by T F Muir
It was close to midnight when Gilchrist entered the interview room in Strathclyde HQ on Pitt Street, Glasgow. Jessie took the seat to his left, with Stan on the other to the right. Opposite them sat Thomas Magner and his solicitor, no longer the slick-haired Thornton Pettigrew, of Jesper Pettigrew Jones, but a white-haired man with a deep tan and white teeth that boasted of too much sun or too much money – or probably both.
With the help of Strathclyde Police, Stan had tracked Magner to the Urban Bar and Brasserie on St Vincent Place in Glasgow city centre. He had been enjoying a meal and a bottle of Krug Vintage Brut in the company of an attractive blonde young enough to be his daughter. Gilchrist was convinced she had been hired for the occasion.
When cornered by two detectives from Strathclyde, Magner had dabbed his lips with a napkin, stood up, and held out both hands in mock-arrest to the shocked gasps of other patrons. Then he had excused himself from his blonde companion with all the airs and graces of a knight about to slay a dragon.
A short interview with Magner’s girlfriend-for-hire confirmed Gilchrist’s suspicions. She had only met Tommy the day before, in Maison Bleue, Edinburgh, spent the night with him at the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street, and not left his side, or his wallet, since.
Well, there he had it. Another perfect alibi.
Magner’s solicitor was the first to make a move.
He slid a card across the table to Gilchrist, then another to Stan, and sat back – Christopher Brooks Jones of Jesper Pettigrew Jones.
‘Don’t I get one?’ Jessie said.
Jones’s mouth twisted in a what-do-you-think? smile.
Gilchrist slid his card to Jessie, who smirked at it, then said, ‘Right. For the record . . .’ She introduced all five present, ending with place, date and time, and noting that Magner’s attendance was voluntary, and that he was free to leave at any time.
Then she eyed Magner. ‘How’s your hand?’
Magner turned it over to reveal a fresh plaster. ‘Getting better.’
Jessie returned his gaze. ‘Who’s the bimbo?’
Jones leaned forward, his mouth in a lopsided twist. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Why? Did you burp?’
Jones’s eyes failed to blink. ‘You asked, Who’s the bimbo?’
‘Good to see your hearing aid works.’ Back to Magner. ‘Well?’
Jones leaned forward and said to Gilchrist, ‘We have a problem here. You are obliged to advise my client why he is being questioned.’
‘It’s a continuation of an earlier interview,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We’re investigating multiple murders.’
‘About which my client has already advised you he knows nothing.’
‘Correct,’ Jessie said. ‘But now we have another one to add to the list.’
Jones raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘And when and where did this alleged new murder take place?’ he asked Gilchrist.
‘This evening. Outside Anstruther,’ Jessie replied.
Jones looked at his client, eyebrows still high, then faced Gilchrist again. ‘So, how—’
‘You’re right,’ Jessie interrupted. ‘We do have a problem. Usually, when I talk to someone, they answer me. You know, I speak to you, you speak to me. That sort of thing. One on one. Face to face. Understand?’
Jones smiled at her, then turned to Gilchrist. ‘As I was saying—’
‘Let me repeat my question, Mr Magner – who’s the bimbo?’
‘This is out of—’
‘Shut it.’
‘I really do have to object—’
‘Put it in writing,’ Jessie snapped. ‘Address it to him, if you want,’ nodding at Gilchrist. Then she turned her attention to Magner. ‘Are you going to answer the question or just sit there looking dumb? Who’s the bimbo?’
Magner returned Jessie’s look but said nothing.
‘To clarify, I’m not talking about your solicitor,’ she added. ‘Even though bimbo could be an apt description. I’m talking about the blonde bombshell you picked up last night to establish your alibi.’
Magner shifted in his seat, as if about to speak, but Jones turned his head and leaned in. ‘You don’t have to say anything, Tom.’
Magner nodded at his solicitor’s wise words, then said, ‘I’ve a busy day ahead of me, Chris. Besides, I’ve got a blonde bimbo to get back to tonight.’
Jones chuckled, then sat back with a smile. ‘As you will, then.’
Magner’s eyes burned at Jessie. ‘I don’t know the bimbo’s name.’
‘So you pick her up, wine and dine her, spend the night with her, and don’t have the common decency to ask her name?’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘Not yet. Was she expensive?’
‘She’s not a prostitute, if that’s what you’re asking. But I’ve spent a couple of thou since we met, so I guess you could say—’
‘All that money, and you haven’t even bought her a going-away present yet.’
‘I don’t believe she’s intending to leave any time soon.’
‘I wasn’t talking about her.’
Jones chuckled, put his hand to his mouth, and winked at Gilchrist.
Magner smiled, although Gilchrist caught the tiniest hint of annoyance.
On the drive to Glasgow earlier that night, they had discussed their interview strategy, and agreed that Jessie should lead, try to wriggle under Magner’s skin, get him to say something he might regret. She was doing well, but Magner looked as cold as stone.
‘How did you meet Miss Anonymous?’ Jessie asked.
‘I walked up to her in a bar and said, Hi gorgeous, I’d like to fuck your brains out.’
Jessie laughed. ‘With a face like yours? That’s chancing your arm.’
Magner kept his composure.
Jessie pressed on. ‘More like you flashed her a few hundred quid and told her there was plenty more where that came from if she stuck by your side for a night or two. Of course, you wouldn’t tell her she was going to get dumped before the end of the weekend.’
‘Is there a question in there?’ Jones complained.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Jessie said, nodding to Gilchrist. ‘Got a mobile phone?’ she asked Magner.
‘Of course.’ He removed it from his jacket and slid it across the table.
‘I didn’t ask to see it. But I understand why you’re keen to let me check it out – to prove you never made any calls to or received any calls from Janice today.’ The mobile was a top-quality Samsung. She worked her way through the menus to Call Log, then said, ‘I must say you’ve surprised me.’
‘Why?’
Jessie stared hard at Magner. ‘You never asked who Janice was.’
‘I assume you’re talking about Janice Meechan, although I fail to see why that’s an issue.’
Gilchrist had to admit that Magner was good. Great, even. Give Jones his due, too – he hardly twitched. Of course, Jones would have been kept in the dark, fed only scraps Magner deemed safe to hand over. How could you lie if you didn’t know the truth?
‘She’s your late business partner’s sister-in-law,’ Jessie continued. ‘Or, to be more precise, your late business partner’s late wife’s sister. And the woman you’ve been screwing since Christmas.’
‘I’ve heard that rumour,’ Magner said. ‘So is that what this is about?’
‘This?’
‘This interview.’
‘Do you deny having an affair with her?’
‘Of course I deny that. Janice is a lovely woman, and a wonderful wife to Perry, and a fine mother to Jane and John. Is this how you speak of someone who’s in mourning for the brutal death of her sister and her family?’
Gilchrist noticed the present tense, and for the first time that night felt the tiniest of nips worrying his gut. So far, all they had to go on was instinct alone. But they were nearing the point when they needed to uncover some hard evidence.
And at that moment, it felt like there was none to find.
Jessie
eyed Magner’s phone. ‘You didn’t ask why we were interested in you contacting her today.’
‘I couldn’t give a shit about why you’re interested in Janice. Something to do with the tragic death of her sister and her family, no doubt.’
‘I’m interested in why you contacted her.’
‘She’s an employee. She’s been with our company for the last ten years. She’s also my partner’s . . . sorry, my late partner’s sister-in-law. What’s so strange about me contacting her, today or any other day?’
‘Did she call you today?’
‘I haven’t spoken with her since yesterday, when I called the office.’
‘Did she call and leave a message today?’
‘If she did, I didn’t get it.’ Magner held out his hand, palm up. ‘You’ve got my phone. Check it and see.’
‘Can you be reached on any other numbers?’
Magner slid a hand into his pocket, retrieved his wallet, and opened it. ‘Here,’ he said, and removed a business card. ‘These are all the numbers I have.’
‘Do you know Janice is dead?’
Magner blinked once, twice, then said, ‘No. I didn’t. How . . .?’
‘Hit-and-run.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
Jones reached for Magner’s hand and squeezed.
Gilchrist thought he had seen it all, but this was play-acting at its worst.
Magner nodded to his phone. ‘I’d like to make a call.’
‘Who to?’
‘Perry, of course.’
‘I might have to confiscate this phone,’ Jessie said.
Jones slid his hand into his suit pocket.
‘No calls,’ Jessie snapped. ‘They can wait. You can phone when we’re done.’ She picked up Magner’s business card. ‘How did Janice compare to her sister, Amy?’
Jones frowned.
Magner said, ‘Now you’ve lost me.’
‘Amy McCulloch, aka Charlotte Renwick?’
Magner’s eyes turned to beads of ice.
‘You screwed her, too, didn’t you? Well, actually, you raped her.’
Jones said, ‘As your solicitor, Tom, I’m instructing you not to answer that.’ Then he glared at Jessie. ‘If you continue in—’
‘I’m not interested in anything you’ve got to say,’ Jessie barked at him. Back to Magner. ‘I take it that’s a no?’ She gave him two seconds, then said, ‘Thomas Magner has refused to answer the question under instruction from his solicitor.’
Neither Gilchrist nor Stan said a word, just listened as Jessie continued to fire questions that Magner took in his salesman-smooth stride – the phrase perma-smirking bastard sprang to mind. And not a tear in sight for Janice, or Amy, or Brian, or the kids.
Fifteen minutes later, Gilchrist felt a ripple of relief as Jones leaned forward. ‘It seems to me that you’ve got nothing on my client,’ he said. ‘You’re fishing.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s getting late, so I suggest you either charge my client with whatever the hell you think you can get away with, or we call it a night.’ He harrumphed a throat clearing and sat back.
Gilchrist hated to admit it, but Jones had a point. Jessie’s best attempts to rile Magner had failed. Not that she had handled the interview poorly, rather Magner had not slipped up once, shooting back answers with barely an intake of breath. You had to be a brilliant liar to do that. Or more worryingly, completely innocent.
That thought sent another stab of doubt through Gilchrist’s system. Did he have it all wrong? Was it only coincidence after all?
Defeated, he turned to Stan. ‘Anything you’d like to ask?’
Stan shook his head.
He turned to Jessie. ‘Anything else?’
She glanced at the clock on the wall and stood. ‘DS Jessie Janes leaving the interview room at twenty minutes to one.’
Jones waited until the door closed, then said, ‘So, this interview is over?’
‘For now,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We’re through, yes.’ He switched off the recorder.
Magner retrieved his phone from the table.
Jones eased himself to his feet. ‘I think it only fair to warn you that I’ll be writing a letter of complaint to Chief Constable Ramsay over the manner in which this interview was conducted. Never in my forty years of professional experience have I come across anything so outrageous. I’ll be seeking to have DS Janes severely reprimanded, and it would give me the greatest satisfaction to see her career terminated.’
‘You’re free to file a formal complaint,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Do you have the Chief Constable’s address?’
‘I’ll find it. Good night.’
Gilchrist waited until the pair of them shuffled out and the door closed, then turned to Stan. ‘What do you think?’
‘I watched his eyes every second, boss.’ Stan took a deep breath, then let it out with a shake of his head. ‘I have to tell you, he’s good.’
Not what Gilchrist wanted to hear. ‘Good as in . . .?’
‘I hate to say it, boss, but good as in innocent.’ He shook his head again. ‘I just don’t see it. Sorry, boss.’
A hoof to the gut could not have winded Gilchrist more. Over the years, he had come to trust Stan’s judgement and their instincts rarely clashed. But this was one of those rare occasions, and Gilchrist was only now beginning to question why he had been so blinkered. He had next to bugger all to suggest Magner was involved in the McCulloch murders, or Janice Meechan’s hit-and-run, for that matter. Whichever way he tried to cut it, Stan was right.
A feverish flush rose within him as he struggled to fight off an image of Amy McCulloch’s butchered body. He blinked once, twice, to force away the horror. But that left him with the painful realisation that his investigation was going nowhere, that he was failing, that over the last forty hours, the most critical period in any investigation, he had come up empty-handed.
As if to offer him one last straw to grasp, Jessie walked through the door.
Gilchrist looked at her. ‘Penny for your thoughts?’
‘Lying bastard,’ she said. ‘I’m going to nail him to the mast.’
Gilchrist almost said, ‘That’s my girl.’ But deep down he felt the debilitating sickness of failure, the burgeoning weight of worry, and at that moment he did not have it in him to contradict her.
CHAPTER 20
Gilchrist’s alarm rang at 7 a.m.
He reached for his mobile, and switched it off, then struggled against an almost overpowering urge to close his eyes, savour another few minutes of glorious sleep. But he knew that would probably turn into a couple of hours.
He had crawled into bed this side of 3 a.m., but his mind had ebbed and flowed with sleep – one moment wide awake, the next sucked into its deepest folds – and now he felt exhausted, as good as drugged. He lay there, trying to pull his mind back into the present, shift the remnants of his fading nightmare – humans hanging by hooks through their feet, naked bodies stripped of skin and guts, bloodied meat with nerves still twitching, swaying past him on overhead rollers, an endless line. He knew the imagery would stay with him through the rest of the morning, dragging him down, replacing all sense of enthusiasm with ominous foreboding.
With cursed resignation, he rolled from bed, but could not shift the draining sense of failure. He had put too much stock into searching for some connection – any connection – between the McCulloch massacre and Magner. But instead of working with the facts, he had let his gut instinct overrule all logic.
A piping-hot shave, followed by a ten-minute shower, managed to clear the fog from his brain, but did nothing for his stomach. He felt as if he could throw up on request, and almost did when he entered the kitchen and opened the fridge. Not that any food had gone off; his stomach just cramped at the thought of even a slice of toast.
A jog to the harbour had his heart racing and his breath steaming in the cold March air. A sea haar that shrouded nearby rooftops stirred and shifted around him like thinning smoke as
he slowed then walked the length of the stone pier. By his side, boats sat as silent as hunting beasts. Gulls eyed him from their perches on the stone wall. At the pier’s southernmost tip, he stared off to the horizon. Even the ocean seemed stilled, as if it too were struggling with the dismal weight of it all.
He turned and faced the old fishing village of Crail.
Haar obliterated the background. The harbour row could have been all that was left of the world. His breathing had recovered, his heart no longer pumping hard. But instead of jogging back, he decided to carry on walking. Something about the frigid air and the salty smell of the sea and kelp was clearing his mental fog, nudging his mind back to life. A flock of gulls ruffled their wings and strutted along the sea wall, as if contemplating flight. A gust of wind brushed in from the sea, and one by one they spread their wings and settled on to it, webbed feet hovering inches above the stone, as if reluctant to set off into the new day.
Then they spilled over the edge, out of view.
By the time Gilchrist reached the shorehead, the haar had mostly cleared to reveal a high sky streaked with pinks and reds. The village seemed to spring into vivid colour, too. A shaft of sunlight stroked the harbour walls, and tile-reds, plaster-whites, stone-browns all sparked alive with lightened hues. A door opened and a collie jerked its owner on to Shoregate. A grey Ford cruised around the corner, its engine breaking the silence. Even the boats seemed to be emerging from slumber as they creaked and bumped against their moorings.
Gilchrist pulled out his mobile. He had ordered a review of CCTV footage in Anstruther and Pittenweem in the hope of identifying the vehicle that had killed Janice Meechan. He scrolled down the Call Log for Glenrothes HQ’s number, and was put through to the surveillance room, and WPC Elizabeth Sutton.
‘Anything?’ he asked her.
‘Nothing conclusive yet, sir, but a black BMW 6 series – we’re thinking top-of-the-range 650i – fits the time frame. We haven’t been able to ID it, because the plates were covered—’
‘Covered?’
‘As best we can tell, sir, it looks like plastic sheets were clipped to both the front and rear plates.’
Gilchrist exhaled. They had to find that car. ‘Were you able to follow it through the town?’ he asked.
