Hand for a Hand (36 page)

The chains rattled.

He concentrated on the floor, did not want Bully to read anything from his eyes, to see how he scared him, even now. The chains clattered as Bully shuffled in his seat.

“We’ve also been in contact with your solicitor, Rory Ingles.”

“You’ll be hearing from Rory,” Bully growled.

“Word on the street is that you think you’re getting out in two years.”

“Sooner, now you lot are fucking it up.”

Gilchrist kept pacing. “I’m not here to argue that point.”

“What the fuck’re you here for then? To give me new wanking material?”

Gilchrist stepped to the table with a speed that almost had Bully tensing. He grabbed the photograph. “You could do yourself a favour,” he said, and held it up for Bully to leer at. “And confess.”

“To what?”

“That you ordered Chloe’s murder. My daughter’s, too. That you devised the whole scheme, the body parts, the notes, the kidnapping, all to satisfy your sick psycho needs.”

Bully looked pleased to find himself back in control. “Not a fucking clue what you’re on about,” he said.

“That’s a pity.” Gilchrist slipped Maureen’s photograph into his pocket, safe from Bully’s lecherous eyes. He started pacing again. “We’ll just have to let Jimmy tell us, then. Won’t we?”

Bully hawked phlegm from the back of his throat. “In your dreams, big man.”

“No dreams. Try nightmares.” He gave Bully a passing glance. “Yours.”

Bully smiled, an ugly grimace that settled somewhere between confusion and anger. “Jimmy’ll tell you fuck all. He knows what would happen to him when I get out.”

Gilchrist stopped. He faced Bully. “Don’t you mean
if
you get out?”

Bully’s eyes tightened. His lips pursed. Sweat dotted his upper lip. “Wait till I talk to Rory,” he growled.

“Won’t do you any good.”

Bully’s eyes flickered, as if he knew something was going on but could not figure it out. “You’re at it,” he said.

“Oh, Rory’ll be talking to you all right. But it won’t be about getting out in two years. More like breaking the news that you’ll be spending the rest of your life in prison.” He eyed the bare walls, faced the slit-window. “In this miserable hell-hole. Without the remotest chance of parole.”

“What the fuck’re you on about?”

Gilchrist leaned forward. That close, he could smell the prison stench of the man. If confinement and desperation had a scent, that was what he was smelling. “Oh princess, by thy watchtower be,” he said.

Bully gave a smile of victory. “You worked it out yet?”

Gilchrist wanted Bully to think he had the upper hand. He wanted him to hold on to that belief for as long as possible, so that when he eventually told him the pain would be all the greater. For a moment he wondered if he had become as cruel as Bully, if recent events had snapped his mind and changed him. But what Bully had done to Chloe, to Maureen, violated all sense of conscience. And Gilchrist knew he could never be that cruel.

“Confess,” he said to Bully. “Tell me how you commanded your brother to kill two women for you.”

Bully smiled. “After I talk to Rory. Maybe I’ll think about it. How does that sound?”

“I’ll give you one last chance.”

Bully chuckled. “You just fucking crack me up, Gilchrist. You know that?”

“We found the coffin.”

Bully froze. Something dark shifted behind his feral eyes. Disbelief, perhaps. Or rising vitriol.

“And your secret stash.”

Bully worked his jaw. From the look in his eyes he could have been chewing nails.

“Street rates put it at around thirty million, give or take a million or two.”

Bully strained forward.

“We’ve got Jimmy, too.”

The chain clattered as Bully shifted his feet. “You’re at it, Gilchrist. You’re fucking at it. I know you.”

“Do you?”

Bully let Gilchrist’s question hang in the air. Then he growled, “Jimmy’s told you fuck all. I know Jimmy. He’d tell the fuzz to fuck off.”

“And Maureen, too,” Gilchrist added. “We found her.”

Bully tried a tight grin. “Now I know you’re at it.”

Gilchrist returned to his place on the opposite wall. He stared at the pockmarked face, at demonic eyes that glared at him with madness, and felt a gut-sickening hatred simmer and boil and fill him with an almost irresistible desire to pull Bully across the table and bludgeon him to death with his bare hands. He fought against the moment, felt it pass, then in his softest voice said, “Maureen’s in Stobhill Hospital.”

The chains rattled. Bully clenched his fists.

Gilchrist felt his lips pull into a grin, then onto a heartfelt smile that tugged at his mouth and reached his eyes and made him want to laugh. “Despite what you had that psycho brother of yours do to her,” he said, “to my daughter, to my princess, she
survived.”
Barely
, he thought.
But alive, thank God. Alive
. “She’s expected to make a full recovery.”

“Lies,” hissed Bully. “It’s all lies.”

Gilchrist slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket and removed a folder of photographs. “Jimmy’s no longer afraid of you.”

“I’ll kill that bastard if he says a word.”

“And do you know why Jimmy’s not afraid of you?”

Bully’s knuckles whitened. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth. “Jimmy knows he’ll be dead fucking meat.”

For a moment, Gilchrist wondered if Bully knew Jimmy had terminal cancer, or even if he cared. “Because Rory Ingles, your brief, your high-paid big-shot solicitor, on first-name terms, has now been hired by your brother, Jimmy.”

“
Lies
.” Clenched fists crashed onto the table. “Fucking lies.” Bully reached for Gilchrist, but his fettered legs held him back.

Gilchrist threw the folder of photographs onto the table. It split open. Coloured images spilled out, sliding across the metal surface like a discarded pack of cards.

Bully glared at them.

“Taken early this morning,” Gilchrist said. “At police headquarters in Pitt Street. Take a good look.” He watched Bully finger through them. “That one is Rory talking to Jimmy, convincing him his best chance for a deal is to turn Queen’s evidence.”

“Lies,” Bully hissed at the images. “Fucking lies.”

“And here was me thinking the camera never lies.”

Bully looked up. Anger danced like madness in eyes that burned. “Fuck you, Gilchrist.” He slammed his fists to the table, swept the photographs to the floor. “Fuck you. It’s lies. All of it. It’s
lies. Fucking lies
.”

Gilchrist felt his lips pull into the tiniest of smiles. He nodded to the guard, who opened the door.

A short man with a balding head and thickening waist walked in, his pinstriped suit pristine next to Gilchrist’s dishevelled figure. “William Thomson Reid,” he said in a voice that sounded bored, “I am charging you with complicity in the murder of Chloe Fullerton, and conspiracy to abduct and murder Maureen Gillian Gilchrist. Charges will also be brought against you for drug-related offences.…”

As Bully was read his rights Gilchrist stared at him and hoped Bully could read from his eyes the hatred that pulsed beneath his skin in time with the beat of his heart. And as he watched the reality of Bully’s dilemma settle into his twisted mind, Gilchrist came to realise that he was no longer afraid of the man, as if some road that had stretched out in front of him, once dark and ominous, now lay cleared to the horizon where he could see the safety of his own future.

It took three guards to haul Bully back to his cell, all the while struggling against his shackles and screaming like a demented lunatic. Gilchrist closed his eyes, let the diatribe vanish over his head.

I’ll have you, Gilchrist, d’you hear? I’ll fucking have you. I’m not through with you. The fucking lot of you are in for it now. You’d better believe it. You listening to me?

You’re dead, Gilchrist
.

You’re fucking dead
.

When all that was left was the echo of Bully’s voice and the smell of stale urine, Gilchrist opened his eyes, pulled the recorder from his pocket, and switched it off. He had not been altogether honest about Jimmy turning Queen’s evidence, but Bully’s murderous threats would go a long way to convincing Jimmy to cooperate.

Gilchrist felt tired, and his body ached. He clawed his fingers through his hair, surprised by how grimy it felt. The thought of a long hot shower almost had him changing his mind, but he needed to make another visit.

• • •

H
E FOUND HER
still in Intensive Care, hooked up to a plethora of plastic tubes and full bottles and bags on wheeled stands. Surprisingly, he thought, she was awake. Well, her eyes were open, and swam in and out of focus as he approached.

He sat beside her, took hold of her hand. She tried to smile, but the effort seemed too much. Feeble fingers entwined with his, and he felt his eyes well as her cracked lips formed, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

He leaned forward, pressed his lips to her damp cheek, not sure if the tears he tasted were from her eyes or his own.

“So am I,” he whispered, then buried his face into the pillow beside her and let his tears flow.

Chapter 42

Two weeks later

J
ACK SURPRISED
G
ILCHRIST
.

Throughout Chloe’s funeral, he stood upright and tight-lipped, blue eyes as clear as the sky through the crematory’s stained-glass windows. Gilchrist, on the other hand, had to swallow the lump in his throat when commitment prayers were said and the velvet curtains closed on Chloe’s coffin.

The mournful sound of some unfamiliar hymn swelled from the organ as Chloe’s parents strode down the aisle, not holding hands, her mother’s face tired and defeated, her father’s tight and bitter. They did not wait at the entrance to accept condolences, but slipped into a glistening black limo that laid twin contrails of white exhaust in the still April air.

In the car park, Jack surprised Gilchrist again.

“I’m giving up sculpting,” he said.

The unimaginable thought of Jack not working at what he lived for hit Gilchrist like a blow to the gut. “Is that what you want to do?” he asked.

Jack sniffed. “I’ve finally realised I’m no good at it, that my ideas are not original, that I’ve nothing to say that has not been said before.”

“But your work.…”

“I’m going to concentrate on oils instead.”

“So you’re not getting a job,” Gilchrist said, then chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

Jack seemed unfazed by Gilchrist’s gaffe. He stared off to the dark grey walls of the crematorium. “Chloe always liked my stuff,” he said. “She thought I was a better artist than sculptor.” His breath clouded in the cold air. “I wish I’d listened to her. Now I feel it’s the least I can do for her. For her memory.”

Gilchrist could only nod.

“She bequeathed me all of her canvases,” he continued. “Her parents’ solicitors have already challenged my right to have them.”

Gilchrist did not like the sound of that. “Do you know why?”

“Money.” Jack’s gaze locked on his father’s. “Can you believe that? They want to sell her paintings.” He scowled. “They never supported her, you know. They never called to ask how she was getting on, or asked about her work. In the end, Chloe just closed the door on them. It upset her.”

“I’m sorry.” It was all Gilchrist could think to say.

Jack shrugged. “I’ve had a word with a friend who’s eager to exhibit Chloe’s work. None of her paintings will be up for sale, of course, but she’s encouraged me to exhibit some work of my own. Oils and stuff. So I’ll see how it goes.”

Gilchrist gripped Jack’s shoulder. “That’s great news, Jack. I’ll be rooting for you.”

They stepped to the side as a stream of cars fled the crematorium grounds. When the final car passed, Gilchrist shielded his eyes from a burst of sunlight as he stared at the solitary figure at the far end of the car park, just about the last person he expected to see. The day was overflowing with surprises, he thought.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Back in a tick.”

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and strode across the car park. As he approached, he thought the beard suited Watt. It hid most of his face.

Watt offered his hand.

Gilchrist ignored it. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

“Thought I’d pay my respects.”

“You knew Chloe?”

“Our paths crossed way back. When she dated Kevin.”

“Kevin Topley?”

Watt nodded. “She knew nothing of Kevin’s background. Didn’t know he was dealing drugs. Just let herself be lured by his masculine charm. Kevin could be like that.”

“Like his brother, Chris, you mean.”

Watt shook his head. “Different animal altogether,” he said, then seemed to sense Gilchrist’s unasked question. “Maureen and Topley were never an item. It was just a story put around to give Maureen cover and a bit of credibility about the office. It gave her access to places that might otherwise have been closed.”

“And Topley went along with that?”

“Topley was on a tightrope, walking the fine line between keeping Bully and his mob happy, and feeding us crumbs. He’s a pro, so he knew how to handle everyone.”

“And if he stepped off the tightrope on the wrong side?”

“He would lose it all. The business. The money. The underworld respect he craved. Topley lives in a bit of a fantasy world. Sees himself as Glasgow’s next Mr. Big. So he does as he’s told, and keeps his ear to the ground.”

Gilchrist shuffled his shoulders. “Did you never worry that Topley might take a dislike to being ordered about and try to snuff you from the picture? He has the pull.”

Watt smirked. “Then he would be taken out. I told him that.”

“And he believed you?”

“He believed me.”

Something in the way Watt uttered these words had Gilchrist working through the rationale. Watt would have Topley killed if he didn’t toe the line? Things might be different in Glasgow, but Gilchrist felt certain that Strathclyde Police would not entertain their officers threatening the life of any citizen, good or bad.