Hand for a Hand Read online

  And he had failed to act.

  Two hands. Two legs. Four body parts. Four notes.

  And he saw how the order could not be mistaken.

  Left hand, right hand. Left leg, right leg.

  The notes were being delivered in a specific order so the message was clear, with the simplest of codes so that he could not fail to work it out. He now knew he would be given three more body parts, all the killer would need to send his entire message. But it was worse than that. Much worse. If the killer planned on Gilchrist solving the puzzle, then he reasoned that it would be too late for him to be able to do anything about it when he did.

  He parked on the expanse of grass that separated the Old Course Hotel from the main road, tried Maureen again, and cursed when it rang out. He should have been shunted into voice mail. He tried her mobile, but again could not get through.

  Christ, it was happening. It was really happening.

  He punched in the number for Strathclyde Police Headquarters and asked for Dainty.

  “DCI Small speaking.” The voice sounded thin, just like the man.

  “Pete, it’s Andy Gilchrist. I need your help.”

  “If I can, Andy.”

  “It’s Maureen.” He tried to sound calm, but could not control a quiver that seemed to catch the back of his throat. “Did you assign someone to watch her?”

  “PC Tom Russell. He’s a good guy.”

  “Can you have him bring her in?”

  A moment’s pause, then, “Care to explain?”

  Gilchrist did, and Dainty reassured him that Maureen must be all right, or he would have already heard from PC Russell. But when he hung up, Gilchrist could not rid himself of the gutsinking feeling that he was too late. It was her answering machine being switched off that worried him. Whenever Maureen was out, her answering machine was always on. It seemed to be how they communicated.

  Now he was too late. And seventy miles too far north.

  But Dainty was a good detective, and a good man, and Gilchrist took comfort from the thought that he would treat Gilchrist’s request as if Maureen were his own daughter. And maybe, just maybe, Gilchrist could do something at this end.

  Mackie greeted him with a hardened face and a spare set of coveralls and gloves.

  Gilchrist pulled them on and entered the SOCO tent.

  A faint yellow light spread over the scene, making the leg look as if it was made of plastic. Gilchrist kneeled. MATRICIDE was cut along the length of the inner thigh and calf. Although the curves of the R, C and D looked irregular, he thought the word had been formed with some care. The leg had been amputated at the top of the thigh, with a clean cut. But the cut had been made too high, and a thin strip of pubic hair trimmed the edge like the beginnings of a weak moustache.

  Gilchrist felt his throat constrict. This was the leg of a young woman he had spoken to, laughed with, had a drink with, someone who shared a life with his son with all the youthful aspirations of the future.

  What could he tell Jack?

  “Same method of amputation,” Mackie mumbled. “Some sort of saw. See here?” He pointed at the cut through the bone. “You can see the curved marks on the femur. See? And where it cuts into the skin. Here.” He ran a pointed finger along the edge.

  Gilchrist nodded.

  “I would say circular saw. We may be looking for a workshop of sorts.”

  “Like a home workshop?”

  “Could be.”

  Gilchrist frowned. He was looking at too wide a target. Anyone could install a workshop in their attic, garden shed, or God only knew where. He needed to refine it. “How about the saw marks?” he said. “Can we tell the size of the blade from the curve?”

  “Might do,” said Mackie. “But I wouldn’t want to bank on a high level of accuracy.”

  “You might be able to define some diametrical limits.”

  “Possible.”

  Gilchrist eyed the leg, resisted touching the skin. “Why the different techniques?” he asked. “The first two notes were printed. The next two by mutilation.”

  “To make us think there’s worse to come?” Mackie offered.

  Gilchrist grimaced. Mackie had a point. If each body part was presented with a hand-printed note, where were the scare tactics? The purpose was to frighten him, let him solve the cryptic clues, so he would know revenge was being sought. He swallowed the lump in his throat, dabbed at the cold sweat on his brow. The tactics were working. He knew what the killer had planned, and now he needed a break in his investigation before, before.…

  Jesus. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Think. Damn it. Think.

  But his mind refused to work.

  “This guy’s one sick bastard,” he said, and pushed past Mackie, out into the open.

  He freed his hair from the coveralls and peeled off the gloves. The cold air carried the tangy taste of kelp. He breathed it in, almost revelled in the light-headedness of the moment. He unzipped the coveralls, removed his phone to try Maureen again, and was about to punch in the number when Mackie said, “Andy?”

  Gilchrist snapped his phone shut and faced Mackie. Deep intelligence hewn from a lifetime of pathology shifted like a shadow behind the old man’s eyes.

  “You know,” Mackie said. “You know what the killer is saying.”

  Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. Did he know? Did he really know? He could be wrong. He hoped to God he was wrong. But every nerve in his body told him he was not. He shook his head. “I’m not sure, Bert,” he said. “It’s just a thought.”

  “Share it with me.”

  Gilchrist stared off past the hotel, across the fairways to the grass-covered mounds of the dunes where they had sat on the windswept sands drinking ice-cold champagne.

  First Chloe. And now.…

  “I think Maureen’s next.”

  Silent, Mackie returned his stare.

  “I think that’s what the notes are trying to tell me.”

  “Why do you think that?” Mackie’s voice resonated deep and calm. He placed his hand on Gilchrist’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Run it past me.”

  “First note, Murder. First letter, M.

  “Second note, Massacre. Second letter, A.

  “Third note, Bludgeon. Third letter, U.

  “Fourth note, Matricide. Fourth letter, R.”

  Gilchrist watched the meaning of his words work through the old man’s mind.

  “M, A, U, R,” Mackie said.

  “E, E, N,” added Gilchrist. “Three more body parts.” He watched Mackie’s head turn to the side and his eyes stare at the tent, as if trying to imagine how he would feel if that leg belonged to his own daughter.

  “I don’t want anyone to know, Bert.”

  Mackie turned back to him, eyes creased against the sunlight. “Can I ask why?”

  “I want whoever’s doing this to think we don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Playing for time?”

  Playing for time. What a way to put it. It sounded like a game. But it was no game. And Gilchrist saw then how he had run out of time. He should have had a couple of minders watch her round the clock earlier. But maybe he had it wrong. He stepped away from Mackie and opened his mobile. But he could still not get through.

  He tried his cottage.

  Three rings and he was through. He could not mention the latest leg to Jack. “I need to get hold of Maureen.” He struggled to sound calm. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Probably with Chris.”

  Gilchrist’s hopes soared. “You have a number for him?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Home number?”

  “No.”

  “Address?”

  “Never met the guy.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know his surname, would you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Thanks, Jack. You’re a great help.”

  “Why don’t you try Mo on her mobile?”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” he said, and hung
up.

  He stared at his phone. When he had been Jack’s age, had he been as uninterested in family? He saw, as if for the first time, how like Gail Jack was. And Maureen, too. Had he contributed nothing to the gene banks of his children?

  He struggled to refocus.

  Despite the obvious, he tried Maureen’s mobile again, once, twice, then her home, counting twenty-two rings before hanging up. He glanced at his watch. Even if he jumped into his Merc at that moment, it would take him the best part of an hour and a half to drive to Maureen’s. But what would that achieve? And that thought made him realise that he had to place his trust in Dainty. Dainty would call as soon as he found Maureen. In the meantime, Gilchrist would do what he could to move his investigation forward, and pray that he had it all wrong.

  But if his worst fears were realised, even God could not help him.

  SHE CAME TO, her face pressed against carpet pile as short and rough as sandpaper.

  She opened her eyes, but in the darkness she could have been blind. She moved her arms, and realised with a spurt of panic that she was bound, her hands tied behind her back. She gasped, but a gag as tight as binding tape pressed her lips shut. She breathed in through her nostrils, hard, struggling to stay calm as other senses stirred awake.

  The smell of dirt and petrol.…

  The thrum of speeding tires.…

  Her stomach lurched at that moment, from movement that told her she was in the boot of some car. And again, as they crested a hill at speed and another fear hit her in a cold wave as she fought off the dizzying sensation of motion sickness.

  She could not throw up. Her lips were sealed.

  If she vomited, she would choke to death.

  No. Not this, not this. Concentrate.…

  Her throat constricted as her stomach spasmed.

  Dear God, no.…

  Chapter 15

  GILCHRIST CORNERED NANCE at Golf Place.

  “Find anything?” he asked.

  She opened her notebook to a tabbed page. “A Mr. Fraser Crowley, staying at the Glen Eden Guest House, saw a car race out of Golf Place at around 4:00 this morning.”

  “Details?”

  “Not a lot, I’m afraid.”

  “Make? Model? Colour? Registration number? What?”

  “Hold your horses. The elderly Mr. Crowley—”

  “Elderly?” Gilchrist groaned.

  “Fraser is seventy-two with a mind as sharp as a tack.”

  “First name terms, are we?”

  “He’s quite the lad.”

  Even so, Gilchrist felt a rush of disappointment. The elderly often proved unreliable witnesses and could break down in court under relentless cross-examination. Just how sharp was a tack at seventy-two?

  “He thought the car was being driven erratically,” Nance continued. “Before passing the R&A clubhouse it swerved across the road then sped uphill.”

  Gilchrist eyed the lone stone building. The car could have crossed the road so the driver could throw the package beyond the footpath. Had Crowley witnessed the leg being dumped?

  “A Jaguar,” Nance pronounced. “XJ-12 with silver paintwork.”

  Gilchrist blinked once, twice. He had seen a Jaguar just like that. It took him several seconds to remember where. The road-block in Cupar. He had walked past it, more focused on the Vauxhall Astra. Damn. Had that been the XJ-12? Was there any difference between the body of an XJ-12 and an XJ-6? If so, could Crowley have noticed it at that time in the morning? And from a hotel room window?

  “Where was Crowley when he saw the car?” he asked.

  “Martyrs’ Monument.”

  “At four in the morning?”

  “Said he had an upset stomach and went outside for a breath of fresh air.”

  Martyrs’ Monument stood on the hill at the crest of the Scores. Which meant that Crowley would have been about a hundred yards away.

  “Where is this Crowley?” Gilchrist asked.

  LIGHT EXPLODED, BLINDING her.

  Fingers as sharp as talons dug into her hair, pulled her upright, dragged her from the boot. The sudden movement, the brightness, the sense of freedom—

  Her stomach pumped.

  Vomit surged into her throat, choking her airways, squirting from her nostrils.

  “Ah, fuck,” and a hand as hard as a board sent her tumbling to the ground.

  Fingers tore the tape free, letting vomit splash from her mouth.

  She spat it out, gulped in lungfuls of cool clean air. But any thoughts of calling for help thudded into darkness as a fist as hard as stone cracked the side of her head.

  IT TOOK THEM two hours to find Crowley by the rocks that fronted the Scores, kneeling by one of the sea pools, nothing more than puddles of seawater trapped by the receding tide.

  Crowley looked up as they approached, then stood with barely a grimace. “Ah,” he said with a grin. “The lovely Nancy Wilson.” He came towards them, stepping over rocks with the sure-footed agility of a man half his age. Sunlight sparkled in eyes as blue as bleached denim. His teeth were gap-spaced, long and white. “We meet again,” he said.

  “This is DCI Gilchrist,” Nance said. “My boss.”

  Crowley nodded, as if he was a competitor about to post a challenge for Nance’s hand. “A pleasure,” he said.

  “You don’t wear glasses,” Gilchrist said.

  “I’m a retired pilot. My eyesight has always been excellent.”

  “The Jaguar,” Gilchrist went on. “You sure it was an XJ-12?”

  “You can tell from the front grille.”

  “Expert on cars, are you?”

  “Cars no, Jaguars yes.”

  “Own one, do you?”

  “I own several. The pride of my fleet is a ’73 convertible E-type V12. Rarely drive the thing, of course.”

  “Of course.” Gilchrist felt a smile tug at his lips. Crowley looked like one of those individuals with a panache for life, who earned big money, drank fine wine, made love to beautiful women. And drove fast cars. “It was silver,” he said to Crowley. “What else can you tell me about it?”

  “1988-ish, I’d say. Run down. Not well looked after. Original paint job. Could do with a respray.”

  “And all this at 4:00 in the morning?”

  “Not at all. I’d seen it before.”

  Nance pressed forward. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “You never asked, dear Nancy.”

  Nance glanced at Gilchrist. He took over. “Where exactly did you see it before?”

  “Market Street. By the fountain. Last Tuesday.”

  “You’re clear on that?”

  “I visit the bank every Tuesday.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Around 2:00 in the afternoon.”

  “Did you see the driver?”

  “No.”

  “Any passenger?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  “Eighty-eightish?”

  Crowley’s eyes creased, and Gilchrist caught an image of the younger man as a dashing pilot. “About that, I would say.”

  “Did you see the registration number?”

  “I’m hopeless now with numbers,” Crowley said. “Memory’s not as good as it used to be.”

  “But you might have seen the number and associated that with a year of registration, then forgotten the number?”

  Crowley shook his head.

  “We’ll run a search on PNC,” Gilchrist said to Nance. “Every silver Jaguar XJ-12 from ’86 through ’90.”

  Nance scribbled it down.

  “Would you recognise it again?” Gilchrist asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “When you saw it at that bank, how close were you?”

  “Close enough to see the tax disc had expired.”

  “Did you note the month?”

  “Now you’re asking.”

  “See anything on any of the seats?”

  Crowley shook his head.

  “Papers? Documents? Umbrellas? Jackets?�
�

  “Anything?” Nance chipped in.

  “I wasn’t looking.”

  “Spotless, was it?” Gilchrist tried.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What would you say?”

  “Once I saw it was run down, I didn’t give it too much attention. That’s a big no-no for a Jaguar enthusiast.” Crowley grimaced. “Tires were worn. Blisters of rust on the wheel arches. The whole thing needed a good wash, wax and polish. Inside and out. It’s a disgrace that a car so majestic could be treated with such disdain—”

  “Any stickers? Aerials? That sort of thing?”

  “The boot lid had been patch-painted.”

  Gilchrist stiffened. “Painted?”

  “With red lead. Poorly, I might add.”

  Red lead. An undercoat used as rust prohibitor on metal. Gilchrist remembered the Jaguar in the roadblock, its boot as dark as spilled blood. “How long do you intend to stay in St. Andrews?” he asked Crowley.

  “Until the end of the month.”

  “Then?”

  “Spring in upstate New York with my brother.”

  “No Mrs. Crowley?”

  “She passed away six years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gilchrist said, regretting having raised the subject of wives. Time to leave. “Give your full contact details to DS Wilson,” he added. “And don’t leave town without letting us know.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  But Gilchrist was walking up the path towards Martyrs’ Monument.

  Crowley’s sighting of the Jaguar last Tuesday troubled him. If it was the same Jaguar used to dump the leg, why had it been in town then? On the other hand, why not? The killer could have driven from Glasgow for a number of reasons. And Gilchrist felt something jar at that thought. The killer knew Gilchrist. Did he also know Watt?

  When he thought about it, it seemed odd that on the day Watt returned to St. Andrews the hand was discovered. And Watt was first on the scene. First day on the job, first on the scene? Was that coincidence? But Gilchrist did not believe in coincidence. When things happened together they were connected. Believe that, and everything else fell into place.

  He now saw the flaw in his earlier rationale. The killer had known Gilchrist would solve the cryptic clues. It then followed that Maureen would be taken long before the last body part turned up. Leaving it any later would risk Gilchrist’s securing her safety. Maureen lived in Glasgow. And the Jaguar would be registered in Glasgow. On that he would bet his life. But he had taken no action. How could he have been so stupid? He looked down at the black rocks, at Nance still in conversation with Crowley, and saw he had to take action now.