The Meating Room (16 page)

‘I’ll pretend I never heard that, Andy.’

‘Pretend all you like, Tom.’

‘Get out.’

Gilchrist closed the door gently behind him.

Night had fallen by the time Gilchrist left the Office. Black clouds dulled a leaden sky. A bitter wind chased him along College Street, compelling him to enter The Central by the side door.

The place was heaving. Bodies swarmed around the bar. Students dressed in lookalike hand-me-downs that probably cost as much as Gilchrist’s leather jacket threw scarves and gloves to the side, as if preparing to get torn in. Tables and booths overflowed with spillage and bodies. He searched for a seat, but ended up squeezing into a standing-room-only spot next to the bar with his back to the windows on Market Street.

He nodded to Phil, who was already pulling him a pint of Deuchars. ‘You’re growing your ponytail back in?’ Gilchrist said.

Phil nodded. ‘It’s too cold without it.’

Gilchrist’s pint arrived creamy-headed. He passed over some change and waited while the IPA settled. He was about to lift it to his lips when a hand tapped his shoulder.

‘Thought I’d find you here, man.’

Pint in hand, he turned to face Jack, his son. ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘Do you only come out when you know your old da’s buying a round?’

‘This one’s on me.’

‘Too late. Already got it.’

Jack laughed and said, ‘Perfect timing, then.’

‘So, what’s with the offer of a drink? You won the Lottery?’

‘Sold one of my sculptures today. I’m feeling flush, man.’

‘For the time being.’

‘There you go again. Mr Negativity. You need to lighten up, Andy. Enjoy yourself. Let your hair down—’

‘Have a pint?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well, get me another then,’ Gilchrist said, and took a swig that almost drained it in one. He wiped his lips. ‘You here by yourself?’

‘No.’ Jack nodded to a table in the corner that was stuffed with young women – more girls than women, Gilchrist thought. ‘Want to join us?’

‘If I did, I’d probably have to lift that lot for underage drinking.’

Jack raised both hands in mock-surrender. ‘No way, man. I can vouch for every one of them.’

‘Right,’ Gilchrist said, finishing his pint.

‘Thirsty?’

‘Long day.’

‘You should be cutting back the hours at your age.’

‘Try telling the bad guys that.’

Jack handed Gilchrist a fresh pint of Deuchars. ‘This way.’

Gilchrist followed his son, pleased that he seemed to have put on a bit of weight. Not that Jack was fat by the wildest stretch of the imagination, but he looked less skeletal. His jeans, too, were less worn-in than usual. Maybe he was beginning to make some kind of a living from his painting and sculpting after all.

‘Right, guys,’ Jack announced to the table. ‘I’d like you to meet Andy, the old man. He’s joining us for a beer or two, but don’t let him buy you any drinks, because tonight’s on me.’

The five girls, each with dyed blonde hair and grunge mascara, dressed in black jeans and tops that could have come from the same wardrobe – and probably did – nodded a half-interested hello. Gilchrist had the distinct impression that he was spoiling their fun.

Jack seemed not to notice, and proceeded to introduce each of them by name – too many to take in. Gilchrist responded to each with a nod and a smile. He managed to squeeze in behind the table on a seat next to Jack, who lifted his pint and said, ‘Up yours,’ then tried his best to down it in one.

A barmaid materialised by Gilchrist’s side and handed over a tray of drinks. Jack passed shots and tumblers filled with clear liquid – double Stollie on the rocks caught his attention – into eager hands. ‘Same again,’ said Jack before the barmaid had a chance to leave, and flashed over a fifty.

‘You in a hurry?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘It’ll take her half an hour to get another round,’ Jack assured him, ‘by which time we’ll be gasping.’

Gilchrist watched each of the girls throw back her shot, followed by a grimace and a swipe across the lips. ‘Expensive night,’ he suggested.

‘It’s worth it, though.’

Gilchrist thought it best to hide behind his beer.

Jack lifted his shot and threw it back. ‘Whooee,’ he said, squinting. ‘That had a bite. Would you like one?’

‘I’ll give it a miss,’ Gilchrist said.

The next round came up in less than half an hour – more like ten minutes, by Gilchrist’s reckoning. Jack paid for it and ordered another. As Gilchrist watched the girls knock back their drinks, he tried to recall if he had ever been as foolish with drink. With a surge of regret, he realised he had, and probably far worse.

Jack was speaking to him, but Gilchrist was barely listening – something about his most recent sculpture being sold for a cool five figures, with the likelihood of another three being picked up.

‘What do you think about that, man?’

Gilchrist chinked his pint against Jack’s and said, ‘Well done,’ while trying to catch the essence of a story one of the girls was telling. But he lost track of it in the ambient din of the busy bar.

Much more clear was the impression of how utterly vulnerable women can become once they’ve had a few too many. An ancient memory of a drunken Friday night in the days before he was of legal drinking age came back to him – an ex-friend, John somebody-or-other, who had long since left St Andrews, round the back of the pub, trying to slide his hand inside his girlfriend’s knickers. Gilchrist could not remember the girl’s name, only his own hot flush of panic as he realised she was trying to fight off her boyfriend. Before he knew it, he was rushing in, pulling John back. Then came the shock and disbelief as they
both
turned on him. His parting memory had been one of muddled confusion.

‘I said you’re falling behind, man. Would you like another?’

Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Too much to do,’ he said.

‘You need to change jobs, man. Find something that doesn’t take so much out of you. I mean, at your age, you should be slowing down.’

Gilchrist let out a laugh. ‘What do you mean, at my age?’

‘If it’s any consolation, man, I hope I look as good as you when I get that old.’ Jack laughed, a hard sound that came out like a bark.

Despite his son’s ability to consume vast quantities of alcohol without any apparent downside, Gilchrist saw that the shots were taking effect. He knew any advice would be pointless – after all, next week Jack would turn twenty-four, going on fourteen. Christ, it didn’t bear thinking about.

He finished the remnants of his beer, and rose to his feet. ‘Got to go, Jack. Thanks for the beer.’

Jack raised his hand, and Gilchrist was not sure whether to highfive it or shake it.

‘Catch you, man,’ Jack said, grabbing Gilchrist’s hand in one of those reverse shakes all the kids seemed to be doing. ‘Heh, guys,’ Jack said, ‘Andy’s leaving.’

Gilchrist freed himself from Jack’s grip and said, ‘See you all.’

But no one showed any real interest.

On Market Street, the quietness hit him with a muted buzz, as if his ears were still ringing from a night at a disco. He removed his mobile from his jacket, surprised to see two missed calls – both from Jessie.

‘I’ve been trying to reach you,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’

Alert now, mobile hard to his ear. ‘Let’s have it.’

‘I’m on my way to Pittenweem,’ she said. ‘Janice Meechan’s been killed in a car accident.’

The name hit him like a slap to the head. ‘Keep going.’

‘Hit-and-run on Pittenweem Road, just outside Anstruther. Jennings from the Anstruther Office called.’

Gilchrist’s memory pulled up the details – the young WPC who had intercepted him at the McCullochs’ home. ‘I’ll meet you there.’ He disconnected and strode into College Street, heading for the Office car park, his mind crackling.

One possibility hit him, and he called Stan.

‘Heh, boss.’

‘Did Chief Super Whyte phone you?’

‘He did. Asked me about Janice Meechan. I told him what I knew. He said he wanted to meet her.’

‘With you?’

‘No, boss. Why?’

‘Just got a call from Jessie. Janice has been killed in a car accident.’

A pause, then, ‘Jesus, boss, I don’t know what to tell you.’

‘I don’t like it, Stan. Find out where Magner is, where he’s been, who he’s spoken to.’ He blinked at the sky as spots of rain fell. From the darkness overhead he could almost smell a thunderstorm in the making. ‘Get back to me when you’ve got hold of him, Stan. And grill the bastard if you have to. I think we’re stirring up a hornets’ nest.’

Jessie slowed her Fiat to a crawl and parked behind the ambulance – although, with the body covered in a plastic sheet at the side of the road, medical assistance was redundant. The skies opened then; unseen thunderclouds firing drops as large as marbles on to the roof of her car, bouncing off the bonnet, making her wipers useless. She switched them off but kept the radio on – soft music from Smooth FM – all the oldies. She was only thirty. How sick was that?

Rather than step outside – the body was going nowhere soon – she took out her phone. Robert would be upset, she knew he would; one more broken promise, one more night at home instead of at the pictures, which made four weekends in a row. Jessie had no idea what she would do without Angie; pay a fortune in sitters’ fees, no doubt. Not that Angie looked after Robert for free, but she was happy to take payment in kind – a worry-free night watching the telly or one of Jessie’s DVDs, with pizza or left-over Chinese, access to the occasional Boodles and tonic, or her head buried in a Mills and Boon. And Robert didn’t need much looking after anyway – thirteen going on thirty. His time was spent mostly reading comics –
Judge Dredd
and
2000 AD
were two she could remember – playing his latest computer game, or writing new jokes. Angie was Jessie’s only friend who knew sign language, so she was a good sounding board for him.

She typed the message – late again no movies angie will order large pizza sorry mum xxx – pressed send and hoped the enticement of a large pizza would appease him.

Earlier, she had phoned Angie and told her to take forty quid from the housekeeping purse at the back of the kitchen drawer, then make sure she helped herself to a few slices before Robert scoffed the lot. ‘Oh, and have a Boodles or three, and keep the change.’ Angie always drank in moderation, so Jessie knew she would not abuse the offer.

Two minutes later, the worst of the storm had passed. Jessie switched on the wipers again, turned up the radio on hearing an old Everly Brothers hit – ‘All I Have to Do is Dream’ – and eyed her mobile. Sometimes Robert texted her back right away, but he had not replied by the song’s end, so she returned the phone to her jacket pocket. Maybe he was playing on his computer. Or maybe he was pissed off at being let down by his mum yet again. She cursed under her breath as she reached for the umbrella on the rear seat. Then she gripped the door handle and made a silent promise to make it up to Robert next week.

In the meantime, she had work to do.

* * *

Gilchrist pulled in behind Jessie’s Fiat.

Rain bounced off his windscreen, hard enough to have his wipers struggling.

Someone walked towards the car, umbrella up, and he realised it was Jessie.

She opened the door. ‘You stepping outside?’

‘If I must.’

‘It’s only water,’ she said. ‘But lots of it.’

Gilchrist slipped from his seat, and huddled beside her under the umbrella. ‘Thought you were going to the movies,’ he said.

‘You know what teenagers are like. Feed them then wrap them up for the night.’

The sky let loose again at that moment, and rain bounced off the ground with a vengeance.

Gilchrist nudged closer and Jessie said, ‘You’ll be asking me out next.’

‘Just hold that umbrella steady.’

‘Spoilsport.’

Blue and red flickering lights shivered through the downpour. The road had been closed off. Light spilled from the open back door of the ambulance, which in turn was flooded by the headlights of a squad car. Beyond the ambulance, about twenty yards distant, Gilchrist could make out the dark shape of another car, with two wraiths that manifested into PCs fussing around it.

‘What happened?’ he asked Jessie.

‘Apparently Janice stopped the car, got out, and was hit at high speed by a passing vehicle, which fled the scene.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘Of course not. That would be too easy.’

‘Why would she stop here?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘That’s the million-dollar question.’

‘And the million-dollar answer,’ he said, ‘is that her car broke down.’ He glared into the dark distance. ‘Magner’s up to his neck in this. He has to be. There are too many coincidences.’

‘Come on, Andy. You’ve been reading too many crime stories. Janice’s car breaks down in the back of beyond, out of sight of CCTV cameras, she steps out, and she’s run over by Magner in his Aston Martin?’ She snorted. ‘I think not.’

‘Not Magner himself,’ Gilchrist said. ‘He’s too smart for that.’

‘Even if he had miraculously made her car break down on demand, why would he kill her? He was giving her one. He was probably giving her lots of ones. So if a man’s got nookie on tap, give me one good reason why he would switch it off.’

‘That’s the second million-dollar question,’ Gilchrist said. He had his mobile to his ear. The call was answered on the third ring.

‘Whyte here.’

Without introduction, Gilchrist said, ‘DI Davidson said you called him about Janice Meechan. I take it you didn’t get a chance to speak to her?’

‘No, I didn’t. But when I do, I’ll let you know. Would you like to come along?’

‘She’s dead, Billy. Killed in a car accident.’

‘
What?
’

Gilchrist gave a quick update, then said, ‘First thoughts?’

A gasp of breath down the line, then, ‘That’s fucking inconvenient. Or convenient, depending on whose side you’re on.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

When Gilchrist ended the call, he eyed the plastic sheeting by the side of the road, the abandoned car, the police vehicles, the ambulance, the dark fields beyond. He felt his body give an involuntary shiver as fingers of ice slithered over him. He did not believe in coincidences – never had, never would.