Hand for a Hand (11 page)

Dear Jesus. He opened his eyes, gulped some air.

“Live bodies. Dead bodies.” Mackie’s jowls shivered. “I don’t think it matters which to this demented creep.”

Gilchrist stared off to the horizon. The sun was shooting pink streaks across the sky. How could the beauty of nature be spoiled by the rotten-to-the-core creature known as
homo sapiens
, who killed its own species for … for.…

For what?

Pleasure? Sexual satisfaction? Dead or otherwise?

He knew of no other species that killed for sexual pleasure. But maybe they were out there, hidden deep in some undiscovered tropical forest. Or at the microscopic level, where the struggle of life and death took on a—

“I’m sorry, Andy. I shouldn’t have.…”

Gilchrist shook his head. “I need to know your thoughts, Bert.”

Mackie reached for Gilchrist’s shoulder, and squeezed. “How’s Jack?”

Gilchrist thought back to last night, at Jack’s show of bravado, at eyes that lay dead behind a forced smile. “Having a tough time.”

“And you?” Mackie asked. “You look as though you’ve been out on the binge.”

Gilchrist could use a pint right there and then, but was not sure he could keep it down. “Tired,” he said.

Mackie gave Gilchrist one of his direct stares. “Any suspects? Any ideas?”

Gilchrist shrugged. “Working on it.”

“I think the answer’s in your past, Andy. Maybe someone you put away, someone vindictive enough to get even with you. Maybe someone recently released from prison.”

Gilchrist’s own thoughts had already paralleled Mackie’s. Whoever was doing this wanted to get even for some reason, likely because Gilchrist’s investigation had put him behind bars. He already knew that.

He had just not wanted to believe it.

“And cut back on the booze,” said Mackie.

Gilchrist walked towards the seafront, the breeze refreshing on his face. He inhaled, tried to clear his thoughts, chase his fears away.
Cut back on the booze
. What was the point of that? So he could be stone-cold sober when he next witnessed the sickest depravities of mankind? He reached the seafront. Several joggers were already running along the West Sands. A woman slipped onto the beach from between dunes and marched across the sand with arm-swinging strides. He followed her progress, felt his mind pull him back to the cryptic notes.

Murder. Massacre. Bludgeon.

He saw a sequence. But it was too vague. He could be wrong.
Dear God. Tell me I’m wrong
.

He inhaled the sea breeze, reached for his phone. He was wrong. He had to be.

He needed to hear her voice, needed to know she was all right. He dialled her number and eyed the black silhouette of a ship sliding over the horizon.

“Hello?”

Maureen’s voice sounded tired and heavy, and he pulled up an old image of a sleepy-headed toddler. He used to waken her with,
Wakey wakey let’s get shaky
, and bounce her bed with a roughness that always pulled a smile to her face. Then she would reach up to him with tired little arms, and he would lift her from bed and carry her downstairs, the smell of sleep in her hair like her personal morning fragrance.

“Wakey wakey let’s get shaky,” he whispered.

“Dad?”

“The one and only.”

A rustling of covers, then a tired chuckle. “It’s been years since I’ve heard that.”

“I love you, Mo.”

A pause, then, “Where are you?”

“Looking out over the West Sands. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Cold. But beautiful. A lovely day for a walk along the beach. Care to join me?”

Another chuckle. “Mum never said you were a romantic.”

Something turned over in his stomach at that comment. He used to send flowers to Gail, leave silly little love notes on her bedside table or pinned to the fridge when he was out on a case. And it struck him that he could not recall when he had stopped doing that. And Gail, too. When had she changed? When was the exact moment she stopped loving him? And why did he still struggle with her not being in his life? Was it because she had taken Jack and Maureen with her? Or was jealousy still smothering his emotions? And as a dark shadow worked its way through his mind he wondered how much longer Gail had to live.

“How’s Mum?” he asked.

“I saw her last night.”

Gilchrist stared off across the water of the Eden Estuary, not trusting his voice.

“She’s not well,” Maureen said. “I mean, she’s, she’s desperately ill.…”

“She’s not in any.…”

“She’s on a morphine drip, Dad. It’s only a matter of time.”

Only a matter of time
. Dear Jesus. When he and Gail married he would never have predicted this was how it would end. He had imagined they would grow old together, walk the beach with their grandchildren together. Not like this. Bitter and apart.

“Is there anything, I mean, can I do anything.…”

“I don’t think so, Dad. I’m sorry.”

He felt his head nod.

“Have you heard from Jack?” Maureen asked.

“He’s here at the moment. Staying at the cottage.”

A pause, then, “Is it true about Chloe?”

“It’s looking that way.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “That’s awful.”

It’s worse than awful
, he almost said.
Necrophilia
? Surely Mackie was wrong. “Did you know Chloe?” he asked.

“Met her a few times.”

“Recently?” he tried.

“A couple of months back.”

“Before Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“At Jack’s?”

“In town. How’s Jack taking it?”

“You know Jack. Doesn’t say much,” he said. “Keeps it to himself.” He felt a sudden need to change the subject. “Will you be seeing Mum again?”

“I see Mum every day now. But with the drugs and stuff she’s mostly out of it.”

He hated asking, but the words were out before he could stop himself. “Do you think she might … she might want to see me?”

“Oh, Dad.”

“Well then, if you can,” he said. “If you get a chance, Mo, will you tell her I love her?” Maureen’s silence only cut him deeper, made him feel the need to say more. “Will you tell her I’ve always loved her?”

“Oh, Dad.”

The words were whispered, and in her whisper he heard the echo of his own pain. He watched a pair of labradors splash into the sea and wondered why he had been against buying a puppy for Jack. “Listen, Mo,” he said, fighting to liven up. “Why don’t you come up to St. Andrews this weekend? I could maybe wangle an early night, take you out for an Indian—”

“I’d love to, Dad. But I’ve got stuff to do. You know. With Mum. And work and stuff.”

Her answer did not surprise him, but hearing her say she had work to do somehow settled his mind. “Sure, Mo. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

He wanted to tell her his fears about the case. But how could he? He could be wrong, so wrong, and doing so would only frighten her. “Take care now,” he said.

“Don’t I always?”

“And call me.”

“Sure.”

“No. I mean it, Mo. Call me.”

“Dad?”

“More often, I mean. We should talk to each other more often.”

“Okay, Dad. But I’ve got to go. Love you,” and hung up before he could respond.

He held onto the phone, listened to the echo of her voice in his mind, and worried that he should have been more direct with her. He felt that familiar need to fight off the dark feelings, heard his mind whisper,
Focus on work. It’s how you’ve coped over the years. Cut everything else out and focus. On work
. So he called Stan and asked him to track down anyone recently released from prison, who had been put away by Gilchrist years ago. But only those who had killed before, on the theory that revenge by itself was not reason enough to kill for the first time.

Or was it? Well, it was as good a place as any to start.

He walked from the seafront, back to DC Bowers. “Who’s checked in at the scene?”

Bowers opened his book. “Right here.”

Gilchrist scanned the signatures. His own was not there because he had arrived before Bowers, although a note had been added by Lambert that
DCI Gilchrist arrived at the scene at 5:27 and thereafter identified the body part as a left leg
. Gilchrist calculated that by the time he had donned his coveralls and carried out a preliminary inspection it had probably been close to 5:35, 5:40,
when he left the scene. Nance’s signature was first after Lambert’s at 5:44, then Watt’s at 5:48.

Gilchrist thanked Bowers and walked past the R&A Clubhouse.

He reached his Mercedes and called the Office. “When was DS Ronnie Watt informed of the body part at the Golf Museum?” he asked.

“That would be, ah, here it is. 5:46, sir. You asked that we didn’t inform him before 5:45.”

Not quite, he wanted to say, but chose not to get into it. “Did you make the call?”

“I did.”

“How did he respond?”

“He just said he would be on his way, sir.”

Gilchrist snapped his phone shut.

Watt had arrived at the scene two minutes after the Office called, which meant he must have been on his way when they rang. Why would he be out and about at that time in the morning? He had guessed the correct body part. Had he also known when and where? It seemed that Watt knew more about the body parts than he should. Had someone called him before the Office had? If so, who? And why was Greaves hell-bent on having Watt on Gilchrist’s team when he knew about their past?

Too many questions. Too few answers.

Gilchrist promised himself he would change that.

Chapter 13

“M
ARTIN
. A
NDY HERE
.
Any luck?”

“It’s just come in. Like me to post it to you?” Gilchrist accelerated out of Golf Place. “I’ll pick it up.” He confirmed Coyle’s home address and assigned the directions to memory.

Twenty-five minutes later, after taking a wrong turn, he drove up to Coyle’s home, a detached stone mansion that sat on the outskirts of Cupar. Coyle met him at the front door, wearing a dressing-gown that looked as if it should be binned. White legs as bare as sticks dangled to a pair of scuffed slippers. He smiled at Gilchrist. “Stop in for a cuppa?”

Gilchrist found it impossible to resist Coyle’s gormless charm. “Why not?”

Inside, Coyle led him along a hallway with high-gloss doors that seemed out of character with the stone structure, and into a kitchen with grimy linoleum tiles centred by a beaten pine table. The room was redolent of coffee and toast, tainted by a musty fragrance that seemed to come at him from his side.

Two ageing dogs, a clot-haired collie and a matted wire-haired terrier, looked up at him with hound dog eyes, then rose from battered wicker baskets and kowtowed towards him, tails brushing the tiles. He leaned down, dug in his fingers behind the collie’s ears, and said, “Names?”

“Jack and Jill,” Coyle replied.

“Which is which?”

“Basket.”

Both dogs skulked to their baskets, leaving Gilchrist to wipe his fingers on his trousers. As they stepped up and over the wicker edges, he could not help but notice how both of them were hung.

He raised an eyebrow at Coyle. “Jill?”

“They can’t speak English.” Coyle shrugged. “Linda’s idea. Don’t ask.” Then he reached for a large envelope on the shelf and held it out. “This what you’re after?”

Gilchrist thanked him, was about to open the envelope when the kitchen door swung open and Linda walked in wearing a threadbare bathrobe. A thatch of witch-grey hair looked as if it had not seen a brush for a month. She rushed over, put her arms around him. “Andy, love. How nice to see you again.”

She felt soft and fat and smelled of bedclothes and dogs. He responded with, “Nice to see you, too,” and was squeezed with a big-breasted bear-hug.

“We’re so sorry to hear about Gail,” Linda said, relaxing her grip. “Aren’t we, Martin?”

Coyle smiled.

“How are you coping, love?”

Gilchrist felt his face flush. “Fine,” he said.

“And the kids? Jack and Maureen, isn’t it?”

“They’re fine, too.”

“Poor souls. I always think it’s those that have to live on that suffer the most.” She placed her lips to his cheek and kissed him. “God bless you, love.” Then she stepped back. “Have you eaten?”

Gilchrist patted his stomach. “Had something earlier,” he lied.

Linda scowled at the wicker baskets. “Who’s a pair of lovely wonders, then? Eh?”

Gilchrist smiled as both dogs’ back ends twitched with measured pleasure. Then he turned to Coyle and waved the envelope. “If you don’t mind, Martin, I’ll skip the cuppa. I really should get going.”

Linda kissed Gilchrist on the cheek again, then Coyle led him to the door.

They promised to keep in touch.

Gilchrist waited until he could no longer see the mansion in his rear-view mirror before pulling off the road. He opened the envelope and removed fifteen pages of computer print-out that listed in columns from left to right across the page, date, telephone number, time of call, duration, and cost.

He checked the last call—outgoing to a mobile phone number he failed to recognise. Three days ago. At 22:54. Lasting two minutes. He found the first outgoing call that day at 04:49, and felt his brow furrow.

One minute only.

Watt had said he had risen early. To make a call? Who would he call at that time in the morning? Then he noticed it was the same phone number as the last call. So, the first and last calls of that day were both to the same mobile number. Which meant …?

Gilchrist flipped through the rest of the pages, checked the very first call on the list.

Same number. 07:51. Three minutes long.

And the last call that day.

Same number. 23:03. Two minutes.

Gilchrist searched the lists for the same number, and found it. Three more calls had been made three days ago. He found a pencil and circled each of the numbers, ending up with five circles three days ago. And five again, the day before.

He worked his way back.

Watt’s records never had fewer than a dozen calls on any given day, but always a minimum of three to that same mobile number, and almost always the first and last calls of the day. And the earliest time of any of the morning calls was seven days ago, at 04:07.