Gone Cold (12 page)

While MacAuliffe interviewed Welker’s widow, a team of investigators would be working with New Scotland Yard to learn as much as possible about Welker’s private investigation firm, especially with respect to the case that brought Welker to Dublin. It wouldn’t be long before the Yard’s computer geeks located the photos Welker had e-mailed to himself. Once they recognized Hailey, they would follow the same trail that led
us
here, searching for the man standing with Hailey in the photos. Only they’d have the distinct advantage of being able to contact the Scottish Police Service, which could well lead them directly to the man we’d already spent the better part of a day trying to identify.

We arrived at HMP Shotts a little after nine o’clock in the morning, after ditching Ashdown’s rented Nissan crossover in favor of a black Jeep Grand Cherokee leased under the name of one of the Chairman’s more legitimate businesses. Head-on, the exterior of the prison looked like a state-of-the-art library on a fancy university campus back in the States. One circular building (which I assumed held the prison’s administrative offices), was flanked by two long rectangles encased in black bulletproof glass and red brick.

A couple of hours ago, while we were eating a hearty breakfast (of bacon, eggs, sausage, scones, fried mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, and hot porridge) in Gerry Gilchrist’s kitchen, he gave us a rundown of the prison.

“Shotts is midway between Glasgow and Edinburgh, almost to the mile. The prison houses over five hundred of Scotland’s most dangerous inmates, more than half of whom are serving life sentences for murder.” He turned to Zoey. “Are you sure that finding your mate from rehab is worth this much trouble, love?”

“We were close,” Zoey said in a way that sexualized the relationship. “
Very
close. And I fear she’s prone to relapse.”

Nonplussed, Gilchrist’s eyes drifted toward the second floor, where his son had fed Zoey herself a buffet of drugs only hours ago.

“Unlike myself,” Zoey added, “she
can’t
handle her drugs. Especially when she’s on her own. Without me, she’ll OD. And when she does, I know I won’t be able to live with myself.”

He finally nodded his understanding. “So you want to bring her back to London with you.”

“That’s the plan.”

“All right, then,” he said. “But let me give you a little background on Rob Roy Moffett. Because he’s naw your average prisoner. He’s naw even your average killer.”

We pulled up to the second of two security gates and Ashdown presented our passports. The guard took a stroll around the Grand Cherokee, took down the plates, then circled again with a mirror that allowed him to inspect the undercarriage.

Once he was satisfied we weren’t there to facilitate a prison break, he returned to his station and lifted the gate.

Ashdown, who insisted he’d interviewed hundreds of Moffetts in his career, graciously offered to meet with this Moffett on his own. But I declined to send a proxy. With the stakes this high, I needed a face-to-face with Rob Roy Moffett, and I wouldn’t settle for anything less.

“Better if you don’t come in with me, Detective,” I told Ashdown as we pulled into the visitor’s parking lot. “I don’t want to make it look like we’re ganging up on him. Besides, you’d be much more useful lying low here in the lot in case the Maxwell boys are planning an ambush.”

“As you wish,” Ashdown said, glancing in the rear of the Grand Cherokee, where Zoey again lay sprawled out, sleeping. “The princess and I shall await your safe return.”

I stepped out of the Grand Cherokee and squinted into the moody silver sky. Then I hiked across the parking lot and was welcomed through the front door like a guest of honor at a royal ball. I scanned the lobby and discovered that the interior of the prison was every bit as modern as the exterior.

At the front desk, I was greeted all around by smiles. No doubt on account of my perceived association with Gerry Gilchrist, who’d arranged the meeting with Rob Roy Moffett at the prison earlier this morning.

“Let me give Whitehead a ring,” he’d said after warning us of Moffett’s nature. “The warden owes me a few favors, doesn’t he?”

Ashdown’s eyebrows rose. “The warden owes
you
a few favors, eh?”

The Chairman offered up a mirthless smile. “Of course he does. Don’t be so daft, you bloody used car salesman.”

*   *   *

After breezing through security, I was escorted to a small room with walls so immaculately white they nearly blinded me.

A nice place,
I thought,
for a prison.
Hell, maybe getting pinched for Ewan Maxwell’s murder wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But my arrest would have to wait until I found Hailey and got her the hell out of Europe. In which case, I’d probably never return to the United Kingdom anyway. At least not by choice.

After waiting for all of six minutes, a large man wearing more chains than the ghost of Jacob Marley was led into the room by a pair of guards.

The Chairman had described Moffett as an absolute maniac, but Moffett certainly didn’t look the part as he stood before me awaiting instructions. He looked like he might be heading out to fix your neighbor’s cable box.

“Have a seat,” I said.

He sat on an orange plastic chair positioned directly across from me.

When I asked the guards if Moffett could be unshackled for the visit, they looked at me as though I’d just asked if I could light a doobie in front of the Queen.

“You do ken who he is, don’t you?” one of the guards asked.

I nodded.

The other guard laughed. “We let him out of those shackles, we may as well call you a priest right now so’s that he can get here in time to administer yer last rites.”

I ignored him. Waited for the guards to leave the room but soon realized they weren’t going anywhere.

I said to Moffett, “Don’t trust you much around here, do they?”

“They’re a mistrusting lot,” he said affably. “Must be in their nature.”

Moffett’s shaven head was large and as round as a melon. His skin was glowing and red, as though he’d just stepped out of a piping shower. Only he wasn’t wet; except for a pair of watery eyes, he appeared to be dry as a bone.

I studied his clothes. A light blue polo with the logo of the prison, HMP Shotts, over khakis. Again I flashed on a university back home.

“What’s HMP stand for?” I said, trying to make small talk in an effort to make him comfortable around me.

“Her Majesty’s Prison, innit?” His voice was soft, his tone formal as though he was interviewing for a job.

“How old are you?” I asked him.

He shrugged a massive shoulder. “Twenty-nine, right?”

“And how long a sentence did they give you?”

“Twenty-five to life.”

“For?”

“You mean the charges?” He had a thick Scottish accent like Doc’s from the night before, so that
charges
sounded a hell of a lot more like
chairges
.

“Sure,” I said. “What were the charges?”

“Double murder, then. One attempt. Kidnapping. Torture.” He rattled off his convictions with all the gravitas of an English nanny reciting a grocery list.

I bowed my head in thought. “Quite a list.”

“It is, innit?”

I lifted my eyes to meet his. Moffett’s calm was beginning to unnerve me. This was one sadistic prick for sure, a psychopath all the way. Yet he expressed himself like an accountant a week past tax day, perhaps following a few Reef Runners and tabs of Ativan poolside in Barbados.

“You were a drug dealer, I was told.”

He smiled. “A wee bit of one, yes.”

“And the two murders,” I said. “What happened?”

The smile didn’t budge. “One, he fell off a bridge.”

“And the other?”

“The other, he just died, didn’t he?”

I widened my eyes, feigning surprise. “Just died, huh? How?”

“Choked.”

“On his food?” I said lightly. “Maybe some haggis?”

Moffett laughed. “Naw on his food, mate.”

“You gave him some help, then?”

“Maybe.” He chuckled. “I gave him the rope, see. Helped him put it round his throat. Tightened it a wee bit. Next thing ya ken, his eyes are popping out of his skull.”

“A bad guy?” I said, expressionless.

He shrugged. “He was my cousin. And I don’t like to talk badly about family, you understand.”

“And the dead?”

“Especially naw of the dead,” he said, smiling. “But, truth be told, my cousin dinnae pay his debts.”

“Drug debts?”

“Aye.” Following a few seconds of silence, he added, “I gave him a choice though.”

“A choice?”

“His life or his cock.”

I swallowed hard, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Which did he choose?”

“Neither.” He waited a few ticks. “So I chose for him.”

“You chose to take his life.”

He smiled again. “Well, when you think about it—I mean,
really
think about it—what am I going to do with a cock, right?”

I nodded, waited for my pulse to slow.

“You had a score to settle with this cousin of yours? Aside from the drug debts?”

“Naw really. It’s just something that happened, innit?”

“Just something that happened.”

“Live by the knife, die by the knife, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Don’t you ever argue with your mates?”

“Sometimes,” I conceded. “Though those arguments don’t usually end with my mate’s eyes popping out of his skull.”

He shrugged. “Guess you and I are just different, then.”

“I guess we are.”

Moffett shifted in his chair, the metal legs scraping against the linoleum floor. He leaned his head back and filled the ensuing silence by whistling a tune. Some sort of Scottish jig.

Then he turned back to me. “I played a bit of football with him though.”

“Did you?”

“Aye.”

“As kids?”

“Naw, after.”

“After what?”

He smiled again. “After I sawed off his head. I kicked it round a bit with a mate of mine. Got some fresh air, the three of us did.” He puffed out his chest. “Some exercise, they say, is good for the soul.”

I looked down at my injured left hand to avoid his gaze. My hand was sloppily bandaged. The pain in my palm was unbearable and I’d refused to take anything for it because I needed to stay alert. What concerned me most, however, wasn’t the pain; it was that the fingers remained completely numb.

“So,” Moffett said, “what brings you by?”

I looked up. He wasn’t in any rush to get rid of me, just curious.

With my good hand, I pulled out the photo Gerry Gilchrist had printed in his study. I unfolded it and held it out in front of Rob Roy Moffett.

“You know the girl in this photo?” I asked.

He shook his head slowly.

“How about the man with her?”

He nodded just as slowly. “Aye.”

“You know him?”

“Aye.”

“How so?”

His eyes remained glued to the photo. “He’s a cousin of mine.”

Unlike his cousin, Moffett wasn’t inked, at least not anywhere I could see, and his earlobes remained intact. But he did have scars. Plenty of them. On his face, on his arms. Many from deep, deep cuts. Some clearly self-inflicted.

“Your cousin,” I said.

“Aye. But naw the one who died.”

“Good to know.” I drew a deep breath, said, “What’s his name, your cousin? The one in the picture, I mean.” Kinny hadn’t known. Or if he had, he wouldn’t tell.

For the first time Moffett hesitated. “Why are you looking for him?”

“I’m not,” I told him. “Not really. I’m looking for the girl.”

He looked me in the eyes. “Why are you looking for the girl, then?”

“Because…” I suddenly found myself fumbling for words. I hadn’t expected to get emotional in front of this lunatic. But now my throat was closing up, my vision becoming blurry with tears that would never fall.

“Twelve years ago,” I finally managed, “someone took my six-year-old daughter.”

He processed this, then: “Could naw have been my cousin, mate. He would’ve been, like, fourteen years auld his own self.”

“No,” I said, “I know he’s not the man who took her. But he’s my only lead to this girl. This girl in the photo. Who may well be my daughter.”

His lips parted. “Oh, I see.” Following a few moments of reflection, he said, “And if you find her?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you find your daughter, does it all end there? Do you pick her up, tell her ‘Daddy’s here now, everything’s gonna be all right’ and bring her home?”

“What do you care?”

“Enquiring minds wanna know, right?”

I stared at him, gazed into his watery eyes and saw nothing but darkness. Like the bottom of the blackest sea.

His motivations were simple enough, transparent enough. Maybe even fair. I wanted to extract something from his head; he wanted to extract something from mine.

“No,” I said finally, “that won’t be the end of it. I also want to find the man who took her. I want to find out why.” I paused but his eyes insisted I go on. “And then I’m going to make him answer.”

“To the polis?”

“Not to the police.”

“To who, then?”

“To me,” I said. “I’m going to make him answer to me.”

“Answer what? Questions, like?”

I shook my head. “Not just questions.”

“What, then?”

“I’m going to make him answer for what he’s done. To my wife, to my daughter. I’m going to make him answer for what he’s done to
me
.”

Chapter 23

In Edinburgh, Zoey and I checked into the Tucker Guest House on Orchard Brae West. The Tucker was a two-story brick bed-and-breakfast less than one mile from the city center, which itself was compact and divided neatly in half by Princes Street with Old Town to the south and New Town to the north.

Family-run by a warm, old couple named Brenda and Alan, the Tucker was not exactly what I’d had in mind for this part of the operation. But Ashdown only knew top-end accommodations like the Bonham, the Balmoral, the Caledonian, the Le Monde; and when Zoey stayed in Edinburgh she slept wherever and with whomever she happened to be partying at the time. So we made our reservations sight-unseen and the Tucker was where we wound up.