Hand for a Hand Page 3

  “Well, get lucky on this one.”

  He felt a frown crease his brow, felt that familiar weight of failure shift through him. “I think that’s why I asked you to join me for a pint. I don’t feel lucky on this one. I don’t like the feel of it. Not at all.”

  “Because of Watt?”

  “I don’t like my name being on an envelope, Nance. I don’t like a hand being delivered to me. We’re being toyed with.”

  “You think we’ll find the rest of the body?”

  Bit by hacked off bit. “I’m sure of it,” he said. “We’ll be given more clues. Why else write a single word on the note. Murder. What the hell’s that supposed to tell us? I don’t know. What I do know is, that when we finally work it out we’re not going to like it.”

  Nance sipped her beer.

  “I think this case is going to be painful, Nance. I think that’s what I’m trying to say.”

  “Painful for you?”

  He nodded and surprised himself by placing his hand on her shoulder. He flexed his fingers. “And you watch yourself with Watt. Don’t trust him.” He removed his hand, turned back to his pint. “Just watch yourself, Nance. Okay?”

  But he knew it was not just Nance he was worried about.

  It was himself.

  ON THE DRIVE home, that night came back at him, swirling dark as the blackest smog, settling and clearing until he saw her face, her eyes, the shock still there, still unmistakable, as if the vile event had not happened eight years ago, but only yesterday. He tried to shift her image, but it impinged on his mind like the thickest of syrups that slowed the action of his memory until it seemed he was watching the scene one frame at a time.

  Maureen was naked, sitting upright, her back to him. She turned as he entered the room, her face pale and blank with the rigidity of shock. Then she pushed herself up, her underage buttocks flexing with teenage ease, and he tried to keep from looking at her private parts as she slipped off her partner.

  Hey, Andy. What’s up?

  He remembered looking at Watt’s face, puzzling over it, as if looking at someone he had met a long time ago, but could not place when or where. Then the frames sped up.

  Get out.

  Get out of my house.

  He turned to Maureen then, turned to confront his fifteen-year-old daughter, her back pressed to the wall as if she had no place to run. One hand covered her pubis, the other her half-developed breasts. Her cheeks glistened with tears. Then, as if by legerdemain, her clothes were in his hand.

  He threw them at her. Get dressed.

  He turned on Watt, who smiled up at him, mouth chewing, arms folded behind his head, his unprotected erection flat to his belly, still veined and full and glistening with the spoils of his conquest for all to see.

  That was the moment Gilchrist snapped.

  He remembered stepping forward. He remembered that. He could still see it. And looking down at Watt’s smiling face. He remembered that, too. But the next memory he had was of standing upright, chest heaving, lungs burning, wondering why there was so much blood, and why Watt had not tried to fight back.

  And now here was Watt again, back in St. Andrews, somehow involved in a murder case clearly earmarked for Gilchrist. Fuck it. He tugged the wheel, accelerated hard past two cars, and had to slam on the brakes as he powered into a sweeping bend. Of all the people for Greaves to assign to the case, he had to pick Watt.

  Greaves was no fool. Gilchrist knew that.

  So why on earth had he put the two of them back together again?

  Chapter 5

  GILCHRIST WAKENED WITH a start.

  He slid his legs to the floor, stumbled against the wall, flicked on the wall switch.

  Light exploded into his brain.

  He peered through half-opened eyes. His trousers, socks, shoes, shirt, lay strewn across the floor. His leather jacket dangled from the wicker laundry basket. A surge of nausea threatened to engulf him, then hung in the pit of his stomach.

  He reached for his jacket, retrieved his phone, and choked, “Yeah?”

  “Christ. You sound rough.”

  He coughed. “Who’s this?”

  “DS Watt. Sir.”

  For a moment, he almost hung up. Then it hit him. “Another body part?”

  “Right first time.”

  Gilchrist slid his hand down his face, felt the rough crunch of stubble on his chin and neck. His nightmare had started. “The other hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bagged and sealed?”

  “Lying where it was found. In the Principal’s Nose.”

  “The what?”

  “Another bunker on the Old Course. Sixteenth fairway.”

  “Any note?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Massacre.”

  Massacre? “Spelled correctly?”

  A pause, then, “Yeah.”

  Well, at least he could write. “Who found the hand?” he asked.

  Watt gave out a sigh. “A man by the name of Charlie Blair, while walking his dog,” he said. “Would you like the dog’s name?”

  Cheeky bastard. Gilchrist felt the back of his eyes throb, caught a mental image of Nance leaving Lafferty’s after two pints, only ever two, blouse loose, a flash of cleavage as she gave him a quick peck. Then how many after that? Four? Five? More? Bloody hell. No wonder it hurt. He glanced at his watch—6:24—then growled, “Tell me we inspected the Principal’s Nose yesterday.”

  “Every bunker on the Old Course was looked at yesterday. Including half the rough.”

  “Who was in charge?”

  “Constable Tommie Murray.”

  “Double check it.”

  “Way ahead of you. Tommie’s already confirmed the bunker was clear.” A pause, then, “We didn’t miss it. The hand was placed there overnight.”

  “Anyone see anything, report anything?” Gilchrist tried.

  “Not a thing.”

  What had he expected? “Stay there,” he ordered. “I’ll be with you in fifteen.”

  Watt hung up before Gilchrist.

  Shaved and showered and feeling shakier than a sea-legged sailor on dry land, Gilchrist jabbed the key into the ignition. He drove with the window down, the cold air blustering around his neck and face, blowing away the remnants of last night’s beer. Once Nance left, he had sat alone at the end of the bar, reviewing the list of names and addresses Nance and Watt had collected, making notes, scribbling thoughts, and returning home at the back of eleven none the wiser.

  He parked his Roadster close to the Jigger Inn again. He removed a set of white coveralls and gloves from the boot and fought off another wave of nausea that threatened to have him heaving over the stone dyke. But it passed, and he carried the protective clothing under his arm and walked along the side of the seventeenth fairway onto the sixteenth.

  The Principal’s Nose was not one bunker, but a cluster of three on the left side of the sixteenth fairway. In the distance, dragonlights lit the scene like a druid’s party. As Gilchrist neared, he noticed the SOCO van on the fairway. A pair of SOCOs shifted through the scene, white figures drifting through spheres of light like ghosts blown in from the sea.

  As Gilchrist neared, the scene developed before him.

  The stiff figure of Watt stood a short distance from the bunkers, on top of a hillock in the rough, talking into his mobile. His hand flapped, finger stabbing the air, voice lost on the cold sea breeze. Close by, a solitary figure in a yellow anorak and green Wellington boots looked seaward. Something moved by the man’s feet, a shape that manifested into a black labrador with doleful eyes that followed Gilchrist’s step.

  He reached the scene and donned his coveralls and shoe covers, then slipped on his gloves. The Crime Scene Manager, DC Alan Bowers, ordered him to sign in. He scribbled his name then stepped into the lighted area, lifted the yellow tape and slipped under it. He half-expected to catch Mackie shoulder deep in the bunker.

  “Has Bert been calle
d?” he shouted to Bowers.

  “On his way, sir.”

  Gilchrist stared into the bunker. The sides were steep, about two feet at the back face, rising to five at the front. The fairway fell towards the cluster of bunkers, a graded catchment for stray drives. Shadows danced around him as a SOCO grabbed one of the dragonlights and shifted it several feet farther away. Gilchrist crouched.

  The hand lay in the sand, close to the back face, curled fingers up, a note clutched between thumb and forefinger. For a moment, he wondered how Watt had known what was written on it, until he leaned closer and saw the printing. He cocked his head to the side.

  Massacre.

  Murder. Now Massacre. What was the killer trying to tell him? Was the clue to be found in the words? Or in the location of the body parts? First the Road Hole Bunker, next the Principal’s Nose. Was that significant? Or, first the seventeenth, and next the sixteenth? Should they now be focusing on the bunkers on the fifteenth?

  Gilchrist stared off across the dunes towards the hidden sea, the wind like ice against his face. It would have been colder when the hand was placed in the bunker. What had the killer worn? Something dark, so he could flit unseen through the night? And why only a note this time? Why no envelope? The ink had bled where the dew had settled on the paper. Had the killer not worried that the printing might become illegible, that his message might be lost? He turned his attention back to the hand at his feet.

  White skin was beaded in moisture as fine as condensation. Several hairs stood out, as if bristling with horripilation, or from the shock of being cut off from their source of life. And in that matter, he saw that the hand had been sliced from the forearm in a neat cut this time, several inches above the wrist, as if the killer had chopped it with a sharp blade and not quite hit his mark. The sand appeared undisturbed, as if the hand had been placed in the bunker with care. Gilchrist looked to his feet. Had the killer stood on this same spot?

  He moved away from the edge, stepped off to the side, and crouched again. The grass was thin and hard, worn bare from the harsh east winds and winter sun. His own prints were barely noticeable. Was that why the killer chose the bunker closest to the fairway, to avoid leaving evidence in the long grass? He eyed the rough, followed the telltale trail of Watt’s advance up the hillock, and that of the man and his dog, and came to see that this killer knew what he was doing, and why he was doing it.

  Gilchrist looked across the fairway, at the stone wall and the Eden Course beyond. On the other side of the wall lay a gravel path, all that was left of the abandoned railway line. That was how the killer had come, he thought, walked along the pathway that ran the length of the sixteenth, then leapt over the wall, crossed the fairway and placed the hand in the bunker. He would have returned the same way, maybe walked along the fairway a short distance. Or maybe he had it all wrong.

  He turned to the hand again, intrigued by how unreal it looked, as if death had moved in and removed whatever vestige of life remained. But he felt haunted by a vague sense of familiarity. He had seen a hand like that before, the hand of a wax dummy, years ago, as a child in Madame Tussaud’s in Blackpool while holidaying with his parents. For one moment he wondered if the dragonlights were playing tricks with his eyes, and he felt annoyed for not having noticed sooner. Perhaps he was wrong. He had to be wrong.

  He leaned closer.

  He was not mistaken.

  The fingernails were longer on this hand.

  He kneeled on the grass, felt the cold seep through his gloves and coveralls, leaned forward as far as he could. It was the thumbnail that settled it for him. The nail was long. Not too long. And not square, but rounded, flush with the curve of the tip, so that it looked white, a healthy solid white, as if it had been varnished.

  But the white tip, the white tip was.…

  Gilchrist felt his chest drain.

  Dear God. Don’t tell me.

  His mind tried to tell him he was wrong. But he knew he was not.

  The underside of the nail was thick with paint.

  He now saw traces of paint in the cracks of the cuticles, a tiny spot embedded in the skin by the half-moon. Other marks, a touch of green, a hint of yellow, had him thinking that the killer must have scrubbed the first hand, trimmed the nails to make identification difficult. But now the second hand was on display, as if the killer wanted them to know who the victim was. Or worse, needed Gilchrist to make the identification. Which was why the first note had been addressed to him.

  He stood as Watt approached, shoes glistening black as he scuffled through the long grass. Either Watt had removed his coveralls, or he had never put them on. He stopped on the other side of the yellow tape.

  “What d’you think?” Watt asked him.

  Was it possible to recognise someone by their hands? If his own hands were found lying apart from his body, could Jack or Maureen identify them as his? He thought not. So why did he think he knew who these hands belonged to?

  “You look rough,” Watt added.

  Gilchrist remembered the first time he met her. You don’t wear rings, he heard his mind say. I don’t like them, she whispered. I find them distracting. He had thought it such an odd thing to say, that he had taken her hands in his and held them, looked down at fingers long and slim, at nails trim and clean, just the tiniest bit ragged from working the paints, scrubbing the canvases. Would he describe them as being cracked?

  Dear God, tell me I’m wrong. Not this. Not this.

  He stepped away then, pushed under the yellow tape, and stumbled through the long grass, to the peak of the hillock vacated by Watt. He faced the dark sea. His breath rushed in hard gasps, lungs filling and deflating as if seeking the last ounce of oxygen. He removed his mobile and on the sixth ring got Jack’s answering machine.

  “Damn.”

  He hung up, tried again.

  Six rings, then the answering machine.

  He hung up. Tried again.

  Come on, come on, I know you’re home.

  Shit. And again.

  On the fifth attempt, Jack picked up, his voice heavy with sleep, or worse. “This had better be good,” he slurred.

  “Jack, it’s me.”

  “Aw, come on, Andy.” A deep breath then out with a tired yawn. “It’s not even seven o’clock yet.”

  “I know, Jack, I’m sorry, but I need to speak to Chloe.”

  “Chloe?”

  “Is she there?”

  “What for?”

  Gilchrist felt his head slump. This was not good. Not good at all. “If I can’t speak to her,” he tried, “just tell me she’s okay.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me Chloe’s okay.” Gilchrist tightened his grip on his phone, prayed Jack would simply pass his call to a sleeping Chloe and have her speak to him.

  “What the hell is this, Andy?”

  “Let me speak to her.”

  A pause, then a defeated rush, “She’s not here.”

  Gilchrist felt his breath leave him. There. He had it. He was right. He stared at the sea, felt the breeze squeeze tears from his eyes. Then a flicker of hope. Maybe he was wrong. “She’s left you,” he said. “Hasn’t she?”

  “What the hell’s that got—”

  “Jack, listen—”

  “No, Andy. You listen. What Chloe and I do with our lives has got eff all to do—”

  “That’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Why, then?”

  Because I think someone’s murdered Chloe and is feeding her to me in chunks. He took a deep breath, tried the soft approach once more. “Jack, please, if you know, just tell me where she is.”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  Sometimes with Jack you had to take the direct approach. “I am, Jack. Now you listen to me. This is not a personal call. I’m talking to you as Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist of Fife Constabulary’s Crime Management Department. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Silence.

  “I need to talk to Chloe.”
He heard a hand brush the mouthpiece, caught an image of Jack pulling himself from bed, blonde hair tousled with bed-head.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  Jack’s breath came hard and deep all of a sudden. “It’s that hand thing,” he said. “Isn’t it? It’s been on the news.”

  “It’s too early to say.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Andy.”

  “I’m not lying, for crying out loud. We don’t know.”

  “Why call then?”

  “To rule Chloe out.”

  “I don’t know where she is. We had a row. She stomped off in one of her moods.”

  “When did you last talk to her?”

  “Three days ago. No. Four. Christ. I don’t know.”

  “Settle down,” Gilchrist said, struggling to keep his own voice steady.

  “Jesus, Andy. What’s happened to her?”

  “Probably nothing, Jack.”

  “Why’re you calling, then?”

  “To rule her out.”

  “You know it’s her.”

  “For God’s sake, Jack, will you just listen?”

  “That’s why you’re asking to talk to her. You know it’s her, don’t you? The hand. It’s hers. You know it is.”

  Gilchrist felt his lips tighten as he listened to his son cry. He wanted to speak, but found his own voice had deserted him. He heard Jack say something, the words thick and unintelligible. He clung onto the phone, pressed it tight against his ear, and whispered, “Jack,” then felt a puzzling sense of relief wash over him when Jack hung up.

  He folded his phone. His chest was heaving, his heart racing. He had handled it all wrong. Why could he never get it right with Jack? Why did he always feel as if he was pushing him farther away? He felt the tight sting of tears, the cold flush of ice in his lungs.

  Christ. What if the hand was not Chloe’s? What if all he had done was upset Jack? Dear God, he would love Jack to call him back and give him a right old reaming. Then Chloe would be safe and alive. He could stand that. In fact, he would welcome that. He stared off across the dunes, felt an odd reluctance to leave that spot, knowing that doing so would mean having to look at the hand again in the knowledge that if he was right, if his worst fears were realised, then the rest of Chloe would be presented to him piece by slaughtered piece.