchrist nodded. He had batted away allegations that Jessie had received goods she had known were stolen – not long after she joined Fife Constabulary. He had later learned that the allegations were true. But with the help of DCI Peter ‘Dainty’ Small of Strathclyde HQ, they had managed to finagle Jessie out of a career-destroying situation.
‘I do indeed,’ he said, ‘but we dealt with them.’
‘Well, Jabba’s threatening to resurrect them.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause he can.’
‘If you don’t do what?’
‘Stop ignoring him.’
‘Well, that’s easy enough. Answer his calls. Send him texts. Keep him sweet. He lives in Glasgow. You live in St Andrews. The pressure of work doesn’t give you time to—’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘His wife?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘He’s left her? And now he wants a shoulder to cry on?’
‘And the rest,’ she said.
Gilchrist took a mouthful of beer to encourage her to continue.
‘He wants to set me up in a wee flat, he says. Well, me and Robert. So he can come up and stay over at the weekends. He’s even got somewhere picked out for us, for crying out loud.’
‘Doesn’t he know you’ve just moved?’
‘It’s not about moving. It’s about control.’
Gilchrist took a mouthful of chips and scooped up some beans, more to prevent himself from cursing than for epicurean pleasure.
‘I told him I’d think about it.’
‘Sounds like he’s given you an ultimatum.’
Jessie nodded. ‘He says he needs to know by the end of the weekend.’
‘That’s tomorrow.’
‘Clever you.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘The agent’s taken the property off the market to give him time to come up with the deposit. So he says.’
‘And if you don’t agree, you’ll be charged with resetting?’
‘Again, it’s not as simple as that. Lachie can be right sneaky.’
Gilchrist read the helplessness in her eyes and could tell she was close to tears; maybe even close to giving up altogether. The echo of her words on Tentsmuir Beach the previous morning came back to him – I sometimes struggle with it all – and he thought he understood her dilemma. She had applied for a transfer from Strathclyde to Fife – Glasgow to St Andrews – to escape the criminality of her own family and to end whatever relationship Lachie imagined he had with her. She had told him repeatedly that she wanted nothing more to do with him, but still he had come after her. If only they could pursue criminals with such vigour, he thought.
‘So, what’s he threatening to do?’ he asked.
Jessie’s eyes filled with tears, but she took a deep breath and wiped them away.
Then his phone rang. Cooper again. This time he scowled at the screen.
‘Answer it,’ Jessie said. ‘I’m going nowhere. Not yet, anyway.’
He made the connection. ‘Becky?’
‘I’m in Market Street.’
>
He looked out the window, his gaze scanning the passers-by, but he failed to see her.
‘I’m about to step into Costa Coffee. We need to talk.’
‘I’m in the—’
The connection died.
Gilchrist rose to his feet.
‘Problems?’ Jessie asked.
He tried to make light of it by answering, ‘More than likely,’ but he knew it took a lot to ruffle Cooper’s feathers, and from the tone of her voice she sounded plucked and ready for the stuffing.
He shuffled past patrons at the bar, stepped into the bitter chill of Market Street, and prepared himself for the worst.
CHAPTER 14
Gilchrist found Cooper sitting on a sofa in the rear of the coffeeshop.
She looked pale, her eyes tired, as if she had not slept, or perhaps been crying – which would be a first. He smiled as he sat opposite, and had to stifle a stab of hurt as she withdrew her hands from the table and placed them on her lap, as if defining a new boundary in their relationship, now that Mr Cooper had returned – to claim his conjugal rights, no less.
‘Have you ordered?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Would you like something?’
Another shake of the head. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun that accentuated the blue sharpness of her eyes, the sculpted lines of her cheekbones. In an artistic sense, the look suited her. But he preferred loose curls, if ever asked.
Silent, he waited.
‘I hate him,’ she said at length.
‘So leave him.’
‘I wish it were that simple.’
If only his own marriage had proved so difficult to terminate. An image of Gail in tears, storming from the marital home, tugging Maureen and Jack behind her, arced across his mind with a ferocity that caused him to blink. It took the recollection of the front door slamming before he managed to chase the picture away.
‘It’s as simple as you want it to be,’ he tried.
‘You don’t know anything about my relationship with Maxwell,’ she snapped, ‘so please don’t pretend that you do.’
Well, there he had it. Back only one day and already Mr Cooper elevated to Maxwell. Did that mean her marriage had entered a new phase? Or was she simply personalising her husband to distance herself from her forlorn lover? The ensuing silence had Gilchrist thinking that the short outburst had drained her.
‘Ending my own marriage was painful,’ he said at length. ‘But looking back, I only wonder why it took us so long to reach the point of no return.’
‘I’ll have that coffee now,’ she said. ‘Espresso. Hot milk on the side.’
At the counter, he contemplated texting Jessie to tell her he would meet her later. But the way Cooper was behaving, she could be on her way home to Maxwell before he even delivered her espresso. When he returned with the tray, the sofa was empty. For a moment he thought she had indeed left, but then he noticed her jacket and scarf draped over the arm. He laid the tray on the table, espresso and milk in its centre, and lifted his own latte. Better to share time over a coffee, he thought, than to have her thinking she was preventing him from returning to The Central to finish his pint. Which had him puzzling why she had not wanted to meet him there – they could even call it their local. Maybe she had seen him inside with Jessie, and felt a need to talk to him in private.
Movement at the back door caught his attention, and he was surprised to see Cooper pushing it open, mobile still in hand. Without a word, she reclaimed her seat and stared at her coffee. He thought of pouring the milk for her, then realised he didn’t know how she took espresso. Until then, she had always ordered latte with no sugar, the way he liked it.
Had she done that just to make it easy for him?
He reached for the milk jug. ‘Shall I play Mum?’
She said nothing as he poured and stirred. Then he sat back and lifted his latte to his lips. Cooper reached for her drink with both hands, her fingers squeezing the cup tight.
‘Maxwell’s going to talk to Greaves,’ she said, then took a sip.
‘About what?’
‘Come on, Andy, don’t play dumb.’
‘Is he going to confess that he has marital problems?’
‘You have this extremely irritating way of talking in questions.’
‘So what do you want me to ask?’
She glared at him, and for the first time since she had taken over from Bert Mackie as head of Forensic Pathology at Dundee University, he saw how formidable an opponent she could be. He had always believed that Mr Cooper – man of the world, philanderer about town and overseas – gave out more than he got in that marriage. Now he was not so sure.
‘Okay. Tell me why you’re worried about your husband talking to Chief Super Greaves.’
‘You don’t know Maxwell,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t do half-measures.’
Gilchrist was unsure what she meant by that, but found himself reluctant to ask. ‘I’m already in Greaves’s bad books,’ he said. ‘And I don’t see me getting out of them any time soon.’
‘No. But I could lose my job.’
‘Ah.’ Now they were getting down to it. Nothing to do with what Greaves might say to Gilchrist, but everything to do with how his affair with a married woman, Fife’s foremost forensic pathologist, might impact on her career. Rather than rising to the bait, he decided to be awkward. ‘I could lose mine, too.’
‘After what you’ve got away with in the past?’ Her lips creased into a wry smile and she took another sip of coffee.
He waited until she returned the cup to the table before saying, ‘What are you not telling me, Becky?’
She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Nothing.’
‘Now who’s acting dumb?’
Her eyes flared, making him think she was about to storm out. But she reached for her coffee again, clutching the cup with both hands as if seeking warmth. Well, it was chilly outside.
‘Would you like another one?’ he asked.
She shook her head, an act that looked strange without the benefit of long hair. He missed her curls, and fought off the oddest urge to reach out and undo her bun. ‘One’s enough,’ she replied. ‘I’ll be twitching all evening if I have two of these.’
He returned her smile, placed his hand palm upwards on the table, but she still refused to reciprocate. He said nothing as she sipped her coffee and avoided his eye. He was starting to wonder why she had asked to meet him at all. For all she had said, a text message would have done just as well. The stalemate was broken by a call to his mobile. He removed it from his pocket, glanced at the screen – Stan – and rose to his feet.
‘I’ll take this out the back,’ he told her, but Cooper seemed uninterested, or perhaps resigned to perpetual interference from others.
Outside, Gilchrist tugged up his collar to ward off a gust of bitter wind.
‘Does the name Jerry McGovern mean anything to you, boss?’
Gilchrist struggled to make a connection. ‘Any relation to Malky McGovern?’
‘They’re brothers.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Malky was killed in a car accident on the A85 ten days ago, just outside Crieff.’
Gilchrist pulled up a faint memory of something on the news – the TV camera zooming in on a mangled pile of metal that had once been a car. Then he realised Stan was waiting for him to say something. ‘Did they find anything in his car?’
‘Driving licence. Wallet in the centre console. Files in the boot.’
‘Files? What kind of files?’
‘Photographs,’ Stan said. ‘Lots of them. And we’re not talking happy families here.’
Electricity trickled the length of Gilchrist’s spine. ‘What are we talking, then?’
‘Young women having sex, giving blowjobs, getting licked—’
‘Any way to ID them?’
‘No chance, boss. Their faces have been blanked out.’
‘Inked out, you mean?’
/> ‘Pixelated is the technical term.’
Gilchrist felt a surge of interest. He was beginning to understand why Stan had called. ‘So they’re printouts from a computer, is what you’re telling me.’
‘They are indeed. And this is where it gets interesting.’
Gilchrist glanced back into the coffee-shop and felt a flutter of confusion at Cooper’s empty sofa.
‘When the police contacted Jerry as Malky’s only next of kin, they thought he seemed nervous. Not how you would expect a seasoned criminal to behave.’
Gilchrist pushed through the door, eyes on the abandoned sofa – no jacket and scarf this time – then strode past it. He glanced at the counter, the main door, the seats at the window, through the glass to the street beyond.
No sign of Cooper.
‘With Jerry acting like he was hiding something, the SIO applied for a search warrant and yesterday they went over and confiscated his computers.’
Gilchrist had worked his way through the coffee-shop. He stepped into Market Street, but Cooper was nowhere in sight. ‘I’m listening,’ he said, scanning the thoroughfare, searching the pavements. But it seemed as if Cooper had just upped and left.
‘Well, in the process, they discovered some of Amy McCulloch’s jewellery.’
‘What?’ Gilchrist stopped in his tracks.
‘Matching necklaces and earrings, that sort of stuff.’
Gilchrist started walking again, faster now. He strode across College Street, heading back to The Central. ‘Had the McCullochs reported the items as stolen?’
‘No. McGovern just came clean. Eager to get it off his chest, by all accounts. He served four years in Barlinnie for serious assault, which could have been murder if the victim hadn’t survived. What do you think, boss? Think he might be involved in the massacre?’
‘Serious assault’s different from gutting, skinning and decapitating,’ Gilchrist said. ‘No, Jerry’s just shitting himself in case he gets mixed up in it.’ He gave it some thought, then said, ‘So how did he come by the jewellery?’
‘Said he’d been staking out the mansion for a couple of weeks, boss, and broke in on Thursday morning.’
‘Jesus, Stan,’ Gilchrist gasped. ‘Was this before the family was massacred?’
