by T F Muir
‘Someone else took the photos,’ Stan replied. ‘Anne just nicked the negatives before she left,’ Stan replied.
‘Ah,’ Jessie said.
‘But if she releases the photographs,’ Gilchrist argued, ‘she’ll lose whatever security they give her.’
‘She’s been diagnosed with cancer,’ Stan said. ‘She’s been told she’s in remission, but she suspects she’s only got another year or so – three, tops.’
It never failed to amaze Gilchrist how people diagnosed with a terminal illness had an innate ability, maybe even a need, to think clearly through to the closing days of their lives, wrap up all the loose ends, as it were. But something was still troubling him.
‘Did Anne Mills ever meet Vicky Kelvin?’
‘Never asked her that, boss. You think it’s important?’
‘I’m thinking that if Anne and Vicky know each other, maybe it was Anne who instigated all the rape allegations against Magner.’
‘I’ll ask, boss.’
‘And let’s have sight of these photographs today, Stan.’
‘Already tried, boss. But she has to wait for the bank to open tomorrow.’
Gilchrist almost cursed. ‘Get them first thing, Stan,’ he said, and ended the call.
He wondered what sort of depravity Anne Mills’s photographs would reveal, although he suspected they would be of more use to Billy Whyte’s case than his own. But even so, he now felt that he had turned a corner. He had a connection.
In fact, he had a whole series of connections.
Magner’s late partner’s wife, Amy McCulloch, née Charlotte Renwick, had filed a rape allegation against him, albeit anonymously. Of the other accusers, five had since withdrawn their complaints. And Amy herself had since been murdered.
Magner’s bit on the side – his late partner’s sister-in-law, Janice Meechan – had been killed in a hit-and-run that bore uncanny similarities to another car accident fifteen years earlier in which Nichola Kelly had died. And Nichola’s ex-lover might well have pulled the strings in the award of a major local-government contract to Magner’s company.
Magner’s first wife, Sheila Ramsay, had died after just four years of marriage, and left a hefty life insurance payout that Magner used as start-up funding for Stratheden Enterprises. His second wife, Anne Mills – who left him after only two years – possessed a series of sexually explicit photographs with which she had kept him at arm’s length for almost two decades.
The answer to his investigation had to lie somewhere in the midst of all this sexual, political and familial entanglement. Gilchrist was sure of it. His thoughts crackled through the possibilities, and he removed the printout from Jessie’s grip and eyed the photograph again.
The man on the court steps – Jason Purvis.
He pulled the image closer. The resemblance between Purvis and Magner could be coincidence. But if you did not believe in coincidences . . .?
He slapped the photograph.
‘Get on to Jackie for an address,’ he said. ‘We need to talk to Purvis.’
CHAPTER 22
Back in the Office, by 10 a.m. Gilchrist could not shift the feeling that his investigation was almost stalling again. McVicar had been on the phone to Greaves, who in turn called Gilchrist for an update. But after bringing Greaves up to speed, he received only a snort of derision. He and Greaves had once enjoyed a strong professional relationship, but ever since Greaves missed out on promotion about a year ago, he seemed to take out his disappointment on Gilchrist at every opportunity. When Greaves ended the call with a curse, Gilchrist was hard pressed not to call him straight back and tell him where to shove it.
Then Stan phoned with the disappointing news that both Anne Mills and Vicky Kelvin had just confirmed they had never met. They could both be lying, of course, but why would they?
The prospect of a break came when Jessie’s mobile beeped receipt of an email.
‘It’s from Jackie,’ she said.
On account of her disability, Jackie was the only civilian researcher permitted to work mostly from home, as long as she put in a couple of appearances at the Office each week. And no one could ever accuse her of slacking, especially on a Sunday morning.
‘Anything?’ Gilchrist asked, accessing his own email account.
‘Give me a minute.’ Jessie scanned down the tiny screen as fast as she could, then said, ‘Listen to this. Purvis has form. In 1980, he was sentenced to twelve years after being found guilty of rape and attempted murder. Spent time in Peterhead, and was released after serving six years—’
‘So that would be 1986?’
‘Where’s a calculator when you need one?’
Gilchrist felt a thrill of excitement. Stratheden Enterprises was launched in 1986.
Jackie’s email opened up on his screen and he scrolled down the page. ‘After his release, Purvis moved to England. First to Newcastle for five years, then York for two, then London for four. In each of these cities he was questioned over the disappearance of three women – in 1990, ’92 and ’94. But he wasn’t charged for any of the incidents due to lack of evidence.’
‘He must have returned to Scotland at some point,’ Jessie said, ‘if he was involved in Nichola Kelly’s fatal accident.’ She read on. ‘Born in Aberdeen in 1954. Mother and father both unidentified. Raised in an orphanage. Seems not to have had a normal family life. Worked on the rigs from ’74 to ’79—’
Gilchrist shot a look at Jessie. ‘The same time period as Magner. Did they work for the same company?’
‘It doesn’t say. But I’ll get that checked out.’
‘Here’s the address,’ he said. ‘We’re in luck. Cauldwood Cottage, Ceres.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A few miles outside Cupar,’ said Gilchrist, clicking the mouse. He was already halfway to the printer as it whirred into action. ‘Jackie’s provided a location map for the cottage,’ he said, grabbing the sheet and folding it in half.
‘She’s also provided a mobile phone number.’
‘Don’t call it,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Let’s pay Purvis a surprise visit.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that I’d like to talk to him. Does that work?’
‘That works.’
They both took the stairs two at a time.
Despite the map, Gilchrist took a couple of wrong turns and had to perform a tyre-spinning three-sixty before they arrived at Jason Purvis’s cottage about six miles south-east of Cupar. The building sat no more than eight feet from the edge of the road. A parcel of land bordering the side of the cottage appeared to double as waste ground.
Gilchrist slowed to a crawl at a wooden sign fixed to the stone wall – ‘Cauldwood Cottage’ – then drove past, noting that the gravel driveway by the gable end was clear of parked cars, although damp tracks where tyres had splashed through puddles suggested that a vehicle had only recently driven away.
He pulled off the road and on to the grass verge beyond, and eyed the place.
‘Looks like it could use a coat or three of paint,’ Jessie said.
The cottage looked solid enough, its old stone walls darkened by grit and dirt thrown up by passing vehicles. A hawthorn hedgerow in need of a cut tried to define the front boundary. The property seemed to comprise about fifty yards roadside frontage, and an open area to the back that had to be at least two hundred yards deep.
‘Let’s see if anyone’s in,’ Jessie said, and opened the car door.
The wind seemed to tumble across the open fields, buffeting hedges and bushes as if trying to shake them down. A row of mature pine trees that bordered one side of the property swayed as if the land itself were rocking. The back garden was nothing more than brown grass flattened by rain and wind, a desolate patch that stretched all the way to the distant back border, where a wooden barn sat in dire need of painting. Even from where he stood, Gilchrist could see that a chain-link fence surrounded the building. He might not have paid the barn any attent
ion, except that he caught movement in the grass in front of it. The hairs on the nape of his neck rose as first one Rottweiler, then another, rose to their feet and stared at them with silent malevolence.
He turned away from the dogs and watched Jessie place her hand to the kitchen window and peer inside. ‘Looks neat and tidy,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think anyone’s in.’
Gilchrist walked to the door, tried the handle – locked – pressed the doorbell. He heard nothing. He rang the bell again, then rapped his knuckles against the wood. He took a couple of paces back, glanced up at a slate roof devoid of skylights, which told him they could search the house in its entirety simply by looking through each of the windows.
He peered through the nearest one. Wooden flooring stretched from the rear to the front of the cottage, as if two original rooms had been knocked into one. Rugs that could have come from an Egyptian bazaar coloured the floor in stripes of yellows, blues, reds. Abstract paintings littered the walls, their indeterminate subject matter reminding Gilchrist of his son Jack’s work. Purvis seemed to have a taste for colour.
Five minutes later, he and Jessie had worked their way around the entire building.
‘Any thoughts?’ he asked.
‘He lives by himself.’
Gilchrist nodded. The bedside table near the bathroom held several magazines and books, whereas the one on the other side of the bed lay clear.
‘Should we leave a calling card?’ Jessie asked.
‘I’d prefer to surprise him.’
‘He could be gone for the rest of the day.’ She stared over his shoulder, and said, ‘What’s with those dogs? And why the security fence?’
A set of tyre tracks that ran through the grass in the general direction of the barn only added to the mystery. ‘While we’re waiting for Purvis,’ Gilchrist said, ‘let’s have a closer look.’
Jessie squinted at him. ‘Must we?’
‘Scared of dogs?’
‘Only big ones.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘They’re caged in by the security fence.’
‘How high can they jump?’
‘Not high enough,’ he said, and walked towards the barn, conscious of Jessie trailing him by several yards. The dogs noticed their approach and lowered their heads, as if readying for the attack.
Gilchrist kept his eyes on them, then noticed with a shiver that they were not tied up. But a glance along the base of the fence confirmed there were no loose strands near the ground through which the dogs might squeeze. Nor did he see any sign that they had tried to dig their way under.
The closer they approached, the more malevolent the dogs appeared, their eyes black beads that had no need to blink. Even their noses seemed incapable of twitching a sniff. As they watched Jessie and Gilchrist approach, white drool swelled from their mouths and dripped to the grass, as if in anticipation of sinking their teeth into fresh meat. Only when Gilchrist changed tack and headed towards the padlocked gate did they move – a slow turning of their black necks. And it struck Gilchrist that they were focused on him alone, not Jessie.
He reached the gate and stopped.
The barn beyond seemed larger than he first thought – maybe twenty feet by thirty – and cleaner, too. What he had taken to be dried wood in a state of disrepair was dark stain on solid timber. The tyre tracks, now only faintly visible, led all the way to the barn door.
Jessie came up beside him. ‘These things aren’t tied up,’ she said, positioning herself so that Gilchrist’s body shielded her from the dogs.
‘We’re okay,’ he said. ‘The fence is in good nick.’
‘I could do with it being another ten feet higher,’ she said, lifting her eyes.
Gilchrist put the fence in the range of nine to ten feet, too high for any dog to leap over, surely. He tried to ignore the Rottweilers and their vicious stares, and turned his attention to the barn. A heavy-duty padlock secured the door, the same as on the chain-link fence.
He reached out and touched it.
Both dogs snarled in unison and crossed the short distance to the fence in less time than it took to blink. Their bodies slammed into the chain links with a force that should have snapped them.
Jessie screamed.
Gilchrist stepped back, stunned by the ferocity of the attack.
The fence wobbled, but held.
The dogs threw themselves at the fence again. Slather spattered from their jowls like spray. Lips drew back in frightening snarls that reached their eyes and revealed canine teeth that could tear a man’s neck to shreds in zero seconds flat. Growls as deep as thunder emanated from their throats in an expression of raw animal brutality.
Behind him, Gilchrist heard Jessie whimper, then held his breath as one of the dogs leapt up at the fence, as if attempting to climb it. Its front legs scrabbled to get a grip as its rear claws tore at the chain links, its muscles rippling with frenzied effort.
The other dog had the chain links clamped in its mouth, and was shaking its head and tugging with a viciousness that Gilchrist thought must surely rip the fence from its concrete foundations.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist backed away, stumbling as he went, conscious of Jessie already running through the grass. He could not take his eyes off the dogs for fear that they might break loose and attack them from behind.
Then the dogs stopped.
So did Gilchrist. He glanced at Jessie. She was still running. He ran his tongue across his lips, surprised to find his mouth dry. Both dogs faced him, black eyes staring, until one of them turned its attention to the bottom of the fence and started scrabbling at the grass with a ferocious speed that was raw brute force.
Gilchrist turned and followed Jessie. Ten yards from the cottage, he risked a backward glance. The dogs were standing perfectly still, looking at him, as if the frantic activity of moments earlier had been only imagined.
When he reached the car, Jessie was standing by the passenger door, her fingers on the handle. He clicked the fob, and she tugged the door open.
Gilchrist slid in behind the steering wheel and glanced at her. Her face was an ill shade of white, and her hands were trembling.
‘You all right?’ he said.
‘Just drive.’
‘Are you sure you’re—’
‘Just drive, for fuck sake,’ she shouted. ‘Jesus mother of fuck, will you just drive?’
He twisted the key and the engine fired alive.
Without a word, he accelerated on to the road, away from Purvis’s cottage and the black-eyed Rottweilers.
CHAPTER 23
Gilchrist stared at the road ahead, saying nothing until he sensed Jessie settling. ‘Can I buy you lunch?’ he offered.
‘You think that’s going to make me feel better?’
‘It’s amazing what food can do. And drink,’ he added.
‘Does it have anything with a double whisky in it?’
‘It can have a treble in it if you think you need it.’
‘Jesus, Andy,’ she said. ‘These fucking things. I tell you,’ she shook her head, ‘just seeing them reminded me of a case I was involved in. Three years ago. In Cambuslang. A wee girl got savaged by a big dog, just like one of these things. A Rott . . . something or other—’
‘Rottweiler.’
Jessie let out a rush of breath. ‘I don’t suppose you have a cigarette on you?’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘Some knight in shining armour you are.’
‘Forgot my horse.’
Jessie stared at the passing countryside for a quiet mile or two, then said, ‘You should have seen the mess that wee lassie was in. Her ribcage was crushed, her neck was broken. She’d been shaken like a doll. Her face was unrecognisable. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, do you know what really got me upset?’
It took several seconds for Gilchrist to realise she was waiting for an answer. ‘No, what?’ he said.
‘The dog’s owner. A big fat punter with tatt
oos all over the place. You know what he said?’ She paused for a couple of beats. ‘He said she shouldn’t have been in his garden. That was it. No remorse, no mention of the fact that the wee girl had just been mauled to death.’ She sniffed. ‘Caroline, her name was. She’d only pulled herself over the fence to get her tennis ball back. When the fat prick said that, Caroline’s father went for him. It took three of us to pull him off. Then the big fat punter stands up, spits blood from his mouth, and says he wants the father charged with assault.’
Gilchrist kept his eyes on the road. He had only ever seen one victim of a dog attack, and nothing as serious as Jessie was describing. But he had watched police dog handlers working with their animals, witnessed the brutality of their attacks. Something chilling about the ferocious way they tore into their victims, snarling and slashing with bared fangs, pure animal instinct directing them to the throat, to tear it out, go for the kill. If he was ever attacked by a dog as powerful as a Rottweiler, he knew he could do little to save himself. Few men could. Let alone a three-year-old girl.
‘I nearly got fired over that,’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist jolted in his seat. ‘Come again?’
‘I lost it. Completely.’ She stared out the window for several seconds, then said, ‘It must be a woman thing. There were four of us, and I was the only female. Not one of them said anything to the fat prick. I pulled out my baton and said, If you want to charge anyone, try charging me. Then I broke his nose. Out like a light. Of course, when he came to, we all had our stories sorted. And that was the end of that. But I tell you, I was worried for a while.’
‘Should you be telling me this?’ Gilchrist asked.
She shook off a shiver, then said, ‘When these things battered into that fence back there, it all came back to me. I couldn’t stop thinking about that wee girl, the pain she must have felt. I tell you, Andy, I was shitting myself. I can’t tell you how scared I was.’
‘I wasn’t exactly trying to scratch their ears and take them for walkies either.’
