Hand for a Hand (6 page)

Brenda McAllister from the Procurator Fiscal’s Office instructed the examination of the second hand to be done under the supervision of two pathologists. Alec Simpson, from Ninewells Hospital in Dundee, was contracted to assist Bert Mackie.

Gilchrist assigned DS Stan Davidson to oversee a fresh search of the Old Course and environs and to interview the greenkeeping staff. Then he sent a trainee out shopping with instructions not to return until she had a map of the Old Course that detailed all features. Next, he called the Town Council and ordered the West Sands closed, including cancelling the beach-cleaning tractor, in case the killer had not taken the pathway route, but come in over the dunes.

Unlikely, he thought, but it kept the scene quiet.

He called Martin Coyle on his mobile not long after 9:00 with the intention of driving into Cupar to meet him. But Coyle was in St. Andrews checking out golf club sales, so they agreed to meet later in the Jigger Inn.

By lunchtime, the investigation was no further forward. Gilchrist’s hangover had returned with a vengeance, and after popping a couple of Paracetemol he decided a hair of the dog was just what the doctor ordered. He arrived at the Jigger ten
minutes early and ordered a pint of Guinness. Coyle walked into the lounge before he had a chance to take a sip.

They shook hands like long lost friends.

“Pint?” Gilchrist asked.

Coyle had one of those faces that always seemed to want to smile. When he spoke, his eyes creased and his lips parted in a gap-toothed grin. “Just a tonic and lemon.”

“On a diet?” Gilchrist asked.

“Afraid not.”

“The wagon?”

Coyle smiled. “Alkey.”

Gilchrist thought he managed to keep his surprise hidden. He and Coyle used to run cross-country marathons together when Gilchrist joined the force and Coyle the Post Office as a telecommunications engineer. They would meet in the Whey Pat Tavern on a Saturday night at 5:00, and stagger home this side of midnight after sampling the wares of most of the bars in town. Coyle in a bar without a beer was like a golfer on the course without his clubs.

Gilchrist sipped his beer. “When did this happen?”

“Nine months ago. I woke up one morning with eyes like I had yellow fever. Doctor told me to give up the drink, or get measured for my coffin.” Coyle smiled. “Well, I’ve got the grandkid to think of now. Not to mention Linda.”

At the mention of Coyle’s wife, Gilchrist knew where the conversation was heading. But he was helpless to stop it.

“Do you still hear from Gail?”

Gilchrist grimaced. “Indirectly.”

“How is she?”

Gilchrist took another sip of Guinness, then, defeated, said, “She’s got cancer.”

“Christ, Andy, I’m really sorry to hear that.” He paused, then ventured, “Is it …?”

“It is.”

Coyle smiled. “That’s dreadful.”

Gilchrist dreaded Coyle asking after Jack and Maureen and the conversation turning towards Chloe, so he said, “Listen, Martin. I need a favour. Got a mobile phone number here. I’d like to see records from the start of the year. Including calls made today.”

Coyle whistled. “That’s a toughie,” he said. “Might need to wait a few days before today’s calls log on.”

Gilchrist nodded. A few days would be fine. As long as the wheels were turning. He handed the number over, and Coyle said, “I take it no one is to know about this.”

Gilchrist put on his poker face. “Know about what?”

It took a full two seconds for Coyle to catch on. He gave out a quick laugh, and said, “I get it. I get it.”

“Get what?”

Coyle slapped his thigh and chuckled some more.

Gilchrist bought lunch, two chicken sandwiches and chips, and managed to keep the conversation off Gail and his children. By 2:00 they were all talked out, having caught up mostly on Coyle’s life, his mid-life crisis with his wife, and the pregnancy of their fifteen-year-old daughter who had given them a surprise grandchild. Coyle left with assurances that he would call in a few days.

Gilchrist tried Maureen again, and this time she answered on the fourth ring with a curt, “Hello?” He choked a laugh, felt a dead weight lift off his heart and soar skyward.

“Have you stopped returning calls?” he grumped.

“Oh, hi, Dad. I got your message.”

“All ten of them?”

“I’ve been meaning to call. Sorry.” She made a noise like a sponge being squidged. “But you know I love you.”

And you’ve no idea how much I love you
.

“I’ll make a point of calling more often,” she added.

“Well, that’s a start,” he said, then found himself asking the same question he always asked. “Any chance of you making it up this way?” and expecting the same answer.

“I think that might be possible.”

What?
He pressed the phone to his ear. “Did I hear you right?” Maureen laughed, a soft rumble that cast up an image of dark eyes and white teeth and asked him how long it had been since they last met. Just after New Year? Had it been that long? “That’s wonderful, Mo,” he said, and meant it. “Any idea when this great event might take place?”

“Well, Chris and I are thinking—”

“What happened to Larry?”

“That plonker?”

“I thought you and he were … you know.”

“Were what?”

“I thought you, eh, loved each other.”

“Correct, Dad. Past tense.”

Gilchrist felt his face flush. He and Maureen never talked about her personal life, and his embarrassment reminded him how far he had drifted from her life. He made a mental note to try to sort things out when she came up.

“So, what’s this Chris like?” he asked.

“You can find out for yourself next month.”

“So soon?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Dad, before you cut me off with the Larry crap.”

“You’re both welcome to stay at my place,” he said. “Thanks, Dad. But Chris has friends up that way.”

“Of course. Right.”

As if sensing his disappointment, she added, “But I’ll run it past him. Okay?”

“Sure,” he said. “I spoke to Jack.”

“Who?”

He struggled not to rise to the bait. If he had spent more time with his family instead of the case of the day, then maybe Gail would not have had an affair, and they would still be together as a family. He thought of telling her why he called Jack, of his fears
for Chloe, his concern for her own safety. But it was early days and he could be wrong. Rather than scare her, he said, “Jack told me about Mum.”

“Mum’s not doing well,” she said.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, Dad. She’s got Harry,” then added, “I’m sorry. I know how you feel about him.”

Gilchrist eyed his pint. When he first met Gail, they would get drunk together, as if it was some rite of passage Scottish couples had to negotiate. Back then, Gail drank wine and the odd beer, but after nineteen years of a bitter marriage no longer drank. And she hated that Gilchrist continued. Dark beer especially riled her. He had never understood her rationale.

“By all accounts,” he said, “Harry is a nice guy.” He took a sip, waited for Maureen to speak, but his phone beeped. “Hang on, Mo. I’ve got another call.”

“That’s okay, Dad. I’ve got to go. I’ll tell Mum we spoke. Talk to you later.”

“Listen, Mo. Will you be careful?” But she had hung up. He switched lines, and said, “Gilchrist.”

“Andy, it’s me.”

“Jack?”

“I’m at Leuchars station. Can you pick me up?”

Confused, Gilchrist felt his hopes rise, then stall. “You have Chloe?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Gilchrist said, although he thought he did.

“I need to look at the hand.”

Chapter 8

J
ACK’S FACE LOOKED
as grey as the sky. His hair stood in untidy clumps that gave the impression he had not showered in days. His combat jacket hung from shoulders as thin as bone and sported greasy stains at the cuffs and neck.

They shook hands with nothing more than a nod, and Gilchrist tried to hide his concern with a quick smile. But he was fooling no one. They had still not spoken by the time he veered left at the Guardbridge roundabout.

“You look as if you’ve lost weight,” he tried.

Jack shrugged.

“Are you managing to sell any work?”

“Some.”

“Keeping gainfully employed, are you?”

“You could say.”

Gilchrist accelerated up the slight incline, felt the car respond with a beefy spurt of power. “Talk to me,” he said.

Jack shrugged again. “What do you want to hear?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Chloe’s gone. What can I say?”

“Define
gone
.”

Jack glanced at him with a grimace filled with contempt. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Gone home? Gone away? Gone to Spain? What?”

“She’s gone. All right?”

“As in, gone away from you?”

Jack tutted. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, Andy. All right?”

Gilchrist swung out to pass a couple of cars, and eased back in when the road ahead was clear. It did not happen often, but when Jack behaved like this, he could be harder to break through to than Maureen. Gilchrist tried again.

“You said you needed to look at the hand.”

“Yeah.”

“To ID it?”

“Yeah.”

“And put your mind at rest?”

From the corner of his eye, he watched Jack turn away and stare across the fields to the Eden Estuary. A solitary pig stood mud-stained and grumpy in a grassless sty. A pair of jets from RAF Leuchars raced into the sky like dark missiles then banked east and bulleted out across the North Sea.

“Why do you think you could ID Chloe from the hand?”

“Which hand is it?”

Gilchrist twisted his grip on the steering wheel. “We have two hands now.”

Jack sank deeper into his seat and stared out the window. It took Gilchrist a few seconds to realise he was crying. He reached across, was about to place his hand on his knee, when he pulled back. “Are you up for this?”

Jack sniffed, and said, “I’ll be all right.”

Gilchrist detected an undercurrent of anger, reminding him of how Jack used to behave as a child when scolded. He and Gail would wait it out, say nothing until Jack’s mood evaporated. Silent, Gilchrist eyed the road ahead.

Jack ran the palm of his hand across his eyes. “I loved Chloe,” he said.

Gilchrist caught the past tense, felt his chest tighten.

“She had this phenomenal talent as an artist. Like she had all this creative power just bubbling inside her, waiting to erupt onto the canvas.” Jack shook his head. “She made my sculptures look incomplete. She had this ability to humble me as an artist,
make me realise there was so much more I still have to learn, you know, without knowing she was doing it.” Jack stared off across the golf courses to the dunes beyond, and Gilchrist wondered if he was searching for their winter picnic spot, or remembering it was only January since they had all been together.

“That’s why we argued,” Jack went on. “Sometimes she would just go on at me, urge me to do better, like she knew I had it in me, but I couldn’t get it out. It used to do my nut in. In the end we had this huge row. I just flipped.” He shook his head, and it took a few seconds of silence for Gilchrist to realise Jack had said all he was going to say.

“I’m not sure if trying to ID the hands is a good idea.”

Jack turned to him. “I need to know.”

Gilchrist felt Jack’s eyes on him, and made a conscious effort to speak in the present tense. “Does Chloe have any marks on her hands or fingers like moles or freckles or anything that would provide conclusive identification?”

“Yes.”

Gilchrist felt his heart leap. He had seen no marks on either hand. In fact, both hands looked unblemished. Had he jumped to the wrong conclusion? Were the hands not Chloe’s? For a fleeting moment, his mind nurtured that idea then thumped back with the question he could not answer—why was his name on the note? The victim had to be someone close to him. He struggled to keep his voice level. “Such as?” he asked.

“A scar at the base of her thumb.”

A scar? Mackie hadn’t mentioned any scars
.

“Which hand?” he asked.

Jack seemed to think for a second. “Right, I think.”

“You think?”

“No. Definitely the right hand.”

“How big a scar?”

“Half-inch.”

“Crooked? Straight? What?”

“Straight. She cut herself with a palette knife.” He almost smiled. “Don’t ask.”

“Any other marks?”

“On her hands?”

“Anywhere.”

Jack pulled up the front of his sweater. “One of these.”

Gilchrist glanced to the side, but saw only white skin and felt a spurt of surprise flush through him at how thin Jack looked. Skinny verging on skeletal. “One of what?” he asked.

Jack twisted in his seat and fingered a tattoo that stained his skin like a tiny ink blot an inch or so above his belly button. “Love-heart.”

“And Chloe had one, too?” Too late, he realised he had spoken as if she was no longer alive.

Jack seemed unaware of his blunder. “Last Christmas,” he said, lowering his sweater. “To seal our love. Kind of stupid, I suppose. It was Chloe’s idea.”

Gilchrist stared at the road ahead. When he first met Gail, drunk and wild in the Whey Pat Tavern, up from Glasgow on her annual holiday, she had sworn at some American guy with a buzz-cut and two bared arms blue with tattoos and taut with muscles. Gilchrist had escorted her from the pub after that, tried to calm her down. But something about the tattoos had her wound up.

My uncle had a tattoo
, she told him.
An anchor with a silly rope wound around it
.

What’s so bad about that?
he had asked.

He hit my aunt
.

It hurt to think that when he first met Gail he was taken by her vivacity, her uncut love of life. Nothing seemed too big to take on. The whole world, if they wanted. He had never been able to work out the exact moment Gail changed, that instant in time when something inside her died. He struggled to force his thoughts back to Jack.