Life For a Life (2 page)

‘Yeah.’

Nance flipped through her notes, found what she was looking for. ‘Because, and I quote, solicitors are nothing but expensive useless wankers that know fuck all.’

‘That’s what I said.’

Gilchrist leaned forward. ‘You do realise that an assault with a deadly weapon on an officer of the law is a serious offence.’

‘Yeah.’

Gilchrist nodded to Nance, a sign for her just to get on with the interview, get it over and done with.

‘You came over from Dundee for the day, just to have a couple of pints with a mate of yours,’ Nance said. ‘But he’s such a good friend that you don’t know his name.’

‘Don’t
remember
his name. There’s a difference. I’m hopeless with names. If I don’t write them down, they’re gone. Poof. Just like that.’ Donnelly snapped his fingers, and gave a shrug of puzzlement.

‘That’s not what your mate’s saying.’

‘He wouldn’t, would he?’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘’Cause I’m a nutter, see? A right fucking nutter.’ He grinned at Gilchrist. ‘No one wants to associate themselves with a nutter, do they now? And that’s a good word, that is. Associate.’

‘Good at English, are you?’

‘Yeah. Here’s another good word. Unpredictable. How’s that for English?’

‘Full marks.’

‘Yeah. Ten out of ten, and all that. But unpredictable’s my middle name.’

Nance could not resist the opportunity. ‘I predict you’re going back inside,’ she said.

‘Good. Yeah. I like that. Three square meals a day. No matter what the fuck I do.’ He grimaced at Gilchrist. ‘Beats coming to work every fucking day. I mean, look at the pair of you. What you earn? Not a lot by the fucking looks of it.’

‘Handy with a knife?’ Gilchrist again.

‘Too true, mate, I’m real fucking handy.’

‘You said DI Davidson provoked you.’ Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I don’t think it would take any provoking to get your attention.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, like your mate just happened to tell you that DI Davidson worked for Fife Constabulary.’

‘Maybe.’

‘How did you get to St Andrews?’

‘Like I said, my mate drove me in his car.’

‘And dropped you at the Golf Hotel? Where did you go to first?’

‘First?’

‘Over from Dundee? Straight to the Golf Hotel? Why?’

‘I was thirsty. I wanted a beer.’

‘We’ve already got someone checking out CCTV footage. We’ll find out what time you crossed the Tay Bridge, when you got to St Andrews.’

‘And we’ll pick up your mate, too,’ Nance said.

‘Yeah, sure you will.’

Gilchrist could tell from Donnelly’s smirk that the man knew more than he was letting on. But Gilchrist also knew they could interrogate Donnelly through to midnight, and all they would be doing was massaging his ego. All of a sudden, he felt as if he was through with it all, through with interrogating thugs who cared less about their own life than the lives of others, through with the pointlessness of it all. He pulled the file towards him, and said, ‘How old are you? What, twenty-seven? And you’ve been incarcerated . . .’ He glanced up. ‘How’s that for a big word?’ then ran a finger down the page, working out the arithmetic. ‘Fifteen of your twenty-seven years.’ He looked at Donnelly, not sure what to expect, but the smile came as no surprise.

‘Like I said, I like it inside.’ Then something died behind Donnelly’s eyes, and he said, ‘Maybe your associate, Mr DI Davidson, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

Gilchrist thought he kept his surprise hidden. He knew now that he was being toyed with, that Donnelly was not the dumb thug he painted himself to be. ‘So you stabbed him on the spur of the moment,’ he tried, ‘so you could spend some more time in jail?’

Donnelly sniffed, livened up. ‘Yeah, clever you.’

Gilchrist pushed himself back from the table, and stood. What was the point of it all, when you had thugs like Donnelly who did not fear the wrath of the law but welcomed it, a way to secure a roof over their head, three free meals a day, and a bed at night?

‘Fancy a bit of sun?’ he said to Nance.

She hesitated, but only for an instant. ‘South of France for the weekend?’

‘I’m thinking somewhere warmer. Like the Caribbean. Swim, sail, soak up some sun, share a few cocktails.’ He glanced at Donnelly. ‘Pity you won’t be able to do that for some time,’ he said, ‘lie on the warm sands of some golden sun-drenched beach.’

‘Don’t like the sun, can’t stand darkies, and I hate the fucking beach.’

‘The sand gets in your butt crack?’ quipped Nance.

Gilchrist shoved his hands into his pocket. ‘The Caribbean might be full of shaded people,’ he said to Donnelly, ‘but it beats masturbating to four walls, or having your cock sucked by your cellmate.’ He smiled at Nance. ‘Want to discuss holidays over a pint?’

‘Sure.’

When Gilchrist left the interview room, he excused himself from Nance, and visited the Gents. He was relieved to see the place deserted, which gave him time to pull himself together. Donnelly’s smug voice came back at him –
the wrong place at the wrong time
– repeating itself like an echo that whispered and resounded and refused to fade.

Gilchrist had not told Stan of his fears. But he felt sure Stan would work it out for himself, once he healed. He eyed the mirror, ran the tap, splashed cold water over his face, trying to cool a guilty heat that flushed his face.

The wrong place at the wrong time.

Christ, it didn’t bear thinking about.

Gilchrist thought she looked small on stage, not diminutive – her baggy top suggested otherwise – more like she was out of her depth, in unsafe waters, a swimmer struggling against a rip current that changed direction without warning.

The rough Glasgow accent cut through the ambient din once more.

‘Is that the best you can dae?’ someone roared. ‘C’mon, it’s time to get aff.’

‘Isn’t it past your bedtime, sonny?’ she railed back at him.

‘Goin’ to bed? Are you interested?’

Pint glasses chinked in drunken victory.

‘Only if your old man’s at home,’ she retaliated. ‘But if he looks anything like you, I wouldnae let any of my sheep near him.’

A surge of laughter, a ripple of hard applause, drowned out the man’s response. For a moment, it looked as if he would rise to his feet and stagger to the stage, but a hand on his shoulder from a man as wide as he was tall and a whisper in his ear suggested otherwise.

‘And talking about sheep,’ she went on to mild laughter, ‘how many of you here like your whisky?’

Several hands lifted in unsteady embarrassment.

She spread one arm wide in mock surprise. ‘Is that the best youse can dae?’ she mimicked. More arms lifted.

Gilchrist noted that the loudmouth now sat silent, a scowl on his face, his mates subdued beside him, half-empty pints perched on the table, behind which the oversized man in his oversized suit stood guard.

‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘I know youse like your whisky. You’re Scottish. Right?’

She waited a beat for a non-response. Beads of sweat glistened on her top lip. She was struggling to win the crowd, maybe losing more than she was winning over.

‘And we all know what whisky’s made from,’ she went on. ‘And it’s mostly water.’ She strode across the stage, then back again, as if she had now discovered the power in her legs. ‘And where does the water come from?’ she shouted. ‘The hills,’ she answered, then stopped and faced the audience. ‘And what’s in these hills?’ A pause, then, ‘Yes, you’re allowed to say it,’ she egged on an elderly couple at a front table. ‘That’s it, dear. Sheep,’ she concluded for them. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘The hills are alive with the sound of . . . ?’

A woman near an Exit sign chuckled, more in sympathy, Gilchrist thought.

‘Sheep shagging.’ A voice from the back.

‘Close,’ she said. ‘Try sheep shitting, and sheep pissing.’ She faced the audience, and nodded to a table by the corner of the stage. ‘So next time you take a sip of the amber nectar,’ she said to them, ‘give a thought to all those sheep.’

The audience laughed. Someone shouted, ‘Go, Jessie,’ and Gilchrist noticed the fat man was clapping the loudest. Jessie looked out across the pond of faces, as if imagining she was in the London Palladium, or maybe wishing she was somewhere else, somewhere far from that night’s thankless audience. Then she smiled as her gaze settled on a young man – more boy than man – standing alone at the rear of the hall.

A quick wink, then back to the audience. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘You’ve been a fantastic crowd.’ A wave of her hands. ‘Thank you, thank you. And good night.’

Gilchrist clapped as well, a grin tugging his lips, as she strode off the stage as if she had just been called back for her third encore.

She almost bumped into a man in denim jacket and jeans, who spread an outstretched arm behind him as they passed on the stage. ‘Give a big hand, ladies and gentlemen, to Jessie Janes,’ he shouted. ‘Gun-toting, joke-toting Jessie Janes.’

Gilchrist watched Jessie step from the stage and work her way along the edge of the room, applauded by some as she passed their tables, ignored by others. As she neared, he stepped from the shadows.

‘DS Janes?’ he said.

‘And you are?’ But before Gilchrist could respond, Jessie shifted her stance, almost turning away from him, and half-whispered, ‘Shit. Here comes Jabba the Hutt.’

‘Problems, Jess?’ said the oversized man.

‘Just having a chat.’

The man nodded, gave Gilchrist a hard stare. ‘You look familiar,’ he said. ‘We met before?’

Gilchrist shook his head. ‘If we had, I’m sure I would have remembered.’

Jessie coughed, put her hand to her mouth.

The fat man squared up to Gilchrist, eyes twin raisins in a suet pudding. He wore his clothes well for a big man. His grey suit looked brand new, his white shirt starched and large enough to limit neck folds at the collar. An aromatic fragrance spilled off him.

‘Fancy yourself as laugh-a-minute?’ the fat man asked. ‘Want five seconds of fame behind the stage?’

‘Steady on, Lachie, he’s only—’

‘I know what he’s only doing.’

Gilchrist recognised him then – DI Lachlan McKellar of Strathclyde Constabulary, plus ten stones of flab – more tubby than fat when they first met fifteen years earlier. He must have spent the bulk of these years stuffing his face with lard.

‘Andy Gilchrist,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘DCI. Fife.’

McKellar ignored Gilchrist’s hand. On the stage behind him, the next act, a skeletal man with stick legs and hands of bone, was fiddling with the mic to a wave of light applause. Movement to the side distracted Gilchrist, and a young man with dirty-blond hair – the boy at whom Jessie had winked – nudged into Jessie’s side for a quick hug, then shrugged her off and mouthed in silence as his fingers flicked and his hands moved with the speed of an expert sign linguist.

Jessie responded with signs of her own, then faced Gilchrist and held out her hand. ‘Didn’t expect a welcoming committee to come and fetch me,’ she said.

Her hand felt warm and dry, despite the flat act on stage. ‘Thought I’d come down and take a look,’ Gilchrist said.

‘To see what making a fool of yourself looks like, you mean?’

Something in the tone of her voice warned Gilchrist not to challenge her. ‘I’m also a part-time scout for the Byre Theatre,’ he joked, and pushed past the moment with a smile.

But Jessie’s face deadpanned, and she turned to the boy. ‘What d’you think of my new boss?’ she asked him. More signing that coughed up a raspy chuckle from her. ‘Robert says he likes you,’ she said to Gilchrist.

‘Nice to meet you, Robert.’ Gilchrist held out his hand.

Robert touched it, then stuffed his hands into his pockets.

McKellar slid an arm round Jessie’s shoulder, his grip tight enough to prevent her wriggling free. ‘Nice talking to you again, DCI Gilchrist. But we have a reservation at the Park.’

Gilchrist nodded, was about to walk away, when Jessie shrugged McKellar’s arm from her shoulder and grumbled, ‘Give me a minute.’

Robert seemed to understand before McKellar, who paused for a moment, then brushed past Gilchrist with a move so sudden that he bumped him against the wall.

When McKellar and Robert were out of earshot, Jessie said, ‘Sorry about that. Lachie can be a nasty shite when he puts his mind to it. Gives me the creeps when he acts like that.’

‘Seems possessive,’ Gilchrist said.

‘He’s looking to trade in his wife for a younger model.’

‘You?’

‘I heard you were good.’

‘And you don’t have it in you to tell him you’re not interested?’

‘Oh I’ve got it in me, all right,’ she said. ‘Don’t you worry about that. But Jabba doesn’t understand English. Maybe I should tell him to fuck off in Huttian, or whatever the hell they talk in.’

‘Which is the reason you’ve transferred to St Andrews?’

‘One of them.’

‘And the others?’

‘Don’t ask.’

Gilchrist nodded as her eyes darted left and right, as if expecting some ghost from her past to manifest from the shadows. But he guessed it was more basic than that.

‘It’s no-smoking,’ he tried.

‘Don’t rub it in. I’m trying to give up.’

‘Join the club.’

‘A right fine pair we’ll make,’ she said, then gripped his arm. ‘Look. I’m not always this dizzy. Just not feeling right at the moment. With the move and . . .’ A glance at McKellar. ‘It’s important for me, for Robert, that this new job works out. I won’t fuck it up. I mean, I won’t let you down,’ then added, ‘sir.’

‘Trust is important,’ Gilchrist said.

‘You can trust me, sir.’

‘And honesty.’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

Gilchrist let several beats pass. ‘What did Robert really say?’

‘Thought you looked a bit of a plonker,’ she said.

‘Plonker?’

‘Well, wanker.’

‘That’s better. No more lies?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good,’ he said, and smiled. ‘We’ll make a right fine pair indeed, then.’