Hand for a Hand (37 page)

And then he thought he saw it.

“Kevin’s death was no accident,” he said.

Watt shrugged. “Some said he was getting too big for his boots. That Chris wanted to move in, take over. Who knows?”

“Chris had Kevin killed?”

Watt faked a smile.

And at that instant Gilchrist saw Watt for what he really was. “Not Chris,” he said. “But you. To let Topley know the same thing could happen to him, if he ever misbehaved.”

Watt narrowed his eyes.

“And Chloe?”

“Jimmy Reid,” Watt said. “But we’ll never know for sure.”

Gilchrist worked through the logic. Bully wanted Jimmy to make Gilchrist believe he would kill Maureen and serve her up to him in pieces, but had him do Chloe first, so to speak, probably because he could never be sure how much Chloe knew of Kevin Topley’s drug business and its connection to his own. It seemed as good an answer as any.

He eyed the crematorium gardens, settling on the skeletal branches of some vine or clematis, and felt sadness surge through him. Chloe would never see another flower bloom, another tree blossom, never enjoy the simplest pleasures of life. Her death seemed such a waste, such a needless act of cruelty. Someone other than the Reid brothers should pay.

“Chris Topley’s not being charged,” he snarled. “Why?”

“Bigger fish to catch.”

“Don’t tell me you’re letting him off the hook.”

“Topley doesn’t know it yet, but he is the hook. And the bait.” Watt chewed his gum. “He’ll get what’s coming to him in the end. I promise you. But we need to keep the status quo for a few more months.”

Now Gilchrist was beginning to understand. Strathclyde’s reaction to Watt’s almost criminal activities had him baffled up until that moment. The answer seemed so simple he wondered why it had taken him so long to figure it out.

Watt was not with Strathclyde. He never had been. Watt was
some undercover agent battling the influx of drugs to the country. “I never believed your assignment to the London Met was for real,” Gilchrist said. “That’s cover, too.”

“You’re always digging, always looking for a reason. You never give up.”

“I heard a rumour that MI5 and 6 had combined to bust some European drug cartel. Is that why you’re moving to London?”

Watt stared off to some point in the distance. “Time to move on,” he said. “There’s nothing here for me.”

Gilchrist needed more. “Define nothing.”

Something in the way Watt returned Gilchrist’s look told him he was about to hear the truth. “You know what I mean,” Watt said.

“Nothing with Maureen?”

Watt breathed in the cold air, let it out in a white cloud. “I never knew her age,” he said. “I met her in the pub. Thought she was eighteen. She said she was. And I believed her.” He stared at Gilchrist for several long seconds. “If I had known, nothing would have happened. I’m sorry.” He removed a hand from his pocket and offered it to Gilchrist.

This time Gilchrist took it.

“I’ll miss her,” Watt said. “Another time, another place.”

“I’ll make sure she never visits London.”

Watt shook his head. “She wants to write about you. She admires you.”

Admire
was not the word Gilchrist would have used.

“Don’t lose her again.”

Gilchrist tightened his lips and watched Watt walk away. He waited until Watt’s car slipped behind a copse of trees before he turned to Jack. Watt’s words echoed in his mind.

Don’t lose her again
.

It seemed such an odd thing for Watt to say. But the truth of the matter was that he
had
lost Maureen, he had lost
both
his children. He eyed the opposite end of the car park.

Jack stood with his backside against the boot of his car.

Gilchrist felt a smile tug his lips. No, he thought. I won’t lose her again. I won’t lose either of them again.

He pulled his collar up and strode towards his son.

Acknowledgments

W
RITING IS INDEED
a lonely affair, but this book could not have been published without the help of the following: Gayle Richardson and Kenny Cameron of Fife Constabulary for police procedure. Forensic pathologist Doctor Marjorie Black for keeping me straight on the gruesome stuff. Everyone at Strathkelvin Writers’ Group for continued support, despite my lengthy absence (I promise to return). Juliet Grames for terrific editorial input, and for taking a chance on publishing me. Bronwen Hruska, Rudy Martinez, Janine Agro, and Meredith Barnes of Soho Press for behind-the-scenes assistance. My literary agent, Al Zuckerman, for his sage advice and professional persistence. Other readers and friends, too many to mention, whose words of encouragement and support inspired me to continue. Many thanks to each and every one of you, especially Anne.

And finally, this book is fiction. Those readers familiar with St. Andrews and the East Neuk may notice that I have taken creative license with respect to local geography.

Any and all mistakes are mine.