Hand for a Hand (10 page)

The driver tried a smile. “Any problems?”

Even from those two words, Gilchrist detected the hard Glasgow accent, the street-wise manner. Not your upper-class
citizen. He eyed the passenger who sat with his face to the front, as if he could not look the law in the eye. “Pull off to the side of the road, sir.”

The driver grimaced, swarthy features gaunt and rough from a couple of days’ growth. “What’s this in aid of?”

“Pull in over there, sir.” Harder that time.

The driver bumped the Astra onto the pavement with a squeal of rubber that had MacKay reaching for his truncheon.

Gilchrist waved the remaining cars through while Graham stood next to the Astra and MacKay returned to his vehicle to carry out preliminary checks. When the traffic cleared, Gilchrist walked over to MacKay and pushed his head through the open window.

MacKay was seated, the driver’s licence in one hand, his radio in the other.

“Does it check out?” Gilchrist asked.

“It checks. James Fletcher. The Vauxhall’s registered in his name.”

“And the other guy?”

MacKay shook his head. “Says his name is Joe Smith. I was thinking nothing out of ten for originality, then he hands me a passport.” He held the burgundy-coloured passport up and gave a wry smile. “Joseph Smith.”

Gilchrist frowned, doubts already niggling at him. Who carried their passport around with them? “Right,” he said, and walked over to the Astra. He nodded to Graham. Like a choreographed act, he and Graham gripped opposite door handles and opened the passenger and driver doors in unison.

“Could you please step out, sir,” Graham said.

Gilchrist smiled down at the upturned face, then stepped back as Fletcher slid out.

“Will someone tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

“No need to use foul language, Mr. Fletcher.” Gilchrist watched a mixture of anger and surprise shift behind the man’s dark eyes. “Where are you driving to?”

“Glasgow Airport.”

“From?”

“St. Andrews.”

“Both of you?”

“Yeah. Me and my mate, Joe.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean
why
? Because I like him. That’s why.”

“I meant, why are you driving to Glasgow Airport? Do you have a plane to catch?”

“Yeah,” growled Fletcher. “We were going on our holidays until you lot stopped us.”

Hence the passport
. “Spain, is it?”

“Cyprus. Like to see the tickets?”

Gilchrist gave a short smile, doubt swelling in his mind. “Not at the moment,” he said, then added, “Your car was spotted this morning parked adjacent to the Old Course.”

“So?”

“What was it doing there?”

“That’s where I park it.”

“Overnight?”

“Yeah.”

And at that instant, Gilchrist saw his error. The dry patch on the road surface. The storm had lasted the best part of an hour. The Vauxhall must have been parked longer than that, and he felt the beginnings of a flush warm his neck and work its way to his cheeks.

“Your licence has your address in Glasgow,” he tried.

“We’ve just moved up here.”

“To do what?”

“Look for work.”

“As what?”

“Caddies.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At a friend’s flat.”

“Student?”

“Yeah.”

“Address?”

“A dump in Howard Place.”

The Links was no more than a couple of hundred yards from Howard Place. “Why park in The Links?” Gilchrist asked.

“Starter motor’s shot. Park at the top of the hill, so I can get a good run.”

“For a bump-start?”

“Is that against the law?”

“Not yet,” said Gilchrist, and tried another smile.
Shit
. How could he have been so blinkered? He had it wrong. Or was he missing something? He was about to buy Fletcher’s story, when he frowned. “How long are you staying in Cyprus?”

“Nine days.”

“Nicosia?”

“Limassol.”

“Where are your suitcases?”

“In the boot. Where’d you think?”

If Fletcher was telling the truth, then either Gilchrist or Lambert should have heard the boot being closed. “This morning, did you?”

“Huh?”

“Put your suitcases in the boot this morning?”

“Last night. So we’d get a quick start.” Fletcher must have seen the despair in Gilchrist’s face, for he said, “Look, pal, we really do have a plane to catch. Do you mind?”

Gilchrist tried one final question. “When you fly back from Cyprus,” he said, “how are you going to start your car at the airport?”

“Jump leads.” Fletcher looked at his watch. “Why don’t you look in the boot?” He held up his keys. “Here,” he said. “Let me show you.”

He raised the boot lid, pulled one of the cases out, and thudded
it to the ground. Then he slipped his hands down the side of the other. “Look,” he said, holding up a pair of jump leads. “Believe me now?” He threw them back into the boot with a whispered curse, and said, “Joe’s got the tickets.”

“Thank you for helping us with our enquiries, Mr. Fletcher.” He tried a smile. What a fuck up. “Have a good holiday.”

“Is that it?”

“It is.”

Fletcher grunted and heaved the suitcase into the boot.

Gilchrist gave Graham a quick shake of his head, and heard the boot lid close with a force that made him think Fletcher imagined decapitating him.

Before the Astra drove off, Gilchrist called Nance. “Forget the PNC,” he said. “It’s the wrong car.”

“There is a God after all.”

“Praying for a break, were you?”

“Something like that.”

“If you’re going to pray for anything, Nance, pray that we find this guy. I think we’re in for a rough ride.”

He hung up and watched the Astra pull to a halt at the traffic lights. Maybe it was something in the heat of the moment, some surge of adrenaline in the anticipation of making an arrest that triggered his thought process. Or maybe not. Whatever it was, he had learned over the years to trust it.

Murder
.

Massacre
.

Now
Bludgeon
.

He whispered the words, rolled them around his mouth, not liking the feel of them, liking even less the dread surging through him like a wave of despair. Three. That was the magic number, the minimum needed to create a sequence. And he thought he saw the start of some sequence, some reason for the order in which the words were being fed to him.

But he could be wrong.

He dabbed his forehead. It felt sweaty and cold.

Which told him he was worried. He was worried sick.

His hunch with the Astra had been wrong. So wrong.

And he prayed to God that the thoughts stirring in his mind to reach their numbing conclusion were wrong, too.

But he could not rid himself of the fear that this time he was right.

“N
EXT TIME
I
tell you to fill it up with petrol, you fill it up with petrol. You got that?”

“Yeah, big man.”

Jimmy clipped the side of Wee Kenny’s head.

“I hear you, big man, I hear you.”

He clipped Wee Kenny’s head again, once, twice, then balled his hand into a fist and thudded it into Wee Kenny’s head with two quick hits.

Wee Kenny howled. Tears filled his eyes. But Jimmy knew Wee Kenny would not retaliate. That would make it worse. Wee Kenny had fucked up.

Jimmy punched him again, this time caught him on the ear.

Wee Kenny squealed. “Sorry, big man. Sorry. It’ll no happen again.”

“You’re fucking right it’ll no happen again.”

His next punch glanced off the back of Wee Kenny’s head. “Stupid wee fucker,” he growled. “That could have been us back there. Done and fucking dusted. D’you fucking understand?”

Wee Kenny looked up with a silent plea, and Jimmy timed a punch to his mouth that cracked his lips and cut short any thoughts he might have had of trying to explain. “And how often have I told you to get the boot painted?” Jimmy roared.

“A lot of times, big man.”

“That’s right. A fucking lot of times.” Jimmy leaned across and punched Wee Kenny in the mouth again, pleased to see that he had drawn blood at last. Then he pressed himself into his seat and
gripped the steering wheel. The first thing he would do when he got back to Glasgow was organise a respray. Maybe change the colour. But he liked silver. The paint might look a bit dull. But it gave the Jaguar some class.

Except that dent on the boot still needed doing.

And after the respray he would take care of Kenny.

The wee man was becoming a fucking liability. Thicker than two short planks, so he was. He would talk to his brother, convince him that Wee Kenny was no longer fit for the job. Bully would understand, then give the thumbs-up. Or was it thumbs-down? He bet the wee man would bleed like a pig. Squeal like one, too. He smiled at that thought and reached over to Wee Kenny’s shoulder.

“You all right, wee man?”

“I’m fine, Jimmy. I’m fine.”

“Sit up, then. I’m not going to hit you.”

“You sure?”

“Anyone can make a mistake.” Jimmy smiled. “Don’t worry about a thing, wee man. I’m going to look after you.”

Chapter 12

G
ILCHRIST RETURNED TO
the scene of the crime. Yellow tape stretched the width of Golf Place, and traffic cones diverted beach-bound traffic onto The Scores. The SOCO tent was erected, the van parked in the centre of the road, doors open. The wind had died, and dawn was peeling back a cloudless sky, as if the early morning storm had been only a dream.

He parked his Mercedes next to Mackie’s Volvo Estate. He walked towards the tent where DC Alan Bowers, the Crime Scene Manager, was talking to Lambert. He saw no sign of Watt. He caught up with Nance scribbling in her notebook.

“Have you seen Watt?” he asked her.

“Been and gone.”

“Did you tell him I wanted to talk to him?”

“Of course.”

Gilchrist tightened his lips. Watt’s insubordination stiffened his resolve to have it out with Greaves. But he needed to get moving with his investigation.

He nodded to the row of hotels and guest houses that ran along The Scores. “Before anyone has a chance to check out,” he said to Nance, “I want you and Lambert to go to every door along The Scores. Find out which guests occupy the seafront rooms. Maybe one of them saw something.” He glanced at his watch. “You don’t have much time, so split up. You start with the Scores Hotel. Have Lambert take the one next to it. Then alternate after that. Get back to me by mid-morning.”

Nance walked away as Mackie emerged from the SOCO tent
peeling his coveralls from his head. “Getting too old for this,” he said to Gilchrist, unzipping his coveralls. He stepped out of them, ran a liver-spotted hand over a balding pate. “Bludgeon?” He eyed Gilchrist, his sandy eyes creasing against a brightening sky. “Any idea what it means?”

Yes
, Gilchrist wanted to say.
And it frightens me to death
. “Not yet.”

“Murder, massacre, bludgeon?” Mackie scratched his head. “What’s this sick bastard trying to tell us? Tell you?” His gaze fixed on Gilchrist with a directness that could unsettle judge-hardened prosecutors, and for one moment, Gilchrist felt certain Mackie could see through his lie.

“The leg’s a mess,” Mackie continued. “The branding’s uneven, probably as a result of not being consistently hot or applied with even pressure. You know what I’m saying?”

“A DIY job?”

Mackie almost smiled, a quick tug of the lips. “Starts off with the letters being over-branded,” he went on. “Too deep. Too long. Running into each other. By the end, it seems as if he has it about right.”

“Practice makes perfect?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“And another way?”

“Anger.”

Gilchrist waited for Mackie to continue. But the old man stared over his shoulder. Gilchrist had come to understand Mackie’s periods of silence, when he gave the impression of being inattentive, but in reality was deep in thought.

“It’s as if he was angry to start with,” Mackie went on. “Then calmed down as he progressed.”

“Worked his anger out?”

“Precisely.”

“A sadist?”

“Definitely.” Mackie raised an eyebrow. “Among other things.”

“Such as?”

Mackie exhaled a long puff of air, and Gilchrist was almost wishing he had not asked the question. “I’m not a psychologist, of course. It’s just a feeling.” Mackie’s jowls jiggled as he shook his head. “It takes a certain kind of mental dysfunction to cope with cutting up a human body,” he said. “And an even greater insanity to brand words onto it. I would say whoever did this had to be more than cruel. He had to be devoid of feeling. No sense of compassion, no sense of ethics, moral or otherwise, an abject failure to consider the difference between right and wrong.”

“Psychopath?” Gilchrist tried.

Mackie nodded. “At a minimum.”

Gilchrist took a deep breath. He had dealt with a number of psychopaths in his day, had seen enough MRI scans on the brains of an assortment of criminals to know the neural activity in the pre-frontal lobe, that part of the brain that controlled impulsiveness, was lower in the brains of psychopaths than in normal humans. And without that ability to stop and think, to give consideration to the consequence of their actions, some psychopaths turned to murder.

Mackie cleared his throat. “This someone needs to be in control. The notes to you. The delay in the leg turning up. He’s keeping you guessing, letting you know he’s in control, or put another way, that you’re
not
in control. And if I had to guess, I would say he’s sexually deviant.”

“Why do you say that?”

Mackie shrugged. “Another feeling.”

Gilchrist thought he detected a hint of regret. “And?”

“This case is personal to you.”

“Let’s have it, Bert.”

Mackie frowned. “Whoever is doing this gains little or no pleasure from normal sexual activity. At a guess I’d say he’s into necrophilia.”

Necrophilia? Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. For God’s sake.
What could he say to Jack? He closed his eyes and in his mind’s eye saw Chloe naked, her eyes staring blind-sighted to the ceiling, her small breasts shuddering from rhythmic thudding.…