Life For a Life (17 page)

Dillanos said, ‘It’s a bitch.’

Gilchrist almost smiled at the scam. The shipments were probably never loaded at Doha, but sold on the black market before they reached the docks. You could cover anything you wanted with paperwork – an official stamp here, another there, proof that the cargo had been safely loaded. Who could argue with that? An insurance company would try, for sure. But in the face of compelling evidence, signed documentation, missing cargo, what could they do but pay out?

‘You ever been to Dubai?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Loads of times.’

‘Doha?’

‘Once or twice.’

Gilchrist smiled. ‘Kumar’s an Arabic name, isn’t it?’ He was guessing, just putting the question out there. But for the first time that day, he thought he detected a shimmer of uncertainty.

One hour later, Gilchrist knew he was getting nowhere.

Dillanos continued to claim that she was only on a finder’s fee for the cottage in Kingsbarns, and kept no records of the man she dealt with. She continued to swear – literally – that she did not know, had never met, nor ever spoken to, anyone by the name of Kumar. Gilchrist threatened to check CCTV footage. But that drew a blank look of innocence.

Jana played just as dumb, maintaining she was only a trainee.

PC Morton confirmed that the Porsche SUV was registered in the name of Dillanos Ltd – Gilchrist had hoped it might give them a lead to Kumar. But with nothing to hold them, he had no option but to let Dillanos and Jana go.

He left Jessie to charge Dillanos with reckless driving, then placed a call to Dick – a retired policeman who now made a living building websites and troubleshooting IT problems, and who was content to flit across the legal boundaries from time to time, for a fee, of course, a fact that Gilchrist kept hidden from his colleagues.

‘Got a number I need you to monitor,’ he said.

‘Shoot.’

Gilchrist recited Dillanos’s mobile number. ‘I want numbers and names of every outgoing call from the moment I hang up.’

‘How long do you want me to stay on it?’

‘Couple of days should do it. But I’ll get back to you.’

Gilchrist then called Shuggie, and arranged for the Mercedes to be hauled away.

‘That was quick,’ Shuggie said.

‘Gives me time for a liquid lunch.’

Jessie caught up with him in the Central Bar.

She eyed the empty plate on his table, the almost finished pint of Deuchars IPA in his hand. ‘How come you don’t put on weight?’ she complained.

‘Who said I don’t?’

She nodded to his pint. ‘I put on two pounds every time I look at one of these,’ she grumbled, and shuffled in beside him.

‘How did Miss Versace take it?’

‘Bitch couldn’t have given a toss. For two pins I could have stabbed her through the heart. You know, when she left the office she was laughing.’

‘You get a lot of that.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘What’re you having?’

‘Oh, go on then. One of them two-pounders.’

At the bar, he asked for a couple of Deuchars IPA, and was about to pay for them when his mobile rang – a number he did not recognise. And with the background noise, he struggled to tell if the caller was a man or a woman.

‘I’ll need to step outside,’ Gilchrist said into his mobile. ‘I can’t hear you.’ He left by the side door on to College Street, then said, ‘Run that past me one more time.’

‘Are you interested in information?’ A woman’s voice.

‘Who’s this?’ Electronic silence filled the line long enough for Gilchrist to think he had been disconnected. ‘Who gave you my number?’ he tried.

‘A mutual friend.’

‘Does our mutual friend have a name?’

A pause, then, ‘Everyone has a name.’

Gilchrist watched his breath cloud the air. The temperature was close to zero, forecast to drop lower for the next day or two—

‘It’s about Stewart Donnelly.’

Gilchrist felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stir. He pressed his mobile to his ear. ‘Do you know Donnelly?’ he asked her.

‘Stewart’s dead.’

Stewart, not Donnelly, the name spoken without the slightest sign of emotion. Gilchrist had been thinking girlfriend, but the ice in the voice suggested maybe not. ‘How do you know him?’ he asked.

‘You’ve not answered my question.’ A hint of urgency in her voice, as if someone was cajoling her from the side. ‘Are you interested?’

‘I’m interested in anything that can help me solve Donnelly’s murder,’ he said. ‘Can we meet?’

‘Do you have a pen?’

‘I’ve a good memory.’

‘Call this number.’ She rattled off a phone number which he recognised as a mobile number – the same service provider as his own – but when he asked again for a name, the line disconnected.

He dialled the number from memory, but it rang out, did not dump him into voicemail, or cut off. He tried again, but it still rang out, and he cursed himself for trusting his memory. Had he misheard, or confused the numbers? So he found the woman’s number in his mobile, and called her back.

But her number was no longer available. Disconnected?

He made a mental note to try again later, and returned to the bar.

Back inside, he paid for his pints and carried them to their table. ‘Got you a lightweight one,’ he said to Jessie, and placed a frothy pint in front of her.

She gave him a tired smile and mouthed a silent thanks.

‘Don’t let them get to you,’ Gilchrist said, and tilted his pint. ‘Cheers.’ He waited until she returned her glass to the table, then said, ‘You look as if you didn’t enjoy that.’

‘It’s probably pulling in millions of fat nodules on its way to my stomach.’

‘I shouldn’t worry,’ he tried.

‘It’s all right for you,’ she complained. ‘If you were a woman you’d be one of these bone-thin models.’

Gilchrist almost grimaced. She could have been talking about his daughter, Maureen, who could do with putting on another ten pounds, even twenty. He shoved these thoughts to the back of his mind and said, ‘So, what are you doing tonight?’

‘Are you asking me out?’

‘Some of the office come here on a Saturday night. Nothing fancy. Just a few pints, a bit of craic, then off home. I usually give it a miss, but as it’s your first weekend here, I’m happy to come along and introduce you to some of the others.’

‘Thanks but no thanks,’ she said. ‘I promised Robert I’d be home early.’

‘Checking out some new jokes?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Hear anything more from your mother?’

A quick glare to remind him it was off limits, followed with, ‘So what are we going to do with this Dillanos bitch?’

‘Wait,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘I’ll tell you tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘Correct.’

‘And Sunday’s usually my day off.’

‘Mine, too,’ he said. ‘But I usually end up working it.’

‘How many kids you got?’

‘Two,’ he said. ‘Jack and Maureen.’

‘Grown up?’

He nodded. ‘And back living in St Andrews.’

‘Well, I’ve got a teenage son who needs to see his mum from time to time. And I’ll be buggered if I’m going to let the job take that away from me.’

The look on her face told Gilchrist that she was regretting her outburst, that she might have made her point too strongly.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m happy to put in a full shift, do whatever overtime is necessary like everyone else. But when it comes down to it, St Andrews Crime Management Division will still be here when I’m not and Robert’s all grown up with no mum to make his dinners for him.’

‘Noted,’ he said, and sipped his beer.

‘Have I pissed you off ?’

Gilchrist replaced his beer on the table. ‘I need to know I can count on you.’

‘Didn’t I just say that?’

‘That’s not what I heard.’

‘Well, that’s what I meant,’ she said. ‘So let me know what you need me to do about this Dillanos bimbo.’ She took a long swallow from her pint, then added, ‘I wouldn’t miss nailing her for the world.’

Gilchrist tilted his glass to her, took a swallow of his own.

He felt sadness sweep through him, and niggling disappointment at what he had said. Jessie was a single mother, a woman who was not only struggling to raise a disabled child by herself, but was doing so against the background of a vicious family. Years ago, if he had paid more attention to the needs of his own family, instead of trying to solve the case of the day, would Gail not have had her affair? Would she have remained in St Andrews instead of scurrying off to Glasgow with their children, to set up home with her new-found lover?

He thought not.

So who was he to dictate hours of work? Jessie had her priorities right. She would put in a full shift, do what was needed. Wasn’t that what Dainty had said –
reliable, rock solid, won’t let you down
? Which was what he was asking for. So what was his complaint? Jessie’s son needed time with his mum. And Sunday was a day off. Which meant he had a lot to take care of before close of business that afternoon.

He almost finished his pint and shoved the glass away from him. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Whoah there. Slow down, big boy. I’ve only just started.’

‘Let me make a call,’ he said, and pushed through the swing doors into Market Street.

The sky hung low, and a wind that could have blown in from northern Siberia chilled his lungs and watered his eyes. He caught a flutter of snow, flakes small enough to make him think he was only imagining it. When Rebecca answered, he went straight in without introduction.

‘Any luck with the DNA comparison?’ he said.

‘And here was me thinking you must have me on candid camera.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘I’m about to step into the shower,’ she explained. ‘I’m in the nude.’

‘Ah. Right. Would you like me to call back?’

She chuckled, the sound husky, inviting. ‘My shower can wait.’

She was toying with him. He knew that. But try as he might, he could not move his memory away from the image of her straddling him. Perhaps it was because Mr Cooper was away for the weekend. Or maybe his subconscious was already calculating possibilities later that night. He crossed the cobbles of Market Street. Against the granite stones, snowflakes seemed to grow in size, dots of white that thickened the air, beginning to lie—

‘Are you still there?’

‘Sorry. Yes. I’m still here. The DNA comparison,’ he said. ‘Any luck?’

‘It’s too early, Andy. I should have something for Monday.’

Or perhaps it was because he had known it was too early for the DNA results, and he had called just to hear the huskiness of her voice and let his mind stir with the possibility of having just one more night . . .

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Good.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

‘See you later, then.’ She gave what sounded like a kiss, then said, ‘
Ciao
.’

He almost said
ciao
in response. But she had already hung up.

He closed his mobile, and walked back to the Central. He stepped on to the pavement as Jessie emerged. She looked at him from the doorway, and gave a knowing grin.

‘I’d say she’s under your skin.’

‘Come on,’ he grumbled. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

But the remainder of the day brought nothing new.

No leads to Kumar, no updates from Strathclyde, no information on anything that might move the case forward or help ID any of the murdered women.

Which troubled Gilchrist.

Why would no one report them missing? Had they no family? But a short memory jag of Jessie’s mother and brother told him that perhaps they had no family who
cared
. An image of shackles screwed to the cottage floor only added to his concern. The girls had been treated as non-humans, animals, nothing more than assets to be pimped by captors who used and abused them.

By 6.00 p.m. he was at a dead end.

Jessie and the others had gone to the Central to start their Saturday night, with Jessie assuring him she was only staying for the one. Before he joined them, he stuck his head into Jackie’s office, surprised to see her still there.

‘Shouldn’t you be at home,’ he said, ‘getting all dolled up to hit the town?’ He could have been speaking in Chinese from the look she gave him. ‘It
is
Saturday night,’ he added. ‘Like to join me?’ He held up two fingers, and smiled at her. ‘I’m only having one pint.’

Her face broke into a grimace for a grin, and she managed to say, ‘Me too.’

‘Finish up, and I’ll meet you in the hallway,’ he said.

When Jackie joined him, struggling on her crutches, it struck him that he had only ever spoken with her when she was seated at her computer. Although she could scoot around the office as if her crutches were legs, dressed for winter her mobility was hindered by a coat and scarf, and a handbag looped round her neck, which swung in front of her like a dead weight. A thick pair of mittens hid the handles of her crutches.

He held the door open as she hobbled outside.

The temperature felt too cold for snow. A cutting wind pulled tears from his eyes. Under the street lights the pavement glistened damp with ice. A sky as black as soot melded into the roofline. He pulled his collar up, tightened his scarf, breath gasping in white puffs. The temperature felt as if it was dropping by the second.

He walked at Jackie’s pace as she wobbled by his side in silence, her eyes to the ground, her look determined, crutches prodding the way like a blind man’s white stick. He thought of holding her arm to give support, but could see that doing so would only hinder her movement. An image of her slipping on the ice hit him with such clarity that he said, ‘Here. Let me take these,’ and managed to remove one of the crutches from her grip.

‘Hold on to my arm,’ he said, as he finagled the other crutch from her.

Even through her mittens, her grip felt like talons that dug into his sleeve. They set off, slowly at first, both crutches in his left hand, Jackie gripping his right hand for all she was worth, lumbering into Muttoes Lane in silent concentration.

Her clumsy gait caused her to bump into him with every second step, but they soon found their stride – one step, bump, one step, bump, a bit like their own dance – and by the time they entered the Central Bar, he thought they had managed to work it out quite nicely between the pair of them.