The Meating Room (12 page)

Gilchrist turned to Jackie. ‘Find out if there was any life insurance on Sheila Magner. If there was, how much, when was it paid, and to whom? If it went to Magner, find out what he did with it.’

Jackie scribbled on a notepad.

‘Then pull Stratheden’s records from Companies House. Find out from council records when they were awarded their first local-government contract and how much it was for.’

Jackie looked up at Gilchrist, as if to ask,
Anything else?

‘Thanks, Jackie. That’ll do for now,’ he said.

By the time he and Jessie reached the door, Jackie’s fingers were already tapping the keyboard with the speed of a woodpecker.

Back out on North Street, the wind had pulled the temperature below freezing. The sky hung low, as grey as lead, and looked just as impenetrable. Spring could be months away. But at least the chill had cleared Gilchrist’s hangover.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘My stomach’s grumbling.’

The Central reeked of alcohol and thrummed with the camaraderie of a busy town pub on a late Saturday afternoon. They found a table in the corner and ordered their drinks: the usual for Gilchrist; a cup of coffee for Jessie. They faced each other in silence as the barman placed the glass and the mug on the table, then asked if they would like to see the menu.

‘No need,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Steak pie, chips and beans.’

‘And for you, ma’am?’

‘What the hell,’ Jessie said. ‘Make that two. But peas instead of beans.’

Gilchrist sipped his Deuchars and watched Jessie stir her coffee. ‘Still trying to sober up?’ he asked.

‘Driving.’

‘Somewhere warm, I hope.’

‘Taking Robert to the pictures in Dundee tonight,’ she said. ‘I know, I know, Robert’s deaf, but he likes to study the facial expressions of the actors.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t ask. It’s all to do with his comedy writing. And besides, if he gives the film the nod of approval, then I can buy it when it comes out on DVD and he can watch it with closed captions.’

Gilchrist had met Robert four times over the three months Jessie had been with Fife Constabulary. She had fought hard to raise her only child as a single mother, and he knew she would do anything for him. But as she fiddled with her mug of coffee, he sensed she had other reasons for taking him to the cinema that night.

‘Jabba joining you?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Does he know that yet?’

Jessie lifted the coffee to her lips and rolled her eyes.

‘If I could make a suggestion—’

‘No, Andy, you cannot make a suggestion. It’s my problem, and I’ll deal with it.’

At that moment Gilchrist caught movement at the swing doors that opened on to Market Street. An oversized man as wide as he was tall forced himself inside. ‘Well, you’d better deal with it quick, because he’s just walked in.’

‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Has he seen me?’

‘He’s on his way.’

‘I tell you, I’m going to have him for this.’

Gilchrist had met Chief Super Lachlan McKellar several times before, and on each occasion he had been struck by how well dressed the man was. Marriage to a biscuit-manufacturing heiress must have helped to cover the cost of bespoke tailoring, of course, but even so, for a fat man he wore his clothes with remarkable swagger and style.

He had some difficulty squeezing past patrons ordering drinks at the bar, but he broke through and reached Gilchrist, skin glistening as if he had just stepped out of a piping-hot sauna. He placed a fat hand on Jessie’s shoulder, and Gilchrist was surprised that she did not slap it off.

‘Jessica,’ he said, ‘it’s nice to see you again.’

She tilted her head. ‘Give me a few minutes, Lachie, will you?’

He removed his hand. ‘I’ll be outside,’ he said, then gave Gilchrist a half-smile and the tiniest of nods.

Gilchrist waited until McKellar worked his way back along the bar before saying, ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

Jessie took a quick sip of coffee and returned the mug to the table. Gilchrist could not fail to catch a tremor that gripped her hand and seemed to be working its way up to her face. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said, rising to her feet and following McKellar outside.

From his seat, Gilchrist watched the two of them face each other on the pavement, a couple of feet apart. Lachie lifted his hand to Jessie’s cheek, as if to caress it, but she turned away. Gilchrist thought it odd that the fire in her seemed to have been dowsed, as if McKellar’s sheer physical presence had suffocated—

His mobile rang. It was Cooper.

He made the connection. ‘Good afternoon, Becky.’

‘Where are you?’

‘One guess.’

‘Are you free?’

‘I can make myself available.’

‘I’ll be with you shortly. I’ll call when I’m closer.’

‘Any problems?’ But the line was already dead. He thought of calling back and asking what was so urgent that she could not talk over the phone. Then he decided against it, and returned the mobile to his pocket.

Outside, the conversation between Jessie and McKellar seemed more animated, with Jessie back to her spirited self, face flushed with anger, arms flailing. Something in the way McKellar stood – impassive, not rising to the heated bait of Jessie’s vitriol – told Gilchrist that whatever they were talking about, the big man had the upper hand. And he knew it.

Then, like a switch being clicked, Jessie turned on her heels and left him standing there.

McKellar seemed unfazed as he watched her return inside. A quick glance in Gilchrist’s direction had their eyes meeting for an instant. Then he turned and strode across the cobbles, light grey overcoat flapping in the wind but not a crease in sight, black polished shoes reflecting a flicker of rare sunlight. Maybe the day was going to clear up after all.

Jessie eased back into her seat as their food arrived. She seemed unable to meet Gilchrist’s gaze. Instead, she unwrapped the cutlery from the paper napkin, then wiped the knife clean with slow deliberation.

Gilchrist waited a respectful couple of mouthfuls before saying, ‘Cooper called. She’s on her way.’

‘That should cheer you up.’

‘I was hoping she might throw some light on how Brian McCulloch died.’

Jessie flashed him a look that he had difficulty deciphering, then stabbed her fork into the pie. The meat could have been as tough as gristle from the way she chewed it. Or maybe she was thinking it was McKellar’s heart.

Gilchrist placed his own cutlery across his plate.

Two mouthfuls later, Jessie said, ‘You not eating that?’

‘I’d like you to tell me what’s going on.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘If it interferes with an ongoing murder investigation, then it’s very much my business.’

‘What’s interfering? I’m here, you’re here, Lachie’s there, and Veronica Lake’s going to join us in a few minutes, whoopity-do.’ She skewered another mouthful, then turned the full force of her glare on to the plate.

Gilchrist gave her another minute, then said, ‘I didn’t like the way Chief Super McKellar talked to you.’

Maybe it was the use of the formal title, or the tone of his voice, but Gilchrist detected a softening in her attitude. Even so, she was not giving in lightly.

‘Didn’t know you had bat ears.’

He smiled. ‘I don’t lip-read, either. But Lachie seemed a bit . . . self-assured for my liking.’

Jessie seemed to make a conscious effort to relax. She forked the next mouthful with care, then took a sip of water. ‘He’s giving me a hard time.’

Gilchrist held on to his beer. ‘In what way?’

She placed her fork and knife on her plate with resignation, then sat back and stared out the window. Maybe she was replaying the conversation with McKellar, trying to work out how she could have handled it better. Gilchrist didn’t push.

After a long minute, she pulled her gaze back and said, ‘I suppose you’ll find out eventually.’

He scooped up a forkful of meat.

‘You remember the resetting allegations against me?’

Gilchrist nodded. He had batted away allegations that Jessie had received goods she had known were stolen – not long after she joined Fife Constabulary. He had later learned that the allegations were true. But with the help of DCI Peter ‘Dainty’ Small of Strathclyde HQ, they had managed to finagle Jessie out of a career-destroying situation.

‘I do indeed,’ he said, ‘but we dealt with them.’

‘Well, Jabba’s threatening to resurrect them.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cause he can.’

‘If you don’t do what?’

‘Stop ignoring him.’

‘Well, that’s easy enough. Answer his calls. Send him texts. Keep him sweet. He lives in Glasgow. You live in St Andrews. The pressure of work doesn’t give you time to—’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘His wife?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘He’s left her? And now he wants a shoulder to cry on?’

‘And the rest,’ she said.

Gilchrist took a mouthful of beer to encourage her to continue.

‘He wants to set me up in a wee flat, he says. Well, me and Robert. So he can come up and stay over at the weekends. He’s even got somewhere picked out for us, for crying out loud.’

‘Doesn’t he know you’ve just moved?’

‘It’s not about moving. It’s about control.’

Gilchrist took a mouthful of chips and scooped up some beans, more to prevent himself from cursing than for epicurean pleasure.

‘I told him I’d think about it.’

‘Sounds like he’s given you an ultimatum.’

Jessie nodded. ‘He says he needs to know by the end of the weekend.’

‘That’s tomorrow.’

‘Clever you.’

‘What’s the rush?’

‘The agent’s taken the property off the market to give him time to come up with the deposit. So he says.’

‘And if you don’t agree, you’ll be charged with resetting?’

‘Again, it’s not as simple as that. Lachie can be right sneaky.’

Gilchrist read the helplessness in her eyes and could tell she was close to tears; maybe even close to giving up altogether. The echo of her words on Tentsmuir Beach the previous morning came back to him –
I sometimes struggle with it all
– and he thought he understood her dilemma. She had applied for a transfer from Strathclyde to Fife – Glasgow to St Andrews – to escape the criminality of her own family and to end whatever relationship Lachie imagined he had with her. She had told him repeatedly that she wanted nothing more to do with him, but still he had come after her. If only they could pursue criminals with such vigour, he thought.

‘So, what’s he threatening to do?’ he asked.

Jessie’s eyes filled with tears, but she took a deep breath and wiped them away.

Then his phone rang. Cooper again. This time he scowled at the screen.

‘Answer it,’ Jessie said. ‘I’m going nowhere. Not yet, anyway.’

He made the connection. ‘Becky?’

‘I’m in Market Street.’

He looked out the window, his gaze scanning the passers-by, but he failed to see her.

‘I’m about to step into Costa Coffee. We need to talk.’

‘I’m in the—’

The connection died.

Gilchrist rose to his feet.

‘Problems?’ Jessie asked.

He tried to make light of it by answering, ‘More than likely,’ but he knew it took a lot to ruffle Cooper’s feathers, and from the tone of her voice she sounded plucked and ready for the stuffing.

He shuffled past patrons at the bar, stepped into the bitter chill of Market Street, and prepared himself for the worst.

Gilchrist found Cooper sitting on a sofa in the rear of the coffeeshop.

She looked pale, her eyes tired, as if she had not slept, or perhaps been crying – which would be a first. He smiled as he sat opposite, and had to stifle a stab of hurt as she withdrew her hands from the table and placed them on her lap, as if defining a new boundary in their relationship, now that Mr Cooper had returned – to claim his conjugal rights, no less.

‘Have you ordered?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘Would you like something?’

Another shake of the head. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun that accentuated the blue sharpness of her eyes, the sculpted lines of her cheekbones. In an artistic sense, the look suited her. But he preferred loose curls, if ever asked.

Silent, he waited.

‘I hate him,’ she said at length.

‘So leave him.’

‘I wish it were that simple.’

If only his own marriage had proved so difficult to terminate. An image of Gail in tears, storming from the marital home, tugging Maureen and Jack behind her, arced across his mind with a ferocity that caused him to blink. It took the recollection of the front door slamming before he managed to chase the picture away.

‘It’s as simple as you want it to be,’ he tried.

‘You don’t know anything about my relationship with Maxwell,’ she snapped, ‘so please don’t pretend that you do.’

Well, there he had it. Back only one day and already Mr Cooper elevated to Maxwell. Did that mean her marriage had entered a new phase? Or was she simply personalising her husband to distance herself from her forlorn lover? The ensuing silence had Gilchrist thinking that the short outburst had drained her.

‘Ending my own marriage was painful,’ he said at length. ‘But looking back, I only wonder why it took us so long to reach the point of no return.’

‘I’ll have that coffee now,’ she said. ‘Espresso. Hot milk on the side.’

At the counter, he contemplated texting Jessie to tell her he would meet her later. But the way Cooper was behaving, she could be on her way home to Maxwell before he even delivered her espresso. When he returned with the tray, the sofa was empty. For a moment he thought she had indeed left, but then he noticed her jacket and scarf draped over the arm. He laid the tray on the table, espresso and milk in its centre, and lifted his own latte. Better to share time over a coffee, he thought, than to have her thinking she was preventing him from returning to The Central to finish his pint. Which had him puzzling why she had not wanted to meet him there – they could even call it their local. Maybe she had seen him inside with Jessie, and felt a need to talk to him in private.