Hand for a Hand Page 14

  It seemed surreal to be talking to his naked daughter, her eyes defiant, her clothes clutched to her body.

  “He raped you.”

  “He didn’t rape me.”

  “That’s not what it looked like to me.”

  “Was I screaming for help?”

  “That’s not the point,” he shouted. “Having sex with a minor is against the law.”

  “Not if I wanted to.”

  Gilchrist felt a pain stab his chest. “It doesn’t matter if you wanted to or not. You’re fifteen. It’s against the law.”

  “I don’t care what the law—”

  “You’re underage.”

  She turned her back to him then, took hold of her knickers, and he had to avert his eyes from the swell of her vulva as she leaned forward and stepped into them, one leg, two legs, then up. And something about the way she did that reminded him of Gail all those years ago. “So?” she said.

  “So you could be charged,” he tried.

  “Charge me.”

  Gilchrist remembered feeling stunned. It seemed such a challenging thing for any daughter to say. “You don’t understand what—”

  “I understand perfectly well. You hit him. You hit a defenceless man who—”

  “He was having sex with a minor, for God’s sake. That is rape. It is against the law. Can I make it any clearer than that?”

  She slipped her bra over her tight breasts. “Minor?”

  “Yes. Minor. Now get dressed.” He had turned then, not knowing what to do, what to say. His knuckles were bloodied from battering Watt. The sound of water running in the bathroom had him fighting off the ridiculous urge to apologise to the man. But his dilemma was clear. Charge Watt with rape, and Watt would reciprocate by charging him with assault. Which was why Watt had not fought back. He had been caught breaking the law, could lose his job in a heartbeat, and had egged Gilchrist on simply by smiling at—

  The door clicked.

  Gilchrist exited the file.

  Nance walked into the bedroom, her hair a glistening mass of blackened curls, a cream cotton bath towel around her body. She gave a white smile, and Gilchrist tried to reciprocate.

  “What’s got you upset?” she asked.

  “Maureen’s seeing Ronnie Watt.”

  “Tell me you’re joking.” She slipped off the bath towel and dried her hair as she walked towards him, firm breasts bouncing from the effort. Her pubic hair stood at the joint of her thighs, as trim and tidy as a black exclamation mark. “What’ve you got?”

  Gilchrist struggled to concentrate. “Some emails,” he said.

  “From Watt?”

  Gilchrist bit his tongue. Just the thought of Watt contacting his daughter riled him. He should have charged Watt for all he was worth, taken his chances with his own assault charges. Instead he had let Gail talk him out of it.

  What would the gossip do, for goodness sake? She’s only a child. And there’s your career to think about. You might lose your pension. And what about the mortgage? Think about someone other than yourself for once in your life. Damn you to hell if you do this.

  So he had not pressed charges, instead worked a deal with the powers that be to have Watt transferred out of St. Andrews. Now eight years on, Watt had the audacity to be seeing Maureen behind his back. And back in St. Andrews. It did not bear thinking about—

  His mobile rang. He turned from Nance’s nudity. “Bad news, Boss. We got an arm this morning.”

  “Left arm, Stan?”

  “Correct, Boss.”

  The left arm was significant, because whoever was feeding Chloe to him needed to keep the sequence in order. Left right, left right. Like marching, he thought. Was that significant? Was the killer in the military? Was that part of the message?

  “Any note?”

  “Yes, Boss. Felt-tip pen printed along its length.”

  Thank God for small mercies.

  “Dismember, Boss.”

  The fifth note. He spelled it in his head to the fifth letter—E.

  M A U R E. Christ, how clear could it be?

  “Where was it found?”

  “Lying on Grannie Clark’s Wynd on the eighteenth fairway, wrapped in plastic.”

  “Close to the boundary fence?”

  “About ten yards in.”

  “Thrown there?”

  “Bert thinks it was placed, Boss.”

  Gilchrist puzzled over the killer’s fascination with the Old Course. But it was open to the public and almost impossible to monitor around the clock. At night, it would be the simplest thing to drop an amputated limb in the passing.

  But surely someone somewhere must have seen something.

  “Tell me we’ve got a witness, Stan.”

  “Afraid not, Boss.”

  “Don’t we have the place flooded with uniforms?”

  “No one saw a thing.”

  How could someone drop an arm on a golf course in the middle of the night and not be seen? They were supposed to be patrolling the place, for God’s sake.

  “Where’s Ronnie Watt?” he demanded.

  “Haven’t seen him today.”

  “When was the last time anyone saw him?” he asked.

  “Yesterday afternoon, Boss.”

  Gilchrist’s mind crackled with possibilities. Maureen had been corresponding with Watt, ending their affair. The logic seemed improbable, but Maureen’s recent email would have given Watt time to set things in motion, if that had been his intention. First Chloe, then Mo. Revenge for Gilchrist kicking him out of St. Andrews, and for Maureen dumping him? Was that possible? Had the man they chased from her flat been searching for Maureen’s laptop so he could delete any reference to Ronnie?

  Gilchrist decided to take the beast by the balls. If he had acted on his hunch sooner, Maureen might be safe. Now he could no longer afford to wait. “Stan,” he ordered. “Get a warrant for Watt’s arrest.”

  A pause, then, “On what charge, Boss?”

  “On suspicion of murder.”

  “You sure, Boss?”

  No, he wanted to say, I’m not sure. But I need to take action. “He’s been seeing Maureen again,” he said. “Now Maureen’s missing and I can’t get hold of Watt.”

  Stan whistled. “Greaves’ll blow a fuse, Boss.”

  Gilchrist thought it an odd thing for Stan to say. “If Greaves has a problem with that, he can talk to me.”

  “Okay, Boss.”

  Gilchrist hung up.

  “I suppose that makes a quickie out of the question.”

  Nance had partially dressed and stood in thong knickers, the skimpiest of material that bulged with the lump of her pubis. Stubble speckled the tops of her thighs. Her breasts stood proud-nippled, and for one disorienting moment Gilchrist was back in his bedroom facing a fifteen-year-old Maureen.

  “Get dressed,” he said, then tried to soften it with, “We’ve got work to do.”

  But from the way Nance turned away, he knew he had not pulled it off.

  Chapter 20

  BY MID AFTERNOON, Gilchrist established that Maureen was employed as a marketing representative with the Topley Agency, a company owned and run by Chris Topley, an ex-hard-man from the Gorbals, now in his mid-thirties, who spent three years in Barlinnie for beating up his neighbour over a pint of beer. According to Dainty, the neighbour committed suicide the week before Topley was to be released. Rumour had it that if the man had not taken his own life, Topley had promised to take it for him.

  The Topley Agency was housed on the fourth floor of a glass and steel building that overlooked the River Clyde. The reception area glistened with bronze statuettes and towering plants that had Gilchrist wondering just how much Maureen was earning. The receptionist asked them to wait while she paged Mr. Topley. Nance took one of the deep leather chairs. Gilchrist remained standing.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were ushered into an office that looked as if it had been furnished by a minimalist. Two small black and white photographs in silver frames hung o
n otherwise bare walls. An expansive desk lay devoid of clutter. Gilchrist saw no filing cabinets or anything else that would suggest the room was ever used.

  The door clicked.

  Gilchrist and Nance turned like a choreographed act.

  Despite the dark-blue suit with silver shirt and matching tie, Chris Topley had failed to lose his bruiser image. As he stood framed by the doorway, it did not take much to imagine him booting someone to death in the wet streets of Glasgow.

  The door closed behind him with a dull thud.

  Gilchrist stood a good six inches taller than Topley’s squat figure. From that vantage point, Topley’s sandy hair, shorn to the bone, looked like roughened wood grain.

  “Chris Topley?”

  Topley eyed Gilchrist with the look of a businessman undecided if this was an opportunity about to blossom into cash or some past deal come back to haunt him. “And you are?” His accent was hard Glaswegian softened to a low growl.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist.” Gilchrist declined to show his warrant card or tell Topley they were from Fife Constabulary. He had the impression that neither would matter to a man of Topley’s background. Instead, he offered his hand.

  Topley’s grip felt hard and moist, like roughened leather greased smooth. An overpowering fragrance of aftershave hung around him, and his gaze slid off to the side as he eyed Nance from top to toe. By the time he offered her a gold-toothed grin, Gilchrist felt as if she had been stripped and abused before his eyes.

  Topley held out his hand to her.

  Gilchrist almost smiled when Nance ignored it.

  “You have a name?” Topley asked her.

  “Yes.”

  Topley oozed charm like a snake in an alligator pool. His face had the hardened look of a street fighter and bore the faded scars of past disputes—a nick on the forehead; dotted line on the right cheek; disfigured knuckles on bunched fists.

  “Well well well,” he growled. “Two detectives. I must say I’m honoured. How can I help you?”

  “Maureen Gilchrist is one of your employees,” said Gilchrist.

  “A lovely girl,” he said. “What about her?”

  “She’s missing.”

  Topley scrubbed the back of his hand under his chin, the sound like sandpaper on wood. Then he pointed a finger at Gilchrist. “Now I get it. You’re the old man.” He walked around his desk, and Gilchrist had the distinct impression that few paper trails were left in the company. Topley stood behind his high-backed leather chair, his right arm along the top. In the light from the glass wall, his eyes took on a hunted look, like a guilty man waiting for the damning question.

  Gilchrist kept his voice level. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Could do.”

  For a moment, Gilchrist toyed with the idea of leaning across the desk and grabbing him by the throat. “I’m not here to play games,” he said. “Just answer the question.”

  “Should I be talking to my solicitor?”

  “That’s your prerogative.” It was Nance.

  Gold fillings glinted either side of front incisors. “She speaks,” he said.

  “She also arrests,” said Nance.

  Topley held out his arms, wrists together. “Please. It’s been a while since I’ve been handcuffed by someone so pretty.”

  And at that moment, Gilchrist knew Chris Topley was not Maureen’s boyfriend. Of that fact, he would bet his life. “We can cuff you later,” he said, “but for now we’re trying to establish if you can help with our enquiries, when you last saw Maureen, who you last saw her with, where she might be. That sort of thing.”

  Topley lowered his arms. “Maureen told me I wouldn’t like you.”

  The sound of his daughter’s name coming from the mouth of an ex-convict sent the chill of horripilation through Gilchrist. “Why would she say that?”

  “Because she cares for you.”

  Topley’s use of the present tense sent some signal buzzing through Gilchrist’s system. Maureen was alive. Was that what he was saying? And if so, how did he know?

  “As an employee, what does Maureen do?” Nance again.

  “Marketing.”

  “Marketing what?”

  “Topley clients.”

  “Who are?”

  “The rich and the famous.”

  “And the infamous?” Gilchrist tried.

  “I’m clean,” Topley growled. “The past is past. This business is legit.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  Topley’s eyes flashed, nothing more than a widening of the pupils. But for a fraction of a second Gilchrist caught a glimpse of the wilder version of the man. “I couldn’t give a monkey’s toss what you believe.”

  “How long has Maureen been employed here?” Nance again.

  Topley puffed his cheeks. “Less than a year.”

  “The job pay well?”

  “Basic of sixty to seventy. Then a bonus that usually doubles it.” He flashed some more gold. “At Christmas.”

  Maureen earning upwards of a hundred-thousand at the age of twenty-three did not sit well with Gilchrist. Why had she never told him about this job? Had Gail known? Had Harry? Or Jack?

  “When did you last see Maureen?” Nance asked.

  Topley turned to the tinted glass panels that ran from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Beyond, the Clyde slid past like some dirt-caked beast, its murky waters a silent reminder of Glasgow’s industrial past. He stood with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him so that Gilchrist caught the blue lines of some tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. The twin-tipped tail of a swallow, he thought.

  “Two nights ago,” Topley said. “We went out for a drink after work.”

  “Just the two of you?” Nance had her notebook out.

  “Yes.”

  “Like on a date?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “What way would you put it?” Gilchrist interrupted.

  “Two friends having a drink.”

  The emphasis on friends rankled Gilchrist, but he nodded to Nance to continue.

  “Anyone see you?” she asked.

  “See us?” Topley shrugged his shoulders. “Of course they saw us. We weren’t hiding.”

  “Who saw you?”

  “Other than everyone in the pub?”

  “At work, I mean.”

  “Most of the office staff.”

  “You make a habit of going out for a drink with your employees?”

  “Just the good-looking ones.”

  Gilchrist tightened his lips, thought it better to let Nance get on with it.

  Nance seemed to sense his discomfort. “Where did you and Maureen go?” she asked.

  “Had a glass of wine in Arta.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Not far from where she lives.”

  “You know where she lives, do you?”

  Topley chuckled. “Of course I do. I own the place.”

  “She rents it from you?”

  “In a way.”

  “What kind of a way?”

  “The flat comes with the job. It’s a perk.”

  “Any other perks come with the job?”

  Topley turned at that question. His eyes creased in a knowing smile. “Depends on how hard-working my staff are. How far up the ladder they want to climb.” He flicked an ophidian glance at Gilchrist. “Know what I mean?”

  Nance scribbled hard into her notebook as if trying to lead Gilchrist away from the trap. But it was no use. “No,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Topley turned to the window again, and Gilchrist sensed the man was not as tough as he liked people to think. “She does stuff for me,” Topley went on.

  “What sort of stuff?” Gilchrist pressed.

  “Stuff stuff.”

  “Illegal stuff stuff?”

  Topley shook his head, gave a dry chuckle. “She told me about you.”

  “Why would she do that? She expecting me to visit
you sometime?”

  Silence.

  “What else did she say about me?”

  Topley turned then, and any thoughts Gilchrist might have had of the man losing his hardness evaporated. “That you’re a fucking cunt,” he said. “And a wanker. A fucking wanker.” He smiled. “That’s what she said about you.”

  “Those her exact words?” Gilchrist asked. “Fucking cunt? Fucking wanker? She say that, did she?”

  “More or less.”

  “So, she never said those words. Not exactly,” he added.

  “If it makes you happy, those were her exact words.”

  Gilchrist almost smiled. In all the time he had known Maureen, the use of that single word, cunt, had never passed her lips. “So,” he continued, “after Arta, where did you go?”

  Topley tilted his chin, as if to look at Gilchrist down the length of his flattened nose. “Babbity Bowster.”

  “How do you spell that?” Nance asked.

  “Any way you like, sweetheart.”

  Nance shook her head, scribbled in her notebook.

  “What did you have to drink there?” Gilchrist asked.

  “More wine.”

  “A glass?”

  “A bottle.”

  “Or two?”

  “Probably.”

  “Pay by cash?”

  “How else?”

  How else indeed?

  “Maureen likes her wine,” Topley continued, as if warming to the idea of being interrogated. “It loosens her up, if you catch my drift.”

  Gilchrist ignored the taunt. “What kind of wine?” he asked. “House? White? Red?”

  “Red.”

  “Red?”

  “Yeah. Red. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

  Got you, you plonker. Gilchrist had no doubt Maureen frequented those pubs. They were both within walking distance of her home. But why would Topley lie? Or was he just stringing them along for the hell of it? “Two bottles of red between the two of you?” he went on.

  “We might have left the second one unfinished.”

  “Might?”

  “Yeah. I think we did.”

  “Red wine? Like a Cabernet?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one. Cabernet.”

  “Sauvignon?”

  “Yeah. Cabernet Sauvignon.”

  “Did you have a meal?”