The Meating Room (23 page)

Next he called Stan. ‘We’ll be with you in another five minutes.’

‘Okay, boss. I’m back in the Office, at my computer.’

Something in the tone of his voice had Gilchrist pressing the mobile hard to his ear. ‘You sound concerned, old son.’

‘You need to see this, boss. I’m not sure.’ A pause, then, ‘I haven’t shown it to anyone else. But I think we’ve got trouble.’

Gilchrist gave Stan’s words some thought. ‘Trouble?’ he said. ‘As in,
el shito
is about to hit
el fano
?’

‘Got it in one, boss.’

‘Good,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I’m in the right mood for that.’

Jessie climbed back into the Merc and slammed the door shut with a force that should have broken its hinges.

‘Couldn’t find a clean pair?’ Gilchrist tried.

She glared at him for a hard moment, then said, ‘If anyone threatens my son, I swear to God I’ll have them. I really mean it. I don’t care how high up the police tree they are.’

‘Or how fat they are?’

She paused for a second. ‘That fat prick. He’s really done it this time.’ She clicked her seat belt into place, then looked to the upstairs bedroom window and blew a kiss.

Robert looked down at her, gave a wave in response, then slipped from view.

Gilchrist pushed into gear. ‘Is he okay?’

‘He’s fine. Now. But he was worried earlier.’

‘What happened?’

‘You know I’ve blocked Jabba’s number. But oh, no, he still doesn’t get it. So he came round this morning looking for me. When he found out I was at work, he was not happy. Then he tried to play the big Mick with Robert, show him how good a dad he could be, telling him that he wanted to take him to the new flat that he thinks we’re going to move into.’

‘Does Jabba know sign language?’

‘You know, Andy, you can be a right plonker at times.’

Well, he wasn’t going to argue about that.

‘No, he doesn’t know sign language. He wrote it down.’ She had her mobile out and was scrolling through her Call Log. ‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘Four numbers I never answered. I knew they would be from him, trying to call me from someone else’s phone. Maybe I need to block these—’

‘What did Robert do?’ Gilchrist interrupted.

‘Nothing. He just let Jabba know that I would be back later. Then Jabba sees Robert’s mobile lying on the table, so he picks it up and tries to call me using
that
. He knows I’ll always answer a call from Robert. Anyway, he’s fiddling with it and Robert tries to grab it off him. Well . . .’

Gilchrist accelerated on to Bridge Street. ‘Well what?’

‘He pushed Robert away, and Robert tripped and banged his head on the floor.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s a bit shaken, but nothing’s broken. That’s not the point. I can’t have that fat prick entering my home and laying hands on my son.’ She scrolled through her Contacts, found a number, and pressed the mobile to her ear.

Gilchrist stared at the road ahead. This was not good. Having an affair – albeit a short-lived one – with a fellow detective was one thing. Harassing her to go out with him, despite being told in no uncertain terms to piss off, was another. But entering her home uninvited, when she was not there, and pushing her son around was beyond a joke.

‘Lachie. It’s me. No, no,
you
listen. I am not having you—’ Gilchrist glanced at her – lips pressed tight, eyes glistening with tears. The tinny echo of Lachie’s rattling voice left him in no doubt that
he
was telling
her
off.

‘No, Lachie, listen . . . No, that’s not true . . . No, no, it’s not. Will you listen—’

Gilchrist eased the car on to North Street and accelerated up the hill.

‘Okay, Lachie, you do what you have to do. But I’m telling you, that’s it. You just stay away from me. You hear? Just stay away.’ She stared at the mobile in her hand for a long moment, then looked at Gilchrist. ‘He hung up. Can you believe that?’

‘Would you like some help?’ Gilchrist said.

‘If you’re any good at dumping body parts in the middle of the ocean, big fat ones, then, yeah, I’d like all the help you can give me.’

Gilchrist frowned as he drove on while Jessie glared out the window. Minutes later, he pulled off North Street and drove through the pend into the Office car park. He switched off the engine, but neither of them made any effort to move.

‘Want to talk about it?’ he said.

She sniffed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘If he’s threatening you, or harassing you, or bullying your son, you can take legal action against him.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to do that to him.’

‘Why not?’

‘What’s wrong with me?’ She turned to look at him. ‘I mean, as fat as he is, he’s got a good heart, and he’d do anything for me. It’s just . . .’ She shook her head, then startled Gilchrist by grabbing hold of her breasts and wobbling them. ‘I mean, look at me. What do I have to offer? Big tits and a deaf son and a family you’d run a hundred miles from.’

Gilchrist let several silent seconds pass. ‘You shouldn’t put yourself down, Jessie. You’re a good detective, one of the best. And I’ve seen you with Robert. You’re a great mum, too.’

Jessie sniffed again.

‘In fact, you’re probably the best mum Robert’s ever had.’

She chuckled. ‘You’re a right charmer.’

‘Other than Jabba, has anyone ever told you how attractive you are?’

Her brown eyes glistened at that, almost pleading, and he saw in their reflection the hurt and pain she had suffered at the hands of others. Her fine nose and clear skin, and lips that could flash a ready smile, could be the dream of any model. But somewhere along the way, she had let herself go, to the point where she no longer had any confidence in her looks.

She turned away and grabbed the door handle.

He reached for her. ‘Look at me, Jessie.’

But she swatted his hand away. ‘Come on. We’ve got work to do.’

They entered the Office and walked up the stairs in silence.

Stan almost jumped when he caught sight of them approaching his desk.

‘Steady on, Stan. You look nervous.’

He ran a hand across his lips. ‘Anne Mills doesn’t know I have these.’

‘I thought you went to the bank and—’

‘We did, boss, but then she had a change of heart. She wouldn’t say why, but I think someone must have told her about Linda James’s murder. So now she’s thinking if Magner finds out she’s given the police these, then dying of cancer is the least of her worries.’

‘So you stole them?’ Jessie said.

‘Copied them.’

‘I’m not sure whether to say naughty boy or well done,’ said Gilchrist.

‘Don’t say anything until you’ve had a look.’ Stan clicked the mouse.

Gilchrist watched the screen over Stan’s shoulder, conscious of Jessie standing on the other side, but keeping her distance. The speed with which her emotions could change – from madder than hell to insecure in a matter of seconds – never failed to amaze him.

‘The quality’s not the greatest,’ Stan said. ‘Our IT guys can try to improve them, but I think they’ll be on a loser. Right, here we go.’

Gilchrist leaned closer.

The image was of a group of people on a dance floor. Balls of coloured lighting in the background suggested it was a disco.

‘Recognise anyone?’ Stan asked, leaning back.

Gilchrist took hold of the mouse, and concentrated on the screen.

‘You can zoom in,’ Stan suggested.

Gilchrist moved the cursor over the dance floor and rested it on a couple caught in a frozen jive. Then on to a woman with a scowl on her face as if she had found half a grub in her maraschino cherry. But he was having difficulty establishing what had Stan so worked up.

‘Try the next image,’ Stan said.

Gilchrist shifted the cursor to the right, clicked on the arrow, and an image slid on to the screen – same dance floor, different couple. This time he recognised Magner, slimmer by twenty years, hair longer, thicker and less blond. The press of their bodies and his hands on the woman’s backside left little doubt about what either partner had in mind.

‘Who’s he dancing with?’ Gilchrist asked.

Jessie chipped in with, ‘Looks like he’s giving her a dry hump.’

‘Not yet,’ Stan said. ‘Try the next one.’

A group of eight people seated at a table opened up on the screen, all seemingly oblivious to the photographer’s presence. An empty dance floor lay behind them, as if the DJ was taking a break. Gilchrist recognised Magner again – his photogenic good looks and white smile would have him standing out in any crowd. This time he was sitting beside an attractive brunette in danger of her breasts spilling from her low-cut dress.

‘Who’s she?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Anne Mills.’

In the seat on the other side of Anne sat a man who appeared to have his hand on the left breast of the woman beside him. The remaining four had their backs to the camera.

‘Is he doing what I think he’s doing?’ Gilchrist asked.

Jessie leaned forward. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘They’re swingers.’

Gilchrist glanced at her, then at Stan, who raised his eyebrows.

‘Keep going, boss.’

Gilchrist was about to pull up the next image when he hesitated. He placed the cursor over the face of the man with his hand on his neighbour’s breast and zoomed in. As Stan had said, the images were of low quality, and he zoomed out, then in again, trying to strike the best balance.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ he asked.

‘Have a guess.’

‘Martin Craig?’

‘The Lib Dem MEP, boss.’

‘Are there more of him in here?’

‘Carry on, boss.’

‘Does he know about these photographs?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Oh, he knows about them all right,’ Stan said. ‘He’s looking at the camera on a couple of them. And I bet he can’t wait to get his hands on them now.’

‘You think Magner’s blackmailing him?’ Jessie asked.

‘Don’t know for sure, but I’d be prepared to put a hefty bet on that he is.’

‘You’re not a gambling man,’ Gilchrist said.

‘Only when it’s odds on.’

‘If Magner’s blackmailing Martin Craig, that might explain Stratheden’s meteoric rise,’ Gilchrist said.

‘Precisely.’

Stan’s nervousness – or maybe excitement – told Gilchrist he was still missing something. But nothing he had seen so far would suggest that
el shito
was about to hit
el fano
.

So he pressed on.

He opened up the next image – the same group of eight, but shot from the opposite side. Magner and his wife now had their backs to the camera. The glowing gantry of a busy bar filled the background. A topless woman shook cocktails. Back to the group: the groping man was now fondling his partner’s exposed breasts with vigour. No one else at the table seemed to notice, especially not Magner, who was giving his full attention to the woman on his right. Anne, to his left, seemed intent on filling a champagne flute from a bottle of Bollinger.

Gilchrist placed the cursor on the faces of the opposite two couples and zoomed in a touch. One woman had a hand on her smiling partner’s lap beneath the table, leaving little for the imagination. Beside them, the other couple were deep into an intimate kiss.

But still Gilchrist did not see what he was missing. He opened the next image.

Same angle, same shot, but maybe five or ten seconds later than the previous image.

The kissing couple were now smiling for the camera, arms around each other, the gleam in their eyes hinting at what was yet to come. As Gilchrist studied the image, he finally thought he saw what was making Stan so anxious. He leaned closer, then said, ‘I don’t believe it. It can’t be. Can it?’

Jessie said, ‘What am I missing?’

Gilchrist zoomed in on the man’s face, then shifted the cursor to the woman. ‘Is that his wife?’ he asked.

‘Could be,’ Stan said. ‘But he’s widowed now, isn’t he?’

‘Would someone please tell what’s got everyone’s knickers in a twist?’ Jessie pleaded.

Gilchrist leaned back from the computer screen and ran a hand down his face. ‘You’re new to Fife,’ he said, ‘so you probably haven’t met him yet. But that man there’ – he nodded at the screen – ‘is our boss.’

‘The head potato,’ Stan confirmed.

Jessie mouthed a
Wow
, then said, ‘Chief Constable Ramsay?’

‘Chief Constable Michael MacNairn Ramsay, QPM, to be more exact.’

‘And rumoured to be in line for a knighthood at the end of this year.’

‘And he knows Magner?’

Gilchrist grimaced. ‘Intimately, by the looks of it.’

They spent the next hour compiling a list of all the photographs, and the people who appeared in them. Seventy images in total, starting at the table, then moving to what appeared to be a private room where the business of free sex and wife-swapping began in earnest.

They were able to identify with certainty only four of the eight: Magner and his wife, Anne; Martin Craig MEP, and his partner, as yet unknown – Craig had married late in life, the rumour being that he had done so to counter persistent accusations of being gay. But nothing in these images suggested Craig was anything other than a testosterone-fuelled heterosexual; Chief Constable Ramsay with a woman presumed to be his late wife, Jean. The fourth couple, a slim blonde – obviously dyed, or a wig – with dark-nippled breasts and a black bush that trailed in a thin line to her navel, and whose partner appeared to be more inebriated than the others, remained anonymous.

Jessie suggested she might be a prostitute, as she was the only woman photographed
in flagrante
with all four men. Stan joked that he wouldn’t mind finding out if she was still available for hire, which earned him a fearsome scowl from Jessie.

Of all the couples, Chief Constable Ramsay and his partner appeared the most shy, with Ramsay’s effort of intercourse with the dyed blonde being performed with his hand to his face. Ramsay’s partner was snapped with Magner’s penis in her mouth, and as Gilchrist worked through the images, he came to understand that Magner had been one step ahead of the others, maybe several, the end result of that evening’s fun being a file of photographs for future reference – read blackmail.