Hand for a Hand Page 4

  Now he knew why his name had been on the envelope. What better way to hurt another human being, to really hurt them to the core, than to hurt their family?

  But why? And why him?

  He could think of a million reasons for someone wanting to even the score.

  He closed his eyes and prayed to God he was wrong on every one of them.

  Chapter 6

  GILCHRIST DID THE necessary.

  He dialled the number for DCI Peter “Dainty” Small of Strathclyde Police HQ, Pitt Street, Glasgow, and asked him to put out a Lookout Request on a young woman, five-ten, twenty-two years old, a freelance artist by the name of Chloe Fullerton. He gave her last known address as Jack’s tenement flat in Glasgow.

  Dainty and Gilchrist had joined Fife Constabulary at the same time. But eight years later, Dainty married Margo Cunningham, a young PW, and moved to Glasgow the following year. They had kept in contact over the years, exchanging Christmas cards and information on relevant cases as the need arose. Gilchrist ended the call by saying he hoped he was wrong, hoped Chloe would turn up, then slipped his mobile into his jacket pocket.

  From his hillock, the golf course was beginning to show signs of life.

  Behind the first tee, the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse stood like a misplaced mansion, alone in its stone splendour. People dotted Grannie Clark’s Wynd, the pathway that crossed the first and eighteenth fairways and connected The Links to Bruce Embankment on the shoreline. To the east, the sky glowed crimson with a hint of blue through tattered clouds.

  Gilchrist could not rid himself of his fear for Chloe. He searched the dunes for the spot where they had picnicked on the beach in January. It seemed absurd. But it had been Jack’s idea. Freezing cold. Wind whipping in off the sea. At least we’ll have the beach to ourselves. Gilchrist almost smiled. They ended up sharing the West Sands with people and dogs and couples in love, and sweating joggers and kids, and fathers with swooping kites. They even watched some lunatic strip to his underwear and take a swim—

  Something moved at his feet. The black labrador.

  He scratched behind its ears as its tail brushed the long grass.

  “Her name’s Biddy,” said the man in the yellow anorak.

  Gilchrist scratched deeper. “That’s a rare old name.”

  “That’s what my father called my grandmother.”

  “He must have thought she gossiped too much, then?”

  “Among other things.” The man chuckled, held out his hand. “Charlie Blair.”

  The grip felt warm, hard, honest. “DCI Gilchrist.”

  Blair nodded. “Nice to meet you at last. I’ve seen your face around.”

  Gilchrist smiled. “In the bars, no doubt.”

  “On the telly.” Blair nodded over his shoulder. “Quite gruesome,” he said. “I don’t think I would like your job. It must get to you.”

  You get used to it, Gilchrist wanted to say, but he would be lying. Instead, he said, “You found it? The hand, I mean.”

  “Just passing.”

  The significance of Blair’s comment did not hit Gilchrist until Blair continued on his way and Biddy loped ahead, nose to the rough, tail like a black hand-brush sweeping the grass with canine pleasure. Gilchrist called out.

  They met halfway, and Gilchrist asked what he meant by just passing.

  “Exactly that. I saw Detective Watt standing at the bunker. At first I thought he was a drunk taking a leak, but then he called me over and asked me what I thought.”

  “What you thought?”

  Blair nodded. “Of the hand.”

  “I see,” said Gilchrist, and thanked him for his time.

  “He’s a strange one,” said Blair as he strode off.

  Gilchrist found Watt standing at the edge of the fairway, and grabbed him by his coat lapels. “Why are you here?” he growled.

  “What the fuck’re you—”

  “Why are you here? In St. Andrews.”

  A steel claw gripped his wrist. “Take your fucking hands off me.”

  Gilchrist glanced to his side, saw the SOCOs eye them with suspicion, as if undecided whether to separate them, or stand back and enjoy the fight. He tightened his grip. “Not until you tell me why you were up bright as a lark way before dawn this morning.”

  “I’m an early riser.”

  “Who told you the hand was here?”

  “No one.”

  “Charlie Blair and his faithful mutt, Biddy, didn’t find it. You did.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Watt sneered. “He doesn’t want to be involved, does Charlie.”

  “I warned you, Ronnie. One step out of line and I’ll have you kicked all the way back to Glasgow.” He gritted his teeth. “Did somebody call you?”

  “No.”

  “I swear I’ll have your phone records examined.”

  Something went out of Watt at that moment, like a prisoner realising the futility of struggling against his shackles. Gilchrist responded by relaxing his grip. Then he let go and lowered his arm.

  Watt straightened his lapels, shuffled his shoulders, smoothed his jacket. He pushed his hand into his pocket. “I got this.” He pulled out a damp piece of paper that looked as if it had been ripped from an envelope.

  Gilchrist read the pencilled words.

  right hand—principal’s nose.

  “Who gave you this?” he asked.

  “It was stuck underneath my windscreen wiper.” Watt’s jaw was set as tight as rock. He widened his stance, and Gilchrist could almost taste the raw power of the guy.

  “And you don’t know who put it there?”

  “Correct.”

  “Were you going to show me this?”

  “Of course,” Watt growled. “I never got a chance.”

  Gilchrist glared at him.

  Watt shrugged. “You looked busy. I was taking a call. When I spoke to you, you ignored me. What do you expect me to do? Get down on my knees and fucking beg?”

  Gilchrist narrowed his eyes. He held the damp scrap up between them. “Whoever wrote this,” he said to Watt, “is playing games with us. A note for me. A message for you. Did it not cross your mind that we’re being set up?”

  Watt tightened his lips.

  “What about Blair and his dog?” asked Gilchrist.

  “What about them? He was walking down the fairway. I called him over, asked him to verify it.”

  “Why?”

  “Thought I could use a witness.”

  “What for?”

  “Protection.”

  “From what?”

  Watt chewed his imaginary gum. “You’re just itching to kick me out,” he said.

  Somehow hearing the truth of his own vendetta against Watt shamed Gilchrist. He needed to rise above it all. But damn it, what the hell had Greaves expected?

  “Any other messages I need to see?”

  Watt shook his head. “None.”

  Gilchrist was prepared to bet a month’s salary that Watt was lying. But what could he do? Tie him to a rack? Hammer bamboo shoots under his fingernails? He raked his fingers through his hair. It felt damp. But the sea air had almost cleared his hangover. “After you removed the note from your windscreen,” he said, “did you talk to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Call anyone?”

  “No.”

  “You came straight here?”

  “That’s right.”

  Watt could be lying, but how could he prove it? “Get hold of Nance,” he said. “Get her down here. With Bert. There’s paint under the fingernails. I want Bert to tell us what it is. And if Brenda from the Procurator Fiscal’s Office turns up, keep your hands off her. She’s married.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Everything,” he said, and walked away. It was corny, he knew, but he counted off seven steps then stopped. “Tell me this,” he said to Watt. “Where’s the Valley of Sin?”

  Watt stopped chewing. “The what?”

  “The
Valley of Sin.”

  Watt gave an uncertain smile, and said, “Between a pair of knockers?” He shrugged and half-laughed. “What kind of a question is that?”

  Gilchrist had his answer. He strutted off, past the SOCO van, reached the boundary wall, and glanced back. Watt stood at the edge of the bunker. Beyond the dunes, a low sun pierced thinning clouds that stretched to the horizon. He leapt over the stone wall and put his head down for the walk back to his car.

  He should send Watt packing. Get it over and done with. But he wondered if there might be something to be gained by not doing that. The killer was smart, cunning, and for some reason it seemed important to make sure Watt was one of the first on the scene.

  Hence the note under the windscreen.

  After finding the note, Watt said he had not spoken to anyone. But he was lying. Why else had he crumbled at the mention of his phone records?

  And then there was the Valley of Sin.

  Not being a golfer and not raised in St. Andrews, Watt’s local knowledge was limited. The Valley of Sin was a grass swale that fronted the eighteenth green of the Old Course, a dip in the fairway that punished weak approach shots. To the golfing world, the Valley of Sin was infamous. But if Watt had never heard of the Valley of Sin he sure as hell had not heard of the Principal’s Nose. So, how had he known the Principal’s Nose was a cluster of bunkers on the sixteenth fairway? It could have been the name of a pub, for all he knew. Had a fairy fluttered down and lit Watt’s way with her magic wand?

  Not a chance. Gilchrist did not believe in fairies.

  But he did believe in phone calls and phone records.

  He reached his Mercedes and glanced over at the dunes, to the spot that had held so much promise for Jack and Chloe. He had seen in Chloe a young woman who could settle the wild stallion of his son, who could pull in his reins and have him snorting with restive passion. And as he stared seaward, he wondered what memories of St. Andrews Chloe had taken with her. Iced champagne on wind-chilled dunes? Shoeless strolls on sun-soaked sands? Jokes and hugs and kisses and beer?

  And what of his own memories of Chloe?

  He would remember her as waif-like, with slender limbs and blonde hair and eyes and teeth that sparkled with the promise of life.

  And hands as fine as those of any model.

  He slid behind the wheel and closed the door. He knew what he had to do.

  For Chloe. And for Jack.

  Chapter 7

  JACK STOOD OUTSIDE his tenement building.

  His breath evaporated in drizzle as fine as haar. To his side, water dripped from a broken drainpipe, as steady as a metronome. Runoff trickled along granite curbs that edged North Gardner Street. He blew into his hands, tried to take the chill from his body, would have called for a taxi if he could afford it. But he had spent the last of his dole check on a tab of speed to keep him awake for his latest work, a life-sized figure sculpted from concrete and reinforcing steel rods finagled from a building site in Partick.

  He could blame the sculpture for setting Chloe off. But if he was being honest, it was not the sculpture at all but the drugs that upset her. He saw that now. But he had taken her comments as a personal slight, and they had argued.

  How could they have? Chloe loved his sculptures. And he loved her paintings. Together, they were a creative team. Apart, they were.…

  He took a deep breath.

  He missed Chloe so much. He never should have gone back on speed, and he never should have spent his dole money. What the hell had he been thinking? But now he was off the drugs. By God, was he off them. When Chloe came back he would tell her he was off them for good. He pulled his combat jacket collar tight to his neck, skipped down the worn steps, and started walking.

  Chloe had been gone for four days now. Four days.

  Amphetamines were great to keep you awake, but when you came off them, watch out. He had not missed her the first two days, been asleep most of the time. But it had now been four days since she told him to sort himself out or she was through with him.

  You’re losing it, Jack. You can do better than this. I’ve seen you do better.

  They argued. Man, did they argue. And the following morning she rose from bed and left. Just like that. But she never took her paintings. Which was her way of telling him she would be back. On the third day, he called her mobile phone ten times, and each time got the recorded message, It has not been possible to connect your call. Please try again later. He even tried her parents’ home then hung up when her mother said she was now living in Glasgow, and who is this speaking please?

  He turned into Hyndland Road, and the wind stiffened, hard and cold against him. He tucked his head and braced himself as he waded into it.

  Chloe wasn’t dead. The hand wasn’t hers. She was staying with Jenny. That’s where she was. With Jenny. Not that he had spoken to Jenny, just that he knew Chloe and Jenny were close. Not as close as they had been when Chloe had been dating Kevin. But close nonetheless.

  Kevin’s death had hurt Chloe, hurt her relationship with Jack, often came between them. Or it might be more accurate to say Kevin’s life came between them. For Jack had always thought there was more to Kevin than met the eye. He had seen Chloe about town with Kevin, first caught her eye three years ago at some party on the South side, fancied her even then. It was not Kevin that concerned Jack, but the company he kept. Jack was off drugs back then, and trouble was how he would have described Kevin’s friends.

  By the time he reached Jenny’s flat, his feet were soaked through. As he scanned the list of names on the doorframe, he realised he could not remember Jenny’s surname. But her boyfriend’s name was Roddy, an Englishman with an English name and Scottish accent who worked in the city centre. They had dated for years. Chloe told him they split up.

  He stopped at J. Colvin & R. Braithwaite.

  That was it. Jenny Colvin and Roddy Braithwaite.

  He rang the bell, turned his back to the door and blew into his hands. He felt chilled to the bone, gave out a cough.

  A tinny voice crackled from the speaker. “Who’s this?”

  “Jenny?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Jack Gilchrist.” He thought he heard a low curse. “I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”

  “D’you know what time it is?”

  “It’s about Chloe.”

  “Chloe?”

  He wanted to ask if Chloe was there, tell her he needed to talk to her. But he thought Jenny might lie for her, keep her hidden. “It’s freezing out here,” he said.

  The speaker buzzed, and Jenny said, “Come on up.”

  He pushed open the heavy entrance door and fought off the feeling that Chloe was not there. On the top landing, the door to Jenny’s flat lay ajar. He stepped into a narrow hallway that smelled of burned toast. Jenny’s voice came at him from a doorway on the far right.

  “In the kitchen.”

  Jenny was dressed in a white baggy bathrobe that hung loose at the front and did little to hide the swell of her boobs. Her face looked tanned, as if she had returned from a winter holiday. She scowled when she saw him.

  “Jeezo, Jack. What happened to you?”

  “Chloe,” he said.

  “So you keep saying.”

  “Is she here?”

  “I haven’t seen Chloe in months.”

  “Haven’t you heard from her?”

  “Not since before Christmas. Why? What’s happened?”

  Jack felt the power go out of his legs. He stumbled to the kitchen table and sat. He fought back the tears, but could not stop himself.

  He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

  BERT MACKIE CALLED Gilchrist shortly before 9:00 and confirmed he had found traces of oil paint under the nails of both hands and was waiting for results of a spectrographic analysis to determine the paint’s chemical composition. Gilchrist then ordered Nance and Watt to continue their investigation of all things artsy.

  Brenda McAllister from
the Procurator Fiscal’s Office instructed the examination of the second hand to be done under the supervision of two pathologists. Alec Simpson, from Ninewells Hospital in Dundee, was contracted to assist Bert Mackie.

  Gilchrist assigned DS Stan Davidson to oversee a fresh search of the Old Course and environs and to interview the greenkeeping staff. Then he sent a trainee out shopping with instructions not to return until she had a map of the Old Course that detailed all features. Next, he called the Town Council and ordered the West Sands closed, including cancelling the beach-cleaning tractor, in case the killer had not taken the pathway route, but come in over the dunes.

  Unlikely, he thought, but it kept the scene quiet.

  He called Martin Coyle on his mobile not long after 9:00 with the intention of driving into Cupar to meet him. But Coyle was in St. Andrews checking out golf club sales, so they agreed to meet later in the Jigger Inn.

  By lunchtime, the investigation was no further forward. Gilchrist’s hangover had returned with a vengeance, and after popping a couple of Paracetemol he decided a hair of the dog was just what the doctor ordered. He arrived at the Jigger ten minutes early and ordered a pint of Guinness. Coyle walked into the lounge before he had a chance to take a sip.

  They shook hands like long lost friends.

  “Pint?” Gilchrist asked.

  Coyle had one of those faces that always seemed to want to smile. When he spoke, his eyes creased and his lips parted in a gap-toothed grin. “Just a tonic and lemon.”

  “On a diet?” Gilchrist asked.

  “Afraid not.”

  “The wagon?”

  Coyle smiled. “Alkey.”

  Gilchrist thought he managed to keep his surprise hidden. He and Coyle used to run cross-country marathons together when Gilchrist joined the force and Coyle the Post Office as a telecommunications engineer. They would meet in the Whey Pat Tavern on a Saturday night at 5:00, and stagger home this side of midnight after sampling the wares of most of the bars in town. Coyle in a bar without a beer was like a golfer on the course without his clubs.

  Gilchrist sipped his beer. “When did this happen?”

  “Nine months ago. I woke up one morning with eyes like I had yellow fever. Doctor told me to give up the drink, or get measured for my coffin.” Coyle smiled. “Well, I’ve got the grandkid to think of now. Not to mention Linda.”