Hand for a Hand (31 page)

“What’s this then?”

“
Don’t touch
.”

Dainty stepped forward, his brow furrowed, and Gilchrist saw
Nance was just as puzzled. “There must be millions here,” Dainty gasped. “Bloody hell. A fucking fortune is what we’ve got.”

Gilchrist looked into the opened coffin, at bundles packed like icing sugar wrapped in polythene, the same material as that around Chloe’s left leg, he would bet, crammed into the confines of a coffin stripped of silk and padding to make more room.

Dainty scratched his forehead. “I think our Mr. Topley’s got a lot of answering to do. Wouldn’t you say?”

Gilchrist should have been relieved that Maureen’s body was not in the coffin, but it surprised him to feel disappointment flush through him. If Maureen had been buried there, then he had found her, could have tried to live with the horror of it all. But now she was still out there, somewhere, tied up, dead, buried, hacked to pieces, or God only knew what, her body planted for him to find, or not find, at Bully’s dictate.

He now saw why Topley’s mother’s ashes were in the attic. The coffin was used for the temporary storage of drugs, which must have started after John Topley’s death, but before Betsy’s. Bully had instructed Topley not to bury his mother here. The grave-diggers would have unearthed an unrecorded coffin, and Bully’s hidey-hole would have been lost, along with his millions in drugs.

Gilchrist held out his hand. “Gloves.”

The nearest SOCO offered him a pair.

Gilchrist pulled them on and leaned into the coffin. He eased one bundle out, laid it to the side, then did the same with two others. But Bully would not risk contaminating his consignment by storing it with Maureen’s body. Six packets later he knew he was right. He slipped off the gloves.

“What do you think?” Dainty asked him.

“When does Bully get out of Barlinnie?”

“With his appeal going ahead, two, three years, give or take six months or so. Why?”

“He must have known he would be the prime suspect in Maureen’s murder.”

“Come on, Andy, Bully’s in a top security—”

“It’s him—”

“You can’t prove a—”

“I
will
,” Gilchrist snarled. “Believe me, I will.”

Dainty’s eyes flared, then saddened. “You’ll have a tough time, Andy. His brief’s Rory Ingles. Solicitor to the mob. And the likes of Bully.”

“Which means?”

“That he’s never lost a case.”

“And he costs a ton of money.” Three SOCOs were dusting the coffin for prints, but they were wasting their time. “There’s Bully’s legal nest-egg for the next thirty years.”

“So this is nothing to do with Topley, is what you’re telling me.”

“It’s got Bully written all over it.”

“Give it up, Andy. You’ve got Bully on the bloody brain.” Dainty’s mobile rang at that moment, and he seemed relieved to take the call.

Gilchrist choked back his anger, turned away, almost bumped into Nance.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said.

But he pushed past her, onto the asphalt path that led to the old part of the cemetery. Bully could not have anticipated the discovery of his drugs cache, which was a huge plus in Gilchrist’s favour. Or was it? When Bully found out, he would go berserk. Then how could Gilchrist ever force Bully to confess to what he had done with Maureen? They had almost found her at Glenorra. But Bully had been one step ahead.

Why? Why had Maureen been moved?

Maybe that was the question he should be asking.

Not
where
had she been moved to, but
why
had she been moved.

Why that night? Why not earlier? Because the cryptic clues were simple, intended to be solved, and Bully would have known
that Gilchrist was getting close, that he was pulling it all together. Were the clues provided not to solve the murder, but to ensure that Gilchrist would suspect Bully then meet him? So that Bully could gloat?

Was Bully only a red herring? Were the answers with Bully’s brother, Jimmy? Was Maureen’s body moved the night Wee Kenny was murdered? Was Jimmy already living it up in Spain, soaking up the sun, setting up the villa for Bully’s release in three years, maybe less, with Rory Ingles, solicitor for the rich and infamous, handling his appeal?

Gilchrist removed his copy of Bully’s lyrics, and studied that line again. He had spent almost twelve months bomb-proofing the case against Bully, had come to know the man as well as he would his own brother. So what was he missing?

Oh princess, by thy watchtower be
.

He crushed the paper into a ball, his mind playing that line over and over.

Oh princess, by thy watchtower be
.

He faced Topley’s grave. The SOCOs were loading the drugs into their van. To the side, some forty feet away, Nance stood by another headstone. He walked towards her.

She surprised him by saying, “Joe Reid. Bully’s father’s grave.”

Gilchrist almost smiled. In the process of locating Topley’s grave, Nance had taken the initiative and found Bully’s father’s, too. He read the inscription.

The honest man, though e’er sae poor Is king o’ men for a’ that.

He recognised the lines from Burns’ poem
A Man’s a Man for A’ That
, and once again puzzled over the reference to Burns. “What’s Bully’s attraction to all things Burns?” he asked Nance.

“Maybe it was drummed into him at school?”

“Did he go to school?” His mobile rang. He flipped it open, and walked off.

“Hey, man, I went through the print-outs like you asked, and I found something.”

Gilchrist’s throat seemed to clamp at Jack’s words. “I’m listening.”

“Tried to check it out before I called, in case I’d got it wrong. But I got nowhere.”

“Back up, Jack. You’re losing me.”

“It’s Maureen’s job, man. The Topley Company’s just eyewash.”

“Are you saying she’s employed by someone else?”

“The police.”

Something thudded into Gilchrist’s chest.

“I mean, who would’ve believed it? There’s no contract or anything. Just two emails, the first confirming she would be available for employment, the second confirming the terms of their agreement.”

“Who are they to and from?”

“DI Ronald Watt. You know him?”

Detective Inspector. Watt had lied to Maureen about his position, probably lied to her about the job. Watt had conned her, made up some bullshit story that had her drooling at the jowls, and in the end put her life in danger.

Watt would not have wanted correspondence mailed to his office. That would have blown his scheme. He would also have known Maureen kept a copy of all her emails on her computer. Which explained why her flat had been broken into.

“Does it say which division she was working for?” he asked.

“Strathclyde. And get this. The Drug Squad.”

Gilchrist stopped walking. All of a sudden, a whole new line of reasoning opened up to him. “Don’t let anyone see these letters, Jack. You got that?”

“I hear you.”

Gilchrist was almost twitching to have it out with Watt. But phoning Watt first would steal his thunder, so he called the Topley Company, and got through to Topley on the first try.

“Maureen doesn’t work for you, does she?” he growled.

“Mr. Gilchrist. Nice to hear from you—”

“
Does she
?”

“If that lovely daughter of yours doesn’t show her tits around here any time soon, she won’t be working for me any longer.”

“Did you know she worked for Ronnie Watt?”

“Can’t say that I did.”

Gilchrist thought he caught the tiniest of hesitations. Surprised? Or lying? Gilchrist decided to go for it. “In about thirty seconds,” he said, “Bully’s going to be told you grassed on him to the Drug Squad.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

Gilchrist eyed the SOCOs. The bags were stacking higher. Just how much cocaine did a coffin hold? “This afternoon,” he said, “we found about thirty million pounds’ worth of cocaine. All wrapped up in neat little bundles.”

“Who’s a lucky Detective Inspector then?”

“Buried in your old man’s grave.”

A pause, then, “I know fuck all about that.”

“But you know Maureen worked with Watt.”

“No chance. I swear. On my mother’s grave.”

Gilchrist could almost hear Topley sweating. “You’ve been seen talking to Watt.”

“So?”

“Watt’s with the Drug Squad.”

Silence, as Topley put two and two together.

“How do you contact him?” Gilchrist asked. He listened to the digital ether fill the line, and an image of Topley trying to manufacture his next lie swelled in his mind.

“He’ll know it’s come from me,” Topley said.

“Your choice. Bully or Watt. I really don’t care.”

“Look. If I tell you, you’ve got to help me.”

“Keep talking.”

“We have a deal?”

“Just cough it out, and I’ll see what I can do.”

It took so long for Topley to answer, that Gilchrist thought he had lost the connection. When Topley’s voice came back at him, it growled low and guttural, letting him know there could be no compromise. “You didn’t hear this from me. All right?” Another pause, then, “He drinks in the Dreel Tavern.”

Gilchrist knew the east coast. “Anstruther?”

“Most nights between nine and ten.”

“Who does he meet? I need a name.”

“I don’t know. I swear.”

“No name, no deal.”

“Fuck you, Gilchrist.”

“No,” Gilchrist snarled. “Fuck Watt. I need a name.” He pressed on. “Give me a name, and it’ll go no further. You have my word.”

It took a full ten seconds before Topley said, “Bootsie. Real name’s Joe Cobbler. But everyone calls him Bootsie.”

Bootsie. Joe Cobbler. Joe. The same Joe who stole Peggy Linnet’s phone?

“Got an address?” Gilchrist said.

Surprisingly, Topley did.

Chapter 36

W
ATT’S FACE DISPLAYED
stubble that had not yet reached the curled stage. Another week and he would have a full beard. Gilchrist waited until Watt’s fingers wrapped around his pint before he joined him.

“Mine’s an Eighty.”

Give Watt his due, he never so much as flinched. “An Eighty over here,” he said to the barman. “Pubs in St. Andrews shut, are they?”

“You tricked Maureen,” Gilchrist growled. “You tricked her into thinking she was working undercover for the police.”

“Where do you get off?”

“Oh I’m staying on to the bitter end, you’d better believe it.”

Although Gilchrist had not raised his voice, Watt picked up on the change in mood. He took a sip of beer. “If you must know,” he said, “Maureen begged me to hire her.”

The word
begged
did not conjure up an image of Maureen. He slapped a hand onto Watt’s arm with a force that splashed beer over the counter and stopped the barman from pulling his pint. “She’s missing,” he hissed. “And you know who’s behind it. You’ve known all along. But made no attempt to stop it. Why?”

Watt scowled until Gilchrist relaxed his grip. “Crap like that can get a lad like you hurt.”

“Are you denying it?”

“What do
you
think?”

“Bootsie isn’t coming tonight,” Gilchrist tried.

“Who?”

“The Bootsie you used to phone first thing in the morning and last thing at night.”

“Fifty quid says you never had a warrant to pull my phone records.”

Gilchrist realised his attempts to call the number on Watt’s records had succeeded only in alerting Watt. “You knew someone was onto you,” he said. “So instead of calling Bootsie morning noon and night you meet him here.”

“If you say so.”

“Bootsie says so.”

Watt sipped his beer like a lonely man.

“And Bootsie also says you’re sniffing around the east coast waiting for some drug shipment from Europe. That’s why you finagled a reassignment to Fife.” Gilchrist leaned closer. “But there is no drug shipment.”

Watt faced Gilchrist. “Says Bootsie? Bootsie knows the square root of fuck all.”

“This didn’t come from Bootsie.”

Watt’s eyes livened. “You always were a right cocky bastard.”

Gilchrist struggled to hide his anxiety. Did he have it wrong? He had spent thirty minutes interrogating Bootsie, cutting it short to catch Watt before he left the Dreel. But now Watt was giving off the wrong signals. Had Bootsie told him a rat’s nest of lies just to get rid of him? Nance was still interrogating him, and Gilchrist found himself wishing she was with him now, helping him pierce a way through Watt’s deception.

“Maureen, Topley, Bully, Jimmy, you,” Gilchrist said. “Took me a while to piece it all together. Bit of a Chinese puzzle, really. But it was the drug shipment that helped me work it out.”

“And here was me thinking you were good at puzzles.”

Gilchrist clenched his jaw. He had still not worked out the puzzle of where Maureen was. Bootsie had not been able to help them either. “Well, how’s this for a puzzle?” he said. “How about I charge you as an accessory to murder?”

Watt smiled. He really smiled. “The Lone fucking Ranger,” he growled. “That’s you. You always get your man.” He chewed imaginary gum, and something told Gilchrist that the worst was yet to come. “That’s why Maureen hated you.” Watt’s teeth flashed a grin. “The most successful DCI in Fife Constabulary, but an abject failure as a father.”

Something cold washed over Gilchrist then, and he had to look away.

He knew he had failed. He had failed as a father, failed as a husband. If he had been there for his wife, there for his children, would they have left him to live in Glasgow? In his mind’s eye he watched the door open, the empty hallway appear before him, heard the thud of the door behind him as he stepped inside to his new life, all alone.

But Maureen
hated
him?

That could not be.
Hate
was too strong a word. No, it was
Watt
who hated him. And with that thought he saw it was time to tighten the screws.

“Bootsie’s ready to tell all,” he said.