by T F Muir
Jessie stopped at the entrance, as if reluctant to step inside. She nodded to a bloodied spot on the floor. ‘They took the dogs away,’ she said. ‘These things shouldn’t be allowed. They should be drowned at birth.’
Drowning sounded good, but he nodded, and said, ‘What about Stan?’
In the blink of an eye, Jessie’s anger vanished, and she stared off to some point over his shoulder. Her eyes glistened from the cold, or from memories of Stan, Gilchrist could not be sure. ‘That’s why I couldn’t sleep,’ she said. ‘Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that bastard shoot him.’
Silent, Gilchrist waited for her gaze to return to him, then said, ‘You should make an appointment and talk to—’
‘I’m not talking to any psychiatrists,’ she said, then ran a hand under her nose. ‘Did that once before. Spilled out my heart to some prick who never uttered a word. He just sat there like a doo-wally and listened to me rattle it off. All he did in the end was offer me sleeping pills. I was so pissed off, I nearly took them.’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t trust myself. Thought I might take the lot. Lights out, and all that.’
Gilchrist frowned. ‘When was this?’
‘Years ago. Before your time. Before Robert’s, too.’ She stared at him. ‘Does Mhairi know about Stan?’
He nodded.
Jessie’s breath clouded in the morning chill. ‘I really thought they were going somewhere, you know? Stan seemed happy. Mhairi too. It’s so bloody sad.’
Gilchrist could think of nothing to add, and said, ‘What about Magner and Purvis?’
‘What about them? Cooper and her lot have already been here and done their stuff. Photographed the bodies ad nauseam then transported them to Bell Street. Cooper’ll be doing her best to cut them up. I hope she slices their balls off. That might cheer her up.’
He caught the emphasis, and said, ‘Cheer her up?’
‘She didn’t seem her usual self, you know? Miss Woman-of-the-World looking down in the dumps. Didn’t suit her.’ She shot a smile at him. ‘Think I might even have seen a hair out of place.’
He tried to cover his emotions with a smile of his own. ‘Well it would have been early on a Monday morning,’ he offered.
He thought Jessie returned his gaze for a moment too long, as if searching for something behind his eyes – the truth about his relationship with Cooper, perhaps, or some explanation as to why she might not have been herself. But what could he tell her? That Cooper was suffering from morning sickness? Or depressed over the imminent end of her marriage? Or – and this was even more troubling – that she had already decided to have a termination? Which he knew would be heartbreaking for her.
‘What happened across the road?’ Jessie said.
The non-sequitur confused him. ‘When?’
‘When I called Purvis on Magner’s phone.’
‘That was you?’
‘The IT guys were only trying to get a trace on his location, not set off a shooting match.’
The memory of the change in Purvis’s expression sent a chill down Gilchrist’s spine. If not for that chance call, he would not be standing there now. ‘You saved my life,’ he said. ‘Your call distracted Purvis and I took a chance. His shot still nearly took my head off, though.’
‘It nearly blew my ear out,’ she said, and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Uh-oh. Here’s trouble.’
Greaves was approaching them with his eyes fixed on Gilchrist. Not quite as bad as a Rottweiler eyeing his throat, but close enough for Gilchrist to brace himself for the onslaught. But Greaves surprised him by shaking his hand, and almost cracking a smile.
‘How’s the arm?’
‘Still sore, but getting better.’
‘It’ll take time to heal,’ Greaves said. ‘Fortunately, that’s something you’ll have a lot of.’
‘Sir?’
‘Your maverick approach has caught up with you at last, Andy. Big Archie wants a word.’ Greaves’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, or victory – it was difficult to tell. ‘Nine o’clock. His office,’ he added.
Gilchrist pursed his lips. Assistant Chief Constable Archie McVicar, a fair man, but a tough man to deal with if you ever crossed him. Not that Gilchrist had, or so he thought, but he could not shift the worry that McVicar’s urgent call would result in his being suspended. No matter how he tried to cut it, the facts were that Stan had been killed, and Gilchrist had been the Senior Investigating Officer. The more he thought about it, the more he came to see that suspension was the least of his troubles. Greaves’s grimace for a smile almost confirmed it for him.
‘I’ll give ACC McVicar a call, sir,’ Gilchrist said.
‘He’s expecting you in his office within the hour.’
‘Sir?’
‘I told him you would be there.’
Well, there he had it. Ordered about like a dumb puppy. He let several seconds of silence pass before he nodded to Jessie, then turned and walked back to the cottage.
He thought of trying to postpone the meeting with McVicar by pretending he had another hospital appointment. But Greaves would revel in the prospect of drilling him a new arsehole if he tried that. Still, he had too many unanswered questions in his investigation just to be pushed to the side, and in the end he decided to tackle the devil head on.
He wangled a lift to Glenrothes HQ with Nora Wells, a young WPC from the Anstruther Office. On the drive there, he was struck by her resemblance to his daughter – dark hair, brown eyes, smooth skin, slim to the point of skinny.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Sorry? Yeah. I’m fine. Why?’
‘You keep looking at me.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . . you remind me of someone.’
They continued the journey in silence, with Gilchrist sinking ever deeper into gloom. He did what he could to shift the spectre of suspension from his mind, but it refused to budge, so he tried to look on the bright side. It would give him time to help Maureen do up her flat – papering, painting, tiling, even tackling the new kitchen flooring he’d promised to lay for her. He shifted in his seat from a stab of pain, as if his body were reminding him he had only one arm in working order, and handyman jobs required two.
He sank back into misery.
WPC Wells pulled up in the car park at Glenrothes, then sped off before he had time to thank her, leaving him with the feeling that he was upsetting everyone that day. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets, and walked towards the meeting with McVicar.
He could always strike first, he supposed, and just hand in his notice.
CHAPTER 43
McVicar remained seated as Gilchrist entered his office.
‘Take a seat, Andy,’ he ordered.
Silent, Gilchrist obliged, pulling out one of two chairs set in front of a polished desk devoid of clutter. Just like the man’s thinking, he thought – clear, concise.
McVicar pressed himself into the back of his chair, as if trying to distance himself from something unhealthy. Then he eyed the hospital sling, giving Gilchrist the impression that he was trying to work out if it would heal before or after his suspension was over. When he shifted his gaze to one of his fry-you-in-your-seat stares, the answer was before.
Gilchrist found himself struggling to return the look.
‘Fiasco,’ McVicar said, his voice booming in the small room. ‘Unmitigated disaster.’ He shook his head, causing his jowls to shudder. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard these words from Chief Superintendent Greaves this morning.’
Gilchrist chose silence.
‘You have an unhealthy habit of alienating those above you, Andy. And this . . . this . . . maverick attitude of yours – another phrase I’ve heard far too often today – lands you in trouble time and time again.’ He growled, cleared his throat. ‘But you know all that, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Agreeing seemed as good a response as any.
McVicar lowered his head, as if to study Gilchr
ist over a pair of imaginary specs. ‘And we lost a good man last night,’ he said.
Gilchrist felt his lips tighten, his eyes nip. He blinked once, twice, then let out a heavy breath. ‘Yes, sir. We did. Stan was unarmed when he was shot in cold blood by Thomas Magner, more or less at point-blank range.’
‘You were there?’
‘Yes, sir. DS Janes, too.’ He worried all of a sudden that Jessie might not recite the same story – that Stan had done nothing to instigate his death – and made a mental note to brief her as soon as he could.
McVicar’s eyes seemed to have lost their ability to blink. He stared at Gilchrist, as if trying to will his thoughts to his lips. ‘Detective Sergeant Jessica Harriet Janes,’ he said, as if reading from a script. ‘She said you saved her life.’
Gnashing teeth and snarling growls flared into Gilchrist’s mind with a flashback that shook him. It took the memory of Purvis dropping his mobile phone to the barn floor and raising his shotgun to force the image away. ‘I think she has that the wrong way round, sir.’
‘And you saved WPC McBride’s life, I hear.’
Gilchrist returned a blank stare while he worked out that Jessie must have mentioned all of this to Greaves, who had passed it on to McVicar. But that didn’t seem right. Why would Greaves put in a good word for him? He was missing something. Nine o’clock on a Monday morning and his head was already spinning.
‘We were fortunate,’ Gilchrist said.
‘She phoned me.’
‘Mhairi?’
‘DS Janes. Just got off the phone with her about ten minutes ago.’ McVicar leaned forward, rested his arms on the desk, as if no longer afraid of contamination. ‘She said Chief Super Greaves informed you that I wanted to talk to you. So she thought she should give me, as she put it, the correct version of events.’
Gilchrist mouthed an Ah.
‘Ah, indeed.’ McVicar said. ‘You’re long enough in the tooth, Andy, to know that I’m going to have to take you off the case until a full investigation into Stan’s murder is carried out.’
Gilchrist gave a defeated nod. ‘Define off the case, sir.’
‘Well, if Greaves had his way, you’d be asked to hand in your notice. The least he wants is to demote you to tea-boy.’ McVicar shook his head. ‘I sometimes wonder if the job is all too much for us any more.’
Gilchrist felt a stirring of hope. Greaves had done himself no favours by coming down so heavily. McVicar had seen through his complaints, and taken them for what they were – a personal vendetta. But before he dared breathe a sigh of relief, Gilchrist thought it best to say nothing.
‘I don’t see any benefit in forcing one of our top detectives to sit on the sidelines. We’re short-staffed as it is, for crying out loud.’
Gilchrist risked a thoughtful nod.
‘However, given the overlap between your investigation and Chief Superintendent Whyte’s, I’m arranging for him to take over. I want you to debrief him personally, Andy, bring him fully up to speed. Give him everything you’ve got. Hold nothing back. Then step away. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And let me take care of Greaves for you,’ McVicar said. ‘I’ll point out the error in his thinking . . . in a manner of speaking.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Then McVicar’s look darkened – a reminder to Gilchrist that he was still walking on thin ice that could crack at any moment, and that McVicar was still the man in charge. ‘I understand we have some video evidence that could turn out to be rather embarrassing.’
Statement, not a question, but Gilchrist said, ‘We do, sir.’
‘I don’t want the waters muddied by the media getting wind of any breach of protocol in the manner in which you handled this investigation.’
Gilchrist knew the breach was that they had broken into Purvis’s property without a search warrant. The fact that they subsequently stumbled upon the Meating Room and discovered evidence of a string of murders was neither here nor there. It should all have been done by the book, without which Gilchrist strongly suspected that Stan’s murder could come back to hit him big-time.
He was not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.
‘I understand, sir.’
‘I’ve already been in contact with Chief Super Whyte,’ McVicar said, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘He’ll be along any minute.’
Gilchrist mouthed another Ah. It seemed as if he was being made privy to the other side of McVicar, a man who had not reached ACC by walking around admiring the scenery, but who could make decisions and march into the heart of hell to see them through, if he had to. Rumour had it that he was a shoo-in for Chief Constable next year.
As if to nail that point home, the door rapped, and Whyte entered.
‘Come in, Billy,’ McVicar said, then lowered his head to Gilchrist. ‘Now, I’d like to hear your side of the story, Andy.’
It took Gilchrist the best part of two hours to bring Whyte and McVicar up to speed. McVicar listened with his hands steepled to his lips, not missing a word, not saying a thing. Whyte was more inquisitive, and smart, firing off a series of pertinent questions. But when Gilchrist came to Stan’s cold-blooded murder, both men listened in silence, their faces grim, their moods solemn.
Only when Gilchrist had brought his debriefing to a close did McVicar nod to Whyte and ask, ‘Any other questions?’
‘Just the one, sir.’ Whyte faced Gilchrist. ‘Was WPC Mhairi McBride part of your original covert team?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Just the three of you? DS Janes, DI Davidson and yourself?’
Which were two questions. ‘Yes.’
‘So, how did WPC McBride know where you were?’
Gilchrist had asked Mhairi the same question, only to learn that Stan had phoned her prior to setting off with him and Jessie. When Gilchrist explained that, Whyte asked, ‘But why would Stan call her?’
‘Extra back-up from someone he trusted.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘I think you need to elaborate, Andy.’
‘Mhairi and Stan were in a relationship.’
‘I see.’
‘Of course, she was particularly upset when she found out that Stan was dead.’
‘As we all were,’ McVicar assured him.
Whyte narrowed his eyes. ‘You told her?’
‘I did.’
‘And did you tell her how DI Davidson died?’
Gilchrist thought back to comforting Mhairi in the barn. ‘No, sir.’
Whyte returned his stare with an unsettling steadiness, and Gilchrist had the strangest feeling that he was trying to work out whether to believe him or not. Then Whyte offered a tight smile and sat back.
Gilchrist said, ‘I’m happy to assist in any way I can in the continuing investigation, sir. If Chief Super Whyte and yourself approve, of course.’
McVicar narrowed his eyes. ‘Not sure I do, Andy.’
‘It might send the wrong message to the media if I’m hauled off the case, sir. If I continue to be involved, then we could simply say it’s a reassignment. Particularly as one case appears to be solved – in terms of identifying the culprits.’
McVicar glanced at Whyte, who gave the tiniest of nods. ‘Very well, Andy. The official word is reassignment. But unofficially you’re taking a back seat. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘Right. I’ll make sure Greaves gets the message.’ McVicar rose to his feet to bring the meeting to a close.
Gilchrist was about to leave the room when Whyte said, ‘I’d like to talk to DS Janes, if you could get her to give me a call.’ He held out a business card.
Gilchrist eyed the card. A call to the North Street Office would put Whyte straight through to Jessie, or transfer him to her mobile.
He declined to take the card, and said, ‘I’ll ask her to call.’
CHAPTER 44
Forensics spent the rest of the week working through Cauldwood C
ottage and the property across the road, as well as the barn and basement warren that the media invariably termed ‘The Meating Room’. In turn, Magner and Purvis were christened ‘The Butchers’.
A CD of scanned images found in the cottage offered early glimpses of the crazed wildness that drove The Butchers to kill time and time again. As a teenager, Purvis had been a keen outdoorsman, excelling in mountaineering, cross-country trekking and, more ominously, hunting. A photograph of a stag’s head – with a magnificent set of antlers – superimposed on an image of a naked Purvis ejaculating appeared to be the defining moment when his sexual preferences and perverted demands took a much darker path.
Magner featured in that collection of photographs, too, attending swinger parties and caught in full penetrative mode with a series of female partners. Strangely, or so it was noted by more than one forensic psychologist, none of the photos ever showed Magner and Purvis together. To Gilchrist’s thinking, the simple answer was that one had always photographed the other. But with neither Magner nor Purvis alive to corroborate that theory, he might as well have been pissing into the wind.
And Jerry McGovern came clean, once he heard that Purvis was dead. His brother, Malky, had been selling hardcore porn on the black market. Although Jerry could not confirm who had supplied the original material to Malky, the presence of a Ford Focus at Malky’s house from time to time had led him to believe that Purvis was the supplier – the same Ford Focus he saw turning into the McCullochs’ driveway after he had stolen Amy’s jewellery that Thursday.
To McGovern’s thinking, the McCullochs had been slaughtered by Purvis, and it was the frightening prospect of retaliation by Purvis which had scared him into silence, believing Purvis had recognised him as he fled the McCullochs’ after his robbery. Of course, he had failed to notice that Magner was driving the Focus that day, and not Purvis.
As Jimmy swore that he made his exit around midday, Gilchrist determined that Magner must have lain in wait in the house until Amy returned with the girls a few hours later.
