by T F Muir
She gave a short chuckle. ‘I shouldn’t have told you any of that,’ she said. ‘It just . . . I don’t know . . . seeing these things . . . hearing them . . . and the size of their teeth . . . and all that slobbering—’
‘Forget it,’ he said.
The words came out louder than intended, but if the truth be told she should not have confessed to having hit a civilian with her baton. He could make discreet enquiries, maybe even file a report. But on the other hand, how many times had he been confronted with the condescending arrogance of a hardened criminal, someone for whom the law was only to be scoffed at, shoving it in his face, threatening him with vitriol and spittle, ready to take it farther than he ever could, because the police, by definition, were constrained by the limits of the law. If one of his own children had been mauled to death by a dog, it would take a far stronger man than he was to turn his back on it and let the law take over. He felt his lips stretch at the unintended pun. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.
‘We both got a fright back there,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it at that.’ He waited for Jessie’s nod, then added, ‘We need to talk to this Jason Purvis, regardless of how many dogs he’s got. So get hold of Jackie and find out what he drives.’
‘Hang on,’ Jessie said, retrieving her mobile. ‘In our rush I didn’t go through Jackie’s email completely.’
Gilchrist slowed down for the roundabout at City Road, then accelerated into North Street. He had not been in the Dunvegan Hotel for a couple of weeks. Lunch there would make a nice change. Just the thought of warm food had his mouth watering.
First left took him into Golf Place, and he found a parking spot on The Scores.
A hard wind blew in from the Eden Estuary and swept a chill off the Old Course as he helped Jessie across the street, still scrolling through Jackie’s email. They had just turned the corner at Hamilton Hall, when Jessie stopped.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ she said. ‘Jackie’s done it.’
Gilchrist waited.
‘A black BMW 650i is registered in the name of Jason Purvis.’
Gilchrist had his mobile in his hand almost before Jessie finished the sentence. He got straight through to HQ Control. ‘Add a locate and trace marker on the PNC for a black BMW 650i,’ he said, then held out his mobile to Jessie. ‘Year?’
‘2004,’ she said, then rattled off the registration number.
Gilchrist moved the mobile back to his ear. ‘Suspected to have been involved in a fatal hit-and-run on the outskirts of Anstruther. Driver, Jason Purvis. Previous conviction for serious assault. Six years in Peterhead. Approach with caution. BMW could have some damage on the front-nearside panel. And run the registration through the ANPR and see if you get any hits. You got that?’
She had, and Gilchrist told her to call him with any feedback.
Next he called the Anstruther Office and instructed them to initiate proceedings for a search warrant for Purvis’s home. They couldn’t fool around if a serial offender was in any way involved in a fatal hit-and-run – just get a warrant and go in with maximum force.
He ended the call, and slipped the mobile back into his jacket.
Things were now moving. The Automatic Number Plate Recognition system – ANPR – tracked vehicle movements in real time, so there was a good chance of someone pulling Purvis over in short order. On the other hand, it still left time for a quick lunch. But something also told Gilchrist that he was going to need all his strength to tackle a nutcase like Purvis.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘My stomach’s grumbling. I’m having fish and chips. How about you?’
‘Double Glenfiddich, if you’re still buying.’
‘On an empty stomach?’
‘On a diet.’
‘Not for Jabba, I hope.’
‘Jesus, Andy. You’re in a right cheeky mood, so you are. I’ll nick some of your chips then, if that’ll make you feel better.’
They hurried inside and Gilchrist ordered at the bar, then carried their drinks to one of the corner tables, and took a seat with his back to the window that overlooked Auchterlonies. Jessie slumped in beside him, her sullen silence suggesting she was still unsettled by the memory of that wee girl, Caroline.
Gilchrist took a sip of Belhaven, then called Stan to tell him about the locate and trace marker for the BMW. ‘And I’ve decided that I’m not waiting until tomorrow for the banks to open,’ he said. ‘We’re working all weekend, but we’ve to wait for everybody else to get their arse into the office on Monday? I’m through with it, Stan. Get hold of Anne Mills right now, then call her bank manager and tell him we need access to a safe-deposit box today. I want to see what she’s holding.’
He almost slapped the mobile on to the table and powered it down.
‘Steady on,’ Jessie said. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe you should be.’ He was saved by the arrival of a basket of fish and chips, which he shoved Jessie’s way. Then he asked the waitress, ‘Could we get a side plate, and another fork and knife, please?’
‘I’ll just use my fingers,’ Jessie countered, and picked a chip from the basket. She was nibbling it when the side plate arrived.
Gilchrist tilted a pile of chips on to it. ‘Like a piece of fish, too?’ he asked.
‘You’ve talked me into it.’
He broke off a piece. ‘Excuse the fingers.’
They ate in silence, both deep in their own thoughts, until Jessie angled her whisky Gilchrist’s way and said, ‘Fancy one?’
‘Not when I’m on duty,’ he said, as if beer did not count as alcohol.
‘Me neither,’ Jessie said, bringing the glass to her lips. ‘Cheers.’ Her mobile rang at that moment, and she eyed the screen before taking the call. Gilchrist took a sip of beer, and felt his heart give a stutter when she said, ‘So where’s Magner at right now?’ She tightened her lips, then shook her head. ‘So, he’s nothing to do with it?’ She nodded again. ‘We’ll be there in thirty minutes.’ She ended the call, and said, ‘That was DI Smith. He couldn’t get through to you. Linda James has just been found dead in her flat in Cupar.’
Linda James: one of the eleven who filed a complaint against Magner.
‘And Magner’s got a watertight alibi?’
‘Spot on.’ She threw back her Glenfiddich. ‘DI Smith gave me the address. We’re meeting him at Linda’s flat.’ She nodded to his plate. ‘You might want to put that to the side.’
Gilchrist let out a groan. ‘Don’t tell me . . .’
‘Got it in one. According to Smith, it’s not pretty.’
CHAPTER 24
Not pretty was an understatement.
The flat was a mess. Linda James lay face-down on the middle of the floor in a pool of blood that had seeped through the carpet and floorboards and dripped into the flat below, terrifying the downstairs neighbours.
As far as Gilchrist could tell, Linda had put up one hell of a fight. Her fingers, hands and arms were all sliced with defensive wounds. Her right thumb had been severed and was found on the draining board by the sink. From spatter patterns that trailed across walls and through rooms, they surmised that she had been attacked as soon as she opened the door. From there, she had run into the kitchen, where she had scrambled for a carving knife to protect herself. It was found on the floor in the corner, its serrated blade void of blood. Smeared hand prints low down on the door frame, and streaks of blood on the linoleum, told the grim story of a dying woman struggling to escape her attacker, only to be stabbed to death in the middle of her own living room.
Back outside, DI Smith pulled back his coverall hood, his mouth little more than a white line. CS Whyte was still inside the flat, talking to Cooper and Jessie.
‘This isn’t doing anything for your case,’ Gilchrist told Smith. ‘By my count, there are only four left now.’
‘And once they hear about this they’ll all probably retract their statements.’
‘And if they don’t?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Chief Super Whyte has arranged twenty-four/seven surveillance on their homes. They’ll also each have a uniform with them around the clock.’
‘Armed?’
Smith nodded.
Gilchrist raised his eyebrows. No matter how serious the situation was, budgets still had to be met, and protocols still had to be followed. But Billy Whyte seemed to have control over some major purse strings. ‘And what about Magner?’
‘He’s distancing himself,’ Smith said. ‘Been in Glasgow all day, shouting his head off, attracting attention, making sure he has a ton of witnesses.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Finding a suspect is easy, but trying to prove he’s guilty is another kettle of fish.’
‘How about his phone?’
‘Phones. Plural.’
‘Any luck with them?’
‘Of course not. We’ve gone through his records, but SIM cards are ten a penny. He’ll have a pile of mobiles with different cards and numbers for every call he makes that he doesn’t want us to know about.’ He shook his head. ‘We’re spinning our wheels.’
‘How about CCTV footage?’
‘Already on it, but the cameras closest to Linda’s flat have been deactivated. We’re thinking he got someone inside.’
Gilchrist told Smith about his search for the BMW, then mentioned Purvis’s striking similarity to Magner, and the fact that they’d worked on the rigs at the same time. ‘Your case and the McCulloch massacre are connected,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of it.’
Smith nodded. ‘But how do we prove it?’
‘Well, we have a common victim – Amy McCulloch, née Charlotte Renwick. That’s a start. By killing Amy, he takes care of two birds with the one stone. Takes out his business partner, and one of his accusers at the same time.’
‘Could be a coincidence.’
‘No such thing.’
Smith stared at him. ‘It’s a thin connection.’
Gilchrist waited.
Smith finally understood and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, we can’t help you, sir. We’re stretched to the limit. Resources are committed. ACC McVicar spoke to Billy today to approve the round-the-clock surveillance, but that won’t last for ever.’
‘How long?’ Gilchrist asked.
Smith gave him a look that said he was just as frustrated as Gilchrist. ‘The way things are going, sir, not long enough. Nowhere near.’
The hard voice of CS Whyte from within the flat had Smith moving away with a quick, ‘Keep me posted, sir.’
‘Likewise.’
As Jessie stepped from the flat and removed her coveralls, Gilchrist pulled out his mobile and called Stan.
‘Boss?’
‘Are you with Anne Mills?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘We’re at the bank, even as we speak. They’ve lent us a computer and we’re just booting it up. I’ll be able to plug in the memory stick in a minute or two.’
‘Hand her the phone, will you?’
‘I can’t at the moment, boss. She’s with the manager, filling in half a dozen forms. Payback for making him work on a Sunday, I imagine.
Gilchrist brought him up to speed with Linda James’s murder, then said, ‘When you get a chance, ask Anne if she knows her. It’s odd that she’s happy to talk to you about photographs that could nail Magner to the wall, while every other witness is retracting her statement or lying in a pool of blood.’
‘You think her life’s in danger, boss?’
‘Don’t you?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Or, more to the point, doesn’t she?’
‘Let me get back to you, boss.’
Gilchrist killed the call as a thought came to him. He turned to Jessie. ‘Any guesses as to why Jason Purvis was not at home?’
Jessie narrowed her eyes. ‘Out on business?’
‘Magner’s business?’ He glanced at his watch – not yet four o’clock, but it would be dark in a couple of hours. Better to confront Purvis during daylight hours. He knew it was a long shot, probably one of his longest. But it was still a shot.
And Cauldwood Cottage was less than fifteen minutes away.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Rather than park on the grass verge as he had before, Gilchrist drove into the short driveway at the side of the cottage and parked behind a white Ford Focus – just about the most common car on the road. He noted the registration number, called Glenrothes HQ and asked for someone to check the PNC records and CCTV footage in and around Cupar for any sight of the Focus close to the time of Linda James’s murder.
‘Oh, and while you’re at it, do the same for Tentsmuir Forest on Thursday evening.’ He turned to Jessie, and asked, ‘You ready?’
‘Wish I had my Beretta with me.’
‘I don’t recall you having a firearms licence.’
‘I don’t.’
He held her steady stare. She’d mentioned her .22 before, but he’d taken it as a quip. Her jerk for a smile told him she was joking again, but just in case she wasn’t, he said, ‘Unless you want your jotters, it’s better that you don’t.’
‘You’re no fun,’ she said, and grabbed the door handle.
Together, they walked around the back of the cottage to a lawn-cum-vegetable garden that could have done with a good weeding and mowing, or maybe ploughing up altogether. Beyond the rear property boundary, the barn stood in the long shadows of a low sun.
‘You see the dogs?’ Jessie asked.
‘Maybe he locks them up in the barn for the night.’ He turned back to face the cottage.
The curtains were drawn, but the warm glow of indoor lighting told him Purvis – or someone – was at home. He pressed the doorbell, half-expecting to hear the demented barks of a pair of wild Rottweilers. But the house remained silent. He rang the bell again and this time caught its faint chimes from deep within. He counted to twenty before saying to Jessie, ‘What’s that number Jackie gave us?’
Jessie already had her mobile out. She scrolled down the screen until she found it. Two seconds after clicking the number, she said, ‘It’s ringing.’
Gilchrist stepped back into the long grass, so he could see all four windows that overlooked the rear of the property. He was hoping to catch the flicker of a curtain as Purvis checked to see who was pestering him on a late Sunday afternoon.
Jessie flapped a hand at Gilchrist to let him know her call had just been answered. ‘Could I speak to Jason Purvis?’ she said.
‘What do you want?’ a voice answered, but not from Jessie’s mobile.
Gilchrist spun round in surprise to face the corner of the cottage.
He recognised Purvis instantly. Not from an old newspaper photograph, but from his striking resemblance to Magner. A tad over six foot, like Magner, but with hair more blond than the blond-going-grey of Magner, styled short and combed, and still damp from a recent shower. Even though Magner kept himself fit, Purvis seemed stronger, his body bulked with muscle that rippled beneath a white tee-shirt. He could be Magner on steroids. This was someone who could hold his own in a battle, and certainly more than a physical match for Gilchrist.
Purvis clicked off his mobile, slipped it into his pocket, then lowered his hands to his sides. When he clenched his fists, the muscles on his forearms flexed like tendons of steel.
Gilchrist held out his warrant card. ‘We’re with Fife Constabulary.’
Purvis hissed something that Gilchrist failed to catch, then felt his blood turn to water as the two Rottweilers slipped from the side of the cottage and squatted on their haunches either side of their master. Rumbling growls, as deep as thunder, filled the air. Something hit the grass to Gilchrist’s left, and a quick glance confirmed that Jessie had dropped her phone.
Purvis almost smiled. ‘You still haven’t told me what you want.’
‘To talk.’
‘About what?’
Gilchrist returned the warrant card to his jacket. ‘About where your BMW is.’
‘Don’t have it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Lent it t
o a friend.’
‘Name?’
‘Jimmy Watson.’
‘When?’
‘Last week.’
‘When’s Jimmy going to return it?’
‘When he’s done with it.’
‘Done?’
‘Finished his holiday. He wanted to drive to Europe.’
‘Why drive to Europe when you can get all these cheap flights?’
‘You’d need to ask him.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Didn’t I what?’
‘Ask Jimmy why he wanted to drive to Europe.’
‘I couldn’t give two fucks why Jimmy wanted to drive to Europe. As long as he brings the Beemer back in one piece, that’s all that matters.’
‘Where does Jimmy live?’
A half-nod at the cottage. ‘Here.’
‘He lives here? With you?’
‘You deaf, or what?’
Gilchrist let several seconds pass, then said, ‘We could always arrest you and take you to the Office, if that’s what you’d prefer.’
‘Arrest me?’ Purvis grinned. ‘For what? Besides, you’re a long way from home. So why would I let you arrest me?’
‘In case you haven’t thought it through,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The Office knows we’re here.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ Jessie said. ‘Do you think we’d come out to the middle of nowhere to talk to a nutter like you without covering our backs?’
Anger shifted across Purvis’s face like a shadow, as if his mind were debating whether to order the dogs to attack. As if sensing his dilemma, the Rottweilers’ growls deepened, and for one uncertain moment Gilchrist thought Purvis was about to let them loose. Then Purvis snapped his fingers, and both dogs rose to their feet.
‘Been broken into twice in the last five years,’ he said, as if that explained everything. ‘So it’s good to have these boys around.’
‘Did you report the break-ins?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘What’s the point reporting anything to you lot?’ Purvis said.
Gilchrist stifled a smile. There never were any break-ins. ‘Get rid of the dogs,’ he said.
Purvis held his gaze for longer than Gilchrist thought polite. Then he cocked his head and gave a shrill whistle. Both Rottweilers jerked into motion, and ran off through the long grass towards the barn. ‘The door’s not locked,’ he said. ‘Help yourself to a cup of tea and a biscuit while I lock that pair up for the night.’
