by T F Muir
‘It turned left on to the B9131 to St Andrews, sir. That was the last we saw of it.’
Gilchrist cursed. Once out of town, the road network was as good as a rabbit warren. If you kept to the back roads, it was possible to drive all the way to England without coming across another CCTV camera. ‘What about damage to the car?’ he asked.
‘The front nearside wing looked dented, and the windscreen appeared to be cracked, but it’s difficult to tell for sure at night on black paintwork under streetlamps. We’ve got our IT guys reviewing footage,’ she added.
‘Witnesses?’
‘Not to my knowledge, sir. But we’re still asking. So far no one’s come forward.’
Gilchrist thanked her, told her to notify him the instant they found something, then ended the call. His mind pulled up an image of Janice exiting her car, her attention more on her phone than on passing traffic. After all, most drivers do what they can to avoid pedestrians. The BMW must have hit her hard – judging by the distance her body was found from her car – the impact throwing her on to the bonnet, into the windscreen, then flying over the top to land on the road, probably dead before she hit the ground. An image of electric-blue toenails came to him, and he had to blink hard to shift it.
The driver had taken a calculated risk driving into Anstruther with the number plates covered. But he had to drive somewhere, and on a Saturday night, in the Fife countryside, who would ever have noticed? And if the covering plates were fixed by clips, a short stop at the side of the road, a quick tug back and front, and the car would be legal again.
It struck Gilchrist that the driver probably had another car, so he could garage the BMW until the incident was all but forgotten. A power wash with a pressure jet and soapy water would clear all trace of human impact from the paintwork. Then wait a couple of months, let police interest die down, and take it to any number of bodywork shops out of the county.
By the time Gilchrist reached High Street, he had heard that Janice Meechan’s mobile had been found in the hedgerow, undamaged. She had called Magner’s registered mobile number twice on Saturday afternoon, but he hadn’t answered. Ten minutes after the second unanswered call, she had received a call from an unregistered mobile number that had lasted less than three minutes. When Glenrothes Office dialled the number, the call just rang out. Gilchrist was convinced that Janice’s two calls to Magner had prompted him to call her back using a pay-as-you-go phone, and arrange to meet her. But the details of how the hit-and-run on a country road was set up continued to puzzle him.
In the Co-operative, he bought a Sunday Times, two soft breakfast rolls and a packet of smoked back bacon. Just the thought of a grilled bacon and poached egg roll revived him, and as he opened the front door and stepped inside Fisherman’s Cottage he had already resolved to refocus his line of enquiry.
He switched on the kettle, fired up the grill and a hot-ring, put a couple of tea-bags in the teapot. Then he filled a pan with water and sat it on the ring. Next, he slapped four slices of bacon under the grill, set on low. The pan was boiling nicely, so he turned it down to simmer and removed two eggs from the fridge.
And while Gilchrist was preparing breakfast on autopilot, his mind was working through the logistics of how Magner could have killed three people – Amy McCulloch and her daughters – four, if Brian McCulloch’s death was not suicide – or even five, if you included Janice Meechan’s hit-and-run.
But it just seemed so improbable.
Magner had the perfect alibi for Janice’s hit-and-run – a date with a blonde bimbo – and the perfect alibi for the McCulloch murders – a conference in a hotel in Stirling. Given that Magner could not be in two places at one time, on two separate occasions, was it possible that he had an accomplice, someone who did as he was told?
Should all efforts now focus on trying to find that connection?
Or should they concentrate on Stratheden Enterprises, the business common to all five who had died, and the one irrefutable and direct link to Thomas Magner?
Gilchrist flipped the bacon over, added a couple of drops of vinegar into the simmering pot, and gave the water a stir. Then he cracked an egg and slipped it in, and did the same with the other. He peeled the rolls open, slapped some low-fat Lurpak on to them, then checked the time – 08.21.
He called Mhairi.
‘Did Jackie get back to you with details of Stratheden’s first major contract?’ he asked.
‘She did, sir, yes. I don’t have it in front of me, but if memory serves, it was a three-year maintenance contract with Fife Council’s Department of Housing. They really hit the motherlode in the first year, the winter of 1990/91. Three months of snow, high winds, heavy rain and sub-zero temperatures had them working double crews round the clock.’
‘Anything contentious about the contract award?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Jackie’s not come up with anything yet, sir. But if it was contentious, it’s hardly the sort of thing the council would broadcast.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we probably need to talk to someone.’
‘Anyone in mind?’
‘Let me get back to you, sir.’
‘Make it soon.’ He ended the call, and replayed the conversation in his head.
If they found any evidence of Magner handing over brown paper bags stuffed with cash to crooked council officials, at least they would have something – an indication that his business life was as dubious as his personal life. But if Magner and McCulloch had lucked out by landing their first council contract at the perfect time, then where did that take his investigation?
No closer to solving the case as standing on Mars, came the answer.
He was so far off target, he could have been shooting at the wrong bull’s-eye. He had absolutely nothing, and the odds of finding something were worsening with each passing hour. If the investigation was in the same sorry state a week from now, they might as well send the lot straight to cold storage.
His mobile rang – Mhairi again.
‘It doesn’t look good, sir,’ she said. ‘The guy who was director of the Department of Housing when the contract was awarded to Stratheden has since died.’
Gilchrist groaned.
‘But Jackie’s done her usual. Got copies of the minutes of every relevant meeting, highlighted the important sections. You were right, sir. The award was contentious. Stratheden was not the low bidder. Three others tendered lower bids, but all three subsequently withdrew.’
‘Did the Council pull their bid bonds?’
‘I’ll ask Jackie to check it out.’
‘Who was head of the council when Stratheden won the contract?’
‘Hang on, sir.’ Gilchrist caught the sound of paper rustling, then Mhairi’s voice came back with, ‘Jack Russell.’
‘Like the dog?’
‘Yes, sir. Woof, woof.’
You had to laugh, he supposed. But something in the shadows of his mind caused his smile to fade. He had come across that name years before, in a newspaper article about a crime somewhere. Not in Fife. In the Highlands and Islands, perhaps? No, not a crime. Allegations. Sexual allegations. Was that right?
‘Ask Jackie to look into him for me. He’s ringing a bell, but I can’t quite place him.’
‘Will do, sir. Anything else?’
‘Yes. Have her get back within a couple of hours,’ he said, and ended the call.
Next, he called Stan.
‘Bloody hell, boss. What time is it?’
‘Jack Russell, Stan. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Russell? Jack?’ A gush of breath, then, ‘Nothing’s coming to me, boss.’
‘When it does, give me a call.’
He thought of calling Jessie, but she was from Glasgow. Crime in the north of Scotland probably would not have made it on to her radar. Besides, she would have been no more than a teenager at the time. He heard a spark from under the grill, and cursed as he removed the bacon – more crispy than he liked – and
placed two rashers on each roll. He drained the water from the eggs – hard-poached, not soft, damn it – and stuffed them into the rolls, too.
He bit into the first roll, heard the bacon crunch, then carried the plate through to the lounge and switched on the computer. Googling the name brought up a host of articles, and as he studied them, his memory cleared.
In the early nineties, Jack Russell had been a rising star in Scottish politics, holding a parliamentary seat in Aberdeen. But his life started to unravel when he began dating Nichola Kelly, an up-and-coming soap-opera actress from Inverness, and filed for divorce from his wife of twelve years. When Jack’s wife refused to go quietly, Jack retaliated with fearsome vengeance, accusing her of having a lover of her own.
The press latched on to him, and nicknamed him ‘The Terrier’.
He was photographed at all hours of the night in various states of drunken revelry, and always with the photogenic Ms Kelly on his arm. In spite – or because – of this, his political ratings soared. It looked as if Jack was still heading for the big-time, when rumours of drugs and swinger parties made the headlines, and his career took a nose-dive that proved terminal. No longer the handsome charmer with the aphrodisiac of political power, Nichola Kelly ditched him for a younger stud.
Gilchrist read on, remembering snippets of news from way back. He had paid little attention to the scandal at the time, but a shiver of horripilation rippled across his skin as the memory of Nichola Kelly’s fatal car accident came back to him.
Another search pulled up more articles on the young actress and her tragic death.
Gilchrist read on, intrigued by the similarities between Janice Meechan’s hit-and-run and Nichola Kelly’s. Except that Nichola’s accident had not been a hit-and-run per se; more of a hit-and-stop. Both Janice and Nichola had been the only occupant of the car, and both had pulled over in the quiet of the countryside. The driver of the vehicle that killed Nichola Kelly – Jason Purvis – was not convicted of causing death by careless or dangerous driving, as it turned out that Nichola was over the limit, and witnesses confirmed she had stumbled into the path of his car.
Nothing particularly striking in any of that, Gilchrist thought.
Except for a newspaper photograph of Purvis on the court steps.
Gilchrist noted the long darkish hair, the square face. But if he half-shut his eyes and imagined shorter hair dyed blond, the similarity to Magner opened up more troubling possibilities.
CHAPTER 21
When Jessie slid into the passenger seat, Gilchrist handed her the printout of the article, then shifted into gear.
‘Nichola Kelly?’ she said. ‘What’s this?’
‘Anything strike you?’
‘She’s a looker. I remember watching that programme – what’s it called? – and thinking I’d love to have hair like hers. And she used to wear these short skirts, and I’m thinking how much I would give to have her legs—’
‘Should I be worried about you?’
Jessie barked a laugh. ‘Try telling Jabba that.’
The mention of CS McKellar wrenched Gilchrist back to the present, reminding him that it was deadline day for Jessie. ‘Have you spoken to him?’ he asked.
‘Twice this morning. The man’s a wonder. Never stops trying.’
‘Except where dieting’s concerned.’
‘He’s never heard of the word.’
Gilchrist eased into Bridge Street. ‘Still giving you a hard time?’
‘Fight fire with fire. He wants to play dirty? I’m thinking bring it on, sonny Jim, bring it on.’ She tapped his leg as he slowed down for the roundabout at the West Port, his indicator ticking for a left turn down Argyle Street. ‘Straight on. I’ve not had my caffeine kick yet.’
‘Starbucks?’
‘Got it in one.’
Gilchrist clicked off the indicator and accelerated through the mini-roundabout. He turned right at St Mary’s Place, and a few minutes later pulled up against the kerb outside Starbucks in Market Street.
When he switched off the engine, Jessie said, ‘I forgot to mention that Vicky Kelvin called me first thing this morning. Said she remembered something else about that night with Magner, about what he said that frightened her.’
Gilchrist faced her. ‘Go on.’
‘He said he would gut and skin her alive if she didn’t give him what he wanted.’
An image of Amy McCulloch’s slaughtered body ripped through Gilchrist’s mind with an icy chill. ‘Gut and skin her?’
‘Exact words.’
‘Alive?’
‘Thought that would get your attention.’
‘Contact DI Smith and find out if any of the others were similarly threatened,’ he said. ‘And read that article on Nichola Kelly while I get the coffees.’
He ordered two tall lattes to go. His mobile rang as he was about to collect them – Stan. ‘Is this going to be quick?’
‘Just off the phone with Anne Mills, boss. Magner’s estranged wife.’
‘What’s she got to say for herself?’ Gilchrist tucked his mobile under his chin and picked up both coffees.
‘She lives in Aberdeen, never remarried, and lives with . . . get this . . .’
Gilchrist manoeuvred his way through the shop door on to Market Street, stepping back as two students pushed past him, ignorant of manners. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘Tom Junior.’
‘Magner has a boy?’
‘He does indeed, boss.’
‘So, Tom Junior must be what . . . in his teens?’
‘Try twenty-nine.’
Gilchrist frowned as he struggled with the arithmetic. ‘I thought Magner married Anne Mills in 1986.’
‘Yes, but she’d had his child long before then.’
‘Hang on, Stan.’ Gilchrist sat the coffees on the roof of the Merc, then opened the door. ‘Was that why he married her?’
‘And also why she left him.’
Gilchrist handed both coffees to Jessie, slid behind the wheel, then put his mobile on speaker. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘According to Anne, Magner doted on his son when they got back together again.’ Stan’s voice sounded metallic through the phone’s speaker. ‘But it all began to fall apart after about a year when Magner developed these weird suspicions that his son was gay. Thomas Junior was only nine or ten at the time, so Anne thinks he was just looking for any excuse to get out of the marriage. After that, things got worse, with Magner refusing to have anything more to do with the boy.’
‘Bastard,’ said Jessie.
‘What’s that, boss?’
‘Just Jessie airing her views.’
A pause, then, ‘So Anne said she moved out of the family home, back to Aberdeen with her son, and that’s the last she ever saw of Thomas Magner Senior. Despite that, he paid for his son’s education at Robert Gordon’s, as well as maintenance until Junior turned twenty-one.’
‘So you’re trying to tell us he’s a good guy?’ Jessie quipped.
‘Not according to his wife, he isn’t.’
Gilchrist caught the change in tone. ‘We’re all ears,’ he said.
‘She said they lived together as husband and wife for about a couple of years, by which time she’d seen enough.’
‘Enough?’
‘Drugs, drinks, sex. She was sick of it.’
‘Sex? As in with other couples?’ Jessie asked.
‘Swingers, wife swaps, full massages, strip shows, nude parties, you name it, in her two years of marriage she’d done it.’
‘Does she remember any names?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘She does indeed.’ The line seemed to die, then Stan came back with, ‘Would you like me to send them through to you in a text, or read them out—’
‘Just get on with it.’
Stan recited a list of about ten names that meant nothing to Gilchrist, until he said, ‘Jason Purvis—’
‘Hang on,’ Gilchrist snapped, and reached for the printout.
‘
Boss?’
Jessie already had her finger on the image of the man on the court steps.
‘I haven’t reached the good bit yet, boss,’ Stan said. ‘One wellknown swinger and drug-user was a guy called Jack Russell, a politician with his fingers allegedly in any number of dodgy pies. Which might explain why Stratheden was awarded such a lucrative contract with Fife Council a couple of years later.’
‘We need to talk to him.’
‘You can’t,’ Stan said. ‘He had a stroke several years ago, and been in a coma ever since. But it might be an idea to talk to someone else.’
Gilchrist glanced at Jessie. ‘Who?’ he said.
‘Another not so well-known swinger was . . .’ A pause, then, ‘Drum roll—’
‘For crying out loud—’
‘Martin Craig.’
‘The MEP?’ Jessie said.
‘And the man behind the drive for Scottish entrepreneurial investment in Europe.’
‘But all this went on, what, almost twenty years ago?’
‘About then, boss.’
‘So this Anne Mills must have one hell of a good memory if she’s not been to a swinger party in two decades.’
‘Better than that, boss. She’s got photographs.’
Gilchrist caught the triumph in Stan’s voice, and could not prevent a smile from stretching his lips. ‘Blackmail?’ he suggested.
‘Blackmail. For her son’s education and maintenance, boss. But mainly for her own security. She says Magner’s the most evil man she’s ever known. Her words. So when she left him, she made sure she had something to keep herself safe.’
‘She had his son,’ Jessie said. ‘Surely that would—’
‘Magner disowned Tom Junior, remember? That was when Anne knew she had to find some way to protect herself.’
‘So, what kind of photographs does she have?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Haven’t seen them, boss. She’s now scanned them and keeps them on a memory stick in a safe-deposit box. And she filed a letter with her solicitor, which states that if she ever dies or goes missing, then the box is to be opened and its contents distributed to the press.’
Jessie said, ‘I don’t see Magner letting his wife take photographs of him having deviant sex. He might be the most evil man she’s ever met, but he’s smarter than that.’
