Life For a Life (13 page)

‘I meant, what make?’

‘Mercedes. One of the sports ones, with the big Mercedes thingmie on the front.’

‘On the bonnet?’

‘Naw. The front. On the radiator grille thingmie.’

‘Two-seater? Or four?’

‘How would I know?’

‘What colour?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Silver.’

‘Registration number plate?’

‘Are you joking? Takes me all my time to remember my own phone number.’

‘It’s not a personalised number plate, is it?’

Dot thought for a moment, then said, ‘I widnae know for sure.’

‘We’ll check it out. Anything else you can remember about the car? Any dents, scratches?’ he prompted.

‘Only that she complained it was getting old and was thinking of putting it up for sale.’

‘And did she?’

‘I’ve no seen her in weeks, like I told you.’

Gilchrist returned the spiral notebook. ‘Write this down,’ he said, and waited while she removed a ballpoint from a mug with
Lovers Leap
printed across it, choked with pens, pencils, highlighters. ‘Eleven a.m.,’ he said. ‘Jessica. Mercedes 350 SLK for sale. Fully loaded. Low mileage. Spotless.’ Then he read out Jessie’s mobile number, and said, ‘You never saw us. We weren’t here today. All right?’

Dot eyed Gilchrist, her look shifting with indecision.

‘I’ll make sure your man doesn’t get lifted next month,’ Jessie said to her.

Something passed behind Dot’s eyes, then she revealed a Stonehenge-row of stained teeth. ‘Forget that,’ she said. ‘Lift the dozy bastard, and keep him in for the weekend. Can youse do that?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I never seen youse then.’

In a vacant plot to the rear of the building, Gilchrist inspected the dumpster, but it contained no more than a day’s worth of cardboard boxes and plastic wrapping.

‘So what’s a 350 LKS when it’s at home?’ Jessie asked him.

‘It’s a 350 SLK, and it’s your boyfriend’s car.’

‘And he’s just done the dirty on me,’ she said. ‘Which is why I’m giving it away to the first reasonable offer.’

Again, the speed of Jessie’s mind surprised him.

Then she looked at him, as if he’d grown horns. ‘You sure you weren’t a bitch in an earlier life?’

As Gilchrist accelerated on to the M8, Jessie said, ‘D’you mind doing a detour?’

‘Where to?’

‘Easterhouse.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘You wouldn’t want to,’ she said.

Silent, he followed Jessie’s directions as she guided him off the motorway and into the maze-like depths of a sixties housing development, which he knew from reading Dainty’s email before crashing out was where Jessie’s mother lived.

‘Next on the left,’ Jessie said.

Gilchrist eased into Wellhouse Crescent.

‘Nearly there.’

‘Is this where you grew up?’ he asked.

‘If you could call it that.’

Rows of three-storey flats ran along one side of a narrow street lined with parked cars that had seen better days. Derelict open space filled the other side.

‘Anywhere here’ll do,’ Jessie said.

He drew in behind a battered Ford Mondeo.

Jessie had her seat belt off and the door open before Gilchrist stopped. ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ she said.

Gilchrist watched her walk along the pavement, her head low, then turn and walk down a concrete path to a single access door, which she pushed open. She entered, and he removed his mobile and dialled Nance.

‘Any luck with Farmer?’

‘Not yet. I’ve got Dan checking out CCTV footage. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘How about the tattoos? You get anywhere with these?’

‘Nada. Baxter and McIvie are doing the rounds, but so far no one’s owning up. It’s a real long shot, Andy, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

Jessie’s suggestion that the tattoos were done by some kind of a tattoo stamp, rather than from the needlework of a tattoo artist, had him almost telling her to call it off. ‘Give them to the end of the day,’ he said. ‘Then bring them in.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. I need you to find the registered owner of a Mercedes Sports. Several years old. Silver. Assume high mileage.’

‘Is that it?’

‘And it might be registered under the name Caryl V. Dillanos, but then again, maybe not. So try personalised registration numbers along the lines of CVD something, or anything else that someone called Caryl-with-a-y Dillanos might find personal enough.’

‘If it’s not registered under Caryl Dillanos, why would the plate be her initials?’

‘If Dillanos is not her real name, then it might mean something to her. She drives around in it, after all. You know, like Cheryl Victoria Dunbar, or some such thing.’

‘This sounds like another long shot, Andy.’

‘It’s the best I can do,’ he said. ‘But I might have something more for you by the end of the day. I’ll call then.’ He hung up, annoyed that his investigation seemed to be stalling. But sometimes you just have to plug away.

Just then, Jessie emerged from the entrance to the flats, her face pale, her lips tight. She marched towards the Merc, and he glimpsed movement at the top window on the block of flats from which she had just left. He peered up at Jeannie Janes mouthing off to Jessie.

The door opened. Jessie slid in.

‘Drive.’

‘Seat belt.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Andy, you can be a right plonker at times.’

‘Who’s this?’ he asked, as a young man burst into the open.

‘Ah, fuck it.’

Although stripped to the waist, the man’s body was covered with so many tattoos he could have been clothed. He reached the pavement, jerked his head both ways, then saw Jessie. His face twisted with anger as he rushed towards the car.

Gilchrist had the door open and was on his feet by the time the young man reached them, and was striding round the bonnet as the man opened Jessie’s door.

‘Close the door, sonny.’

The young man spun round, hatred twisting his features. ‘Who the fuck’re you?’

‘I’m the guy who’s going to arrest you for spilling blood all over his nice car.’

‘Blood? What blood? I’ve no laid a fucking finger on her yet.’

‘I’m not talking about her,’ Gilchrist said.

Something seemed to dawn on the young man then, and he grinned, more grimace than smile. He flexed his muscles, stretched the tendons in his neck, as if readying to charge.

‘Don’t get yourself in serious trouble, sonny.’

‘The name’s Terry,’ he said, ‘and ah’ve been in serious trouble afore.’

‘You tell him, Terry,’ Jessie said, shaking her head. ‘Just close the door and go back upstairs, will you?’

Terry turned to Jessie. ‘You ever set one foot in this street again, just one foot, and I’m warning you, Jessie, I’ll fucking have you, cop or no cop. Got that?’

‘Sure, Terry.’

He slammed the door, hard enough for Jessie to wince, then turned and strode towards Gilchrist who did the honourable thing and tried to step out of the way. Not quick enough, as Terry shouldered him on the way past.

Gilchrist turned, grabbed Terry’s arm, twisted it, and knocked the legs out from under him. As Terry tumbled, Gilchrist spun him so that Terry hit the ground face down with his arm jammed up between his shoulder blades. A knee into the middle of his back had Terry howling with pain, and gasping for breath.

‘Let him go, Andy.’ Jessie now stood at the front of the Merc.

Gilchrist looked up at her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

A high-pitched voice from the top-floor window had them both lifting their heads.

‘I seen that, you fuckers. Police brutality’s what it is. Youse’ll be hearing from my solicitor. I’ll be making a formal complaint. I’ll get you flung out the force, you fucking wee bitch.’

‘Let’s go, Andy. I shouldn’t have come.’

Gilchrist shifted his knee, eased Terry’s arm down his back. He stood back as Terry pulled himself to his feet, his bare chest grazed and oozing blood where he had landed on the pavement. Terry slid an arm under his nose, then spat to the ground.

‘Go home, Terry. This is nothing to do with you.’

‘It’s
every
thing to do with me.’

‘Give it up, Terry. I’m through with you lot.’

Terry pointed at her, his lean arm as tattooed as a yakuza’s. ‘I’m warning you—’

‘Are you threatening a police officer?’ Gilchrist asked.

Terry’s jaw rippled with anger, his eyes danced with indecision. Then he said, ‘Ach, away and fuck, the pair of youse.’

Gilchrist waited until Terry was stomping his way back to his flat before he turned to Jessie. She shrugged a grimace, then retreated to the car.

As Gilchrist opened the car door, he glanced at the upper-floor window. But Jeannie with her matriarchal vitriol was gone. Silent, he retraced their route back to the M8.

As he accelerated down the slip road, he said, ‘Who’s Terry?’

‘My brother.’

‘Mr Angry.’

She snorted. ‘Here’s hoping you never meet Tommy.’

Gilchrist gave her words some thought, then said, ‘So what’s going on is more than just you and your mother not liking each other.’

‘I’m not ready for this.’

‘That doesn’t cut it, Jessie. I was attacked by—’

‘Terry bumped into you, Andy. You didn’t need to take him down like that.’

‘If I hadn’t been there, would he have hit you?’

Jessie shrugged. ‘You overreacted.’

‘You’re not answering the question.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Even though he knows you’re police?’

Another snort. ‘That’s like a red rag to a bull.’

Gilchrist pulled into the fast lane and eased up to sixty. ‘Terry seemed proud that he’d been in serious trouble before. Do you know the details?’

‘Eighteen months in Barlinnie for GBH. But he was lucky.’

Gilchrist let her words settle. GBH – grievous bodily harm. Mr Angry lashes out. ‘So he’s good with his fists,’ he said.

‘Terry doesn’t think it’s a fair fight until it’s two of them against one of him,’ Jessie said. ‘You’ve no idea how lucky you were, Andy.’

Gilchrist gripped the steering wheel.
You’ve no idea how lucky you were
. How true those words were. Bigger, harder, tougher men than he could ever be had taken on criminals filled with hatred for the police and come off the worse for it. But luck often favoured he who struck first, a lesson worth remembering.

‘So where’s your other brother, Tommy?’

‘Back in Barlinnie. For stabbing someone. He’s the nutcase of the family.’

‘Jesus, Jessie.’

‘Jesus Jessie right enough,’ she said, and looked at him. ‘Now you’re beginning to understand. Welcome to happy families.’

Gilchrist was driving through Auchtermuchty when Jessie’s mobile rang.

‘Could I speak to Jessica?’ In the car’s cabin, the voice was as clear as if she was on speakerphone.

‘Who’s this?’ Jessie said.

‘Caryl Dillanos.’

Jessie flapped her hand for Gilchrist to pull over. ‘Hang on a minute,’ she said. ‘I’m driving. Let me stop the car.’ She waited until Gilchrist pulled down a side street and drew to a halt. ‘That’s me pulled over. So you got my message?’

‘I did. It sounds interesting.’

The voice sounded fragile and tinny from the mobile’s mic, but Gilchrist thought he caught an accent, not English, but foreign – maybe east European. But he could not be sure.

‘I’d like to see it. Where is it?’

‘St Andrews. D’you know it?’

‘Yeah. How’d you get my phone number?’

Gilchrist caught the serious tone, the underlying suspicion.

‘From Angus McCarron,’ Jessie said.

‘You know him?’

‘He drinks with my boyfriend. Well, more like man-friend,’ she said, then grimaced, embarrassed by her rambling.

‘So, what’s the car like?’

‘It’s silver. My favourite colour. It’s a Mercedes. A 350 SKL,’ she said, and frowned when Gilchrist put his hand to his forehead. ‘And it’s six months old.’

‘Mileage?’

‘Mileage is, let me see . . .’ Gilchrist drew the figure three in the air and mouthed,
Three thousand
. ‘Three thousand,’ she said.

‘What’s the price?’

‘That’s up to you.’

Caryl laughed, a high-pitched cackle that sounded forced.

‘First reasonable offer I get,’ Jessie said, ‘I’m dumping it.’ She looked over at Gilchrist, and he read the panic in her eyes. He drew 20K on the dashboard and mouthed,
Twenty thousand
.

A pause, then, ‘Why are you selling it?’

‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ Jessie said. ‘I’ve just found out my man-friend’s been boinking his twenty-year-old secretary for the last three months. So, I’m going to sell his car, then tell him to fuck off.’ She held on to her mobile. ‘Is that a good enough reason?’

‘Six months old? Three thousand miles? No dents, dings or scratches?’

‘It could be straight out the showroom. Doughball polishes it every weekend. Pays it more attention than he pays me. He’s even given it a nickname. Tinkerbell.’

Gilchrist frowned at her.
Tinkerbell?

Jessie shrugged, as if to say she had no idea where Tinkerbell came from either.

‘How does ten thousand sound?’

‘I want to get back at him, not bankrupt the bastard. First
reasonable
offer is what I said. If you’re looking for a freebie, then you’re looking in the wrong place.’

‘Do you have anything in mind, then?’

‘Won’t let it go for a penny below twenty.’

An intake of breath, followed by a long whistle. ‘Do you have all the paperwork?’

‘I do.’

‘Isn’t the car his?’

‘It is. But I have power of attorney. Don’t ask.’

‘When can I see it?’

‘He’s flying to London tomorrow for the day. I’d like to give him his going-away present tomorrow night, followed by the big heaveho. Think you can do that?’

‘Whereabouts in St Andrews?’

For a moment Gilchrist thought Jessie looked lost, then she recovered with, ‘You know the cathedral ruins? I’ll meet you there. You can’t miss them.’

‘What time?’

‘Hang on, let me check.’ Gilchrist mouthed
eleven
. ‘How does eleven in the morning sound?’