The Meating Room (14 page)

McGovern glanced at Gilchrist, then Jessie, then back to Gilchrist, and nodded.

Gilchrist was about to speak when McCrae reached for the recorder and switched it off. ‘I’m going to listen very carefully to everything you two ask my client. Be warned, I will take this further if I consider—’

‘Where do you get off?’ snarled Jessie, and switched the recorder back on. ‘Right,’ she said to McGovern. ‘For the record, you have instructed your solicitor not to intervene on your behalf. Is that correct?’

McGovern nodded.

‘Please speak for the record,’ Jessie said.

‘That’s correct.’

Gilchrist caught McGovern’s nervous glance at McCrae, and realised that the man was more frightened of his solicitor than he was of the police. As long as McCrae was in the interview room, Gilchrist doubted that McGovern would open up to them. So he said, ‘Would you like your solicitor to leave?’

‘Now wait just a minute.’

‘I’m not speaking to you, Ms McCrae,’ Gilchrist said. ‘But I’ll repeat the question for your client.’ He waited a couple of beats, then said, ‘Would you like your solicitor to leave the room?’

A sullen shrug.

‘Please speak for the record.’

‘Aye,’ McGovern said, shifting on his seat, as if distancing himself a crucial inch or two from McCrae.

‘And, in the absence of legal assistance, would you like to continue with the interview?’

‘I would.’

‘I can’t recommend this, Jerry. You’re making a big mistake.’

McGovern cast another nervous glance in her direction, as if fearful that holding her gaze might petrify him. ‘You can listen to the recording,’ he said, then looked at Gilchrist. ‘She can, can’t she?’

Gilchrist nodded. ‘She can.’

‘But by then you might have dug a hole too deep for me to be able to help you.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘It’s your life.’ McCrae pushed to her feet and walked to the door.

Jessie lifted her business card and said, ‘Ali McCrae of R. K. Leith & Associates is now leaving the interview room.’ She glanced at the wall clock and confirmed the time.

McCrae left with a parting scowl at Jessie.

When the door closed, McGovern’s eyes darted left and right, as if expecting McCrae to pop out of thin air and frighten him. Or maybe he was just a scared kind of guy, not someone capable of killing an entire family. But psychopaths rarely fitted preconceived ideas of how they should behave, so Gilchrist knew he still had to tread with care.

‘Where were you on Thursday night?’ he asked McGovern.

‘At home.’

‘Anybody with you?’

‘No.’

‘Did you steal jewellery from the McCullochs’ house?’

‘Yes. But that’s all I done. I didnae kill anyone.’

Gilchrist folded his arms and sat back. ‘Talk us through it, Jerry.’

Neither he nor Jessie said a word as McGovern explained that he had staked out the McCullochs’ home off and on over a three-week period, noted who came and went, what time Brian McCulloch went to work, when Amy took the children to school, when they came home.

‘All by yourself?’ Jessie asked.

McGovern gave a tic for a glance, and Gilchrist knew the next words out of his mouth would be a lie. ‘Me and Malky.’

Gilchrist watched McGovern’s eyes dance after the lie. Roping in his dead brother was as good a way as any to cover up the involvement of others. ‘Malky’s been dead for a wee while,’ Gilchrist said to him. ‘So I guess you did it all by yourself last week?’

McGovern nodded, a tad unsure. ‘Aye.’

‘So, why Thursday morning?’ Gilchrist pressed.

‘The cleaner works Mondays and Fridays.’

‘Which made Thursday morning the best time to break in?’

McGovern squeezed his hands together. ‘Look. I know youse dinnae believe me. But I swear I just done the house when she was out shopping. It’s what she does—’

‘Shopping?’ Jessie asked.

‘Aye. She shops a lot.’

‘How do you know she went shopping? You were staking out the house. She could have gone anywhere. Did you follow her?’

‘No.’

‘Yet you knew she’d gone to the shops. So someone must have followed her.’

Gilchrist watched confusion shift over McGovern’s face like an illness. The man was truly torn. He could tell the truth and drop one or more of his thieving associates in the shit, or dig himself a deeper hole out of which his spiky haired solicitor might not be able to pull him.

Gilchrist decided to offer a hand. ‘Would the others cover for you, Jerry, if they were in this situation?’

Jessie chipped in: ‘You owe them no favours, Jerry. None at all.’

Still McGovern squirmed, said nothing, then Gilchrist thought he saw it.

‘Who shifts the stuff for you?’ he asked.

McGovern’s eyes jumped.

Gilchrist waited a couple of beats. ‘He’s let you down, hasn’t he?’

McGovern tightened his lips.

‘When your fence heard about the McCulloch murders, he didn’t want to touch the stuff with a barge pole. And now he’s dropped you right in it.’

McGovern closed his eyes, and a high keening sound filled the room as he rocked back and forth. Tears rolled down his cheeks, giving life to another possibility. Gilchrist raised a hand to silence Jessie, and waited until the keening subsided to a steady sobbing.

‘What did you see, Jerry?’

McGovern’s nostrils flared. He shook his head.

‘You must have seen something, Jerry, to get yourself into such a state.’

‘Nothing,’ he gasped, his eyes wide open now. ‘I swear I seen nothing.’

‘You broke in on Thursday morning, when Mrs McCulloch was out shopping?’

‘Aye.’

‘And what about Mr McCulloch?’

‘I never seen him. He’s away early and always comes back late at night.’

‘And we estimate the family were killed on Thursday afternoon, when the girls came back from school.’

‘I wouldnae know.’

‘Who’s your fence?’ Gilchrist asked, hoping the change of tack might trip up McGovern.

‘I cannae tell you. I’ll never get nothing sold again,’ he said – an open admission that he intended to continue stealing for a living.

And Gilchrist wondered that if McGovern had children, would he bring them into the family business, let them take over when he retired?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

He pushed his chair back. ‘When you remember, Jerry, give me a call, okay?’

McGovern stared at Gilchrist, an unspoken question in his eyes.

‘I believe you,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I’m sure you had nothing to do with the McCulloch murders.’ He paused.

McGovern twisted his hands, his rough calluses rasping like sand for soap, but he offered nothing.

Gilchrist stood.

Jessie said, ‘Interview terminated at eighteen-twenty-one.’ She switched off the recorder.

Gilchrist removed a business card from his wallet, leaned forward and slipped it into McGovern’s shirt pocket. ‘If you can help us in any way, Jerry’ – he paused until McGovern looked up at him – ‘I’d be grateful.’

Silent, McGovern lowered his eyes.

Jessie spent much of the return drive to St Andrews texting Robert or staring out the window.

‘You see anything interesting?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Just thinking.’

‘Has Robert written any new jokes lately?’ he tried.

Even that failed to bring a smile to her face. ‘None that would interest you.’

Well, there he had it – leave her alone.

It was almost seven o’clock by the time they passed the Old Course Hotel. ‘I’m going to check the in-tray,’ he said, ‘then have a pint. Interested?’

‘I’m taking Robert to the movies, remember?’ she said, and offered a wry smile. ‘If you’re happy to give me the time off, that is.’

They were involved in one of the biggest murder cases in Fife’s history, and all hands were needed. But his staff were only human, and time away from the investigation could be just as important as cranking up the gears. Relaxation helped clear minds, focus concentration. The occasional pint helped, too.

He turned right at the City Road roundabout and drove straight to Canongate.

He pulled up outside Jessie’s house. ‘Enjoy the movies. I’ll be in touch,’ he said, his reminder not to switch off her mobile.

Jessie opened the door.

‘Before you go?’

She stopped, half in, half out. ‘Yeah?’

‘I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is.’

She held his gaze for two, maybe three, seconds then slipped from the car. Before closing the door, she said, ‘Later, Andy. Okay?’

Gilchrist watched her walk up the driveway, past her Fiat – a car Jabba had helped her buy – and waited until she had the house key in her hand before he drove off.

In Bridge Street, he took out his mobile.

His call was answered on the third ring with, ‘Small speaking.’

‘Dainty. Andy Gilchrist here. Got a minute?’

‘If it’s quick.’

Gilchrist smiled. Some things never changed. And DCI Peter ‘Dainty’ Small of Strathclyde Police was one of them. Straight to the point. No messing.

‘What can you tell me about Chief Superintendent Lachlan McKellar?’ Gilchrist asked.

A hissed, ‘Fuck sake.’ Then, ‘What’s he been up to now?’

‘He’s giving Jessie Janes a hard time.’

‘Be careful with him, Andy. I mean it. He’s not someone you want to mess with. I know all about Jessie’s reasons for transferring from Strathclyde. And I don’t blame her. But walking on eggshells around Chief Super McKellar doesn’t cut it. You burn your bridges with him, there’s no coming back.’

Gilchrist noted the use of Jabba’s formal title. Not like Dainty to show uncalled-for deference. ‘If it was only personal harassment,’ Gilchrist said, ‘I wouldn’t trouble you at all. I’ve been working with Jessie long enough to know she could handle that. But he’s threatening to resurrect some . . . for want of a better term . . . past mistakes, if she doesn’t come across with the goods.’

‘Fuck sake,’ Dainty repeated. ‘Jessie’s a good cop. But with the baggage she’s got with that fucking family of hers, the last thing she needs is to be hounded by some borderline-psycho cop.’

Gilchrist felt his eyebrows lift.
Borderline psycho?

‘So, what’s he threatening?’ Dainty asked, his voice all business once more.

‘Remember the resetting charge that reared up last Christmas?’

‘We took care of that,’ Dainty said.

‘McKellar’s threatening to resurrect it.’

‘How?’

‘I think the question is: why?’

‘I know why. I want to know how he’s going to do it. Has he got anything new on her? I buried the reports, remember? There are no witnesses. McKellar would need to find some, or come up with some new charges, and I don’t see either of them happening.’

‘Could he fabricate something?’

‘He could fabricate what the fuck he likes, but with no witnesses, or no one to come forward and talk against Jessie, he’s on a loser.’

An image of Jessie facing McKellar on Market Street lurched into Gilchrist’s mind, and he wondered if he had overestimated the fat man’s confidence. ‘Let me get back to you,’ he said, and ended the call.

Back in the Office, Gilchrist’s mobile rang – a number he did not recognise.

He made the connection.

‘DI Smith here, sir. Sorry to trouble you again, but I thought you should know that they’re dropping like flies.’

Gilchrist understood immediately. ‘Who is it this time?’

‘Abbott, Warren and Williamson. All by phone again.’

‘Reasons?’

‘More or less the same. Jenna Abbott said she didn’t want to go to court, or even give her testimony anonymously.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘Change of heart.’

‘So she’s not saying the incident never happened?’

‘But it’s the same result.’

‘Go on.’

‘Kristie Warren withdrew her complaint citing personal reasons. When challenged, she denied ever knowing Magner or being in his company.’

Gilchrist exhaled. Someone was getting to them. ‘Has anyone spoken to them face to face?’

‘We’re doing that right now, sir.’

‘You gave me three names.’

‘Meredith Williamson. She called about an hour ago, in tears, to say she couldn’t go through with it. Said she made a mistake.’

‘In her statement?’

‘Said she made it all up. When she was advised that she could be charged with wasting police time, she said we should go ahead and charge her, then hung up.’

‘Christ,’ Gilchrist said. ‘So that’s five now. How about the others?’

‘Chief Super Whyte has already dispatched uniforms to interview them.’

‘Three live in England.’

‘They do, sir, yes. The Chief has contacted the local stations for assistance.’

Gilchrist gritted his teeth. Whyte’s case against Magner was crumbling. How long would it take for the others to fold? He thought back to Vicky Kelvin’s flat – the domestic disarray, the poverty, the hardship, life in general just grinding her down. It would not take much to persuade her to drop her complaint – a thousand pounds would go a long way to clearing up the mess in her life. Gilchrist thanked Smith and ended the call.

Sitting at his desk, he fired up the computer and checked his emails. Only when he read the last of them did he realise he had not heard back from Cooper. He checked his phone for missed calls – none – then dialled her mobile number.

After five rings he was expecting voicemail to kick in when a man’s voice said, ‘You need to stop calling my wife.’

‘You need to stop answering her phone.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of a multiple murder investigation,’ Gilchrist snapped. ‘And if you don’t put me through to Dr Rebecca Cooper
immediately
, I will have you charged with obstructing the course of justice.’

The connection died.

Gilchrist dialled the number again. This time the phone was answered on the first ring.

‘Andy, this is not a good time—’

‘I haven’t received any toxicology results yet,’ he said.

‘I thought we . . . oh,’ Cooper said. ‘Okay. Let me get them over to you.’

‘What can I expect?’ he said. ‘In terms of the results, I mean.’