Hand for a Hand (15 page)

“Maybe she has a laptop and has it with her,” Nance said.

“Maybe.” But he thought it odd that they found nothing computer-like—no discs, no software, no electrical leads. A more careful search under the bed uncovered two deep fitted-drawers either side, which he had mistaken for part of the bed-frame. With the fitted sheets and valance on, the drawers were hidden.

Nance was almost right. Maureen did have a laptop, but not with her. He found it in the under-bed drawer next to the
headboard end, and a filing box that held a number of CDs. He read Maureen’s scribbled label on one—
Short Stories
.

And on another—
Mystery Novels 1 & 2
.

It surprised him that Maureen would write not just one novel, but two, and he felt dismayed that he knew nothing about her literary efforts. Other CDs confirmed she had written six novels. Was she published? Was that how she could afford this flat?

The feeling that Maureen was so far removed from his life rushed through him in a warm flush. She wanted little to do with her father. She was growing up,
had
grown up, and wanted a life free of parental ties.

He plugged in her laptop, struggling to smother the feeling of guilt that he was about to violate her privacy. What right did he have to read her personal writings? The hard-drive hummed alive. If her laptop was password-protected he would have to take it to the experts, the computer geeks who would—

The screen flickered, went blank, then recovered to settle at Maureen’s desktop.

Well, he was in, which pleased him in one way, but disappointed him in another. Maureen might be wise to many things in life, but personal security was not one of them.

He clicked
start
, moved the cursor to—

“You want me to report the break-in?”

Strictly speaking, Maureen’s flat was a crime scene. Removing her laptop and CDs was a serious violation of scene of crime protocol. But what would Strathclyde Division find? Better that he explained it to Dainty directly, he thought.

“Let’s get out of here first,” he said to Nance, and powered down the laptop.

They drove to Pitt Street, but Dainty was tied up in a major interrogation and could spare only a few minutes, time enough for Gilchrist to tell him about Maureen’s flat and the Mini Cooper, but nothing about her laptop and CDs. Dainty ordered
Gilchrist to write a full report, then assigned a scar-faced detective to the case, who introduced himself as Tony and insisted he be given a blow-by-blow account. Once Tony was dealt with, Gilchrist took over a desk and two phones.

The remainder of the day was a mess of phone calls and paperwork.

In amongst all the calls, Gilchrist called Watt on his mobile several times, before concluding that Watt must have removed his SIM card or powered it down. Had his own calls to the number on Watt’s records alerted the man? He surprised himself by getting through to Watt on the Office phone.

“I hear you started an Office sweepstake,” he said to him.

“So?”

“And you guessed—”

Watt hung up.

Gilchrist tried again, but was informed that Watt had left the building, which had Gilchrist promising himself he would fire Watt on the spot the next time they met.

He would take his chances with Greaves.

Meanwhile, the Mini Cooper was found abandoned in St. Enoch’s carpark, doors unlocked, keys in the ignition, all surfaces wiped clean. And Stan confirmed that only three criminals put away by Gilchrist had been released within the last year, none of whom could be involved in Chloe’s murder. One had died four months ago from a heart attack; one was in a hospice waiting to die; and the third was in Portugal lapping up the sun and the booze.

By 8:00 p.m. they were no farther forward.

“My stomach’s rumbling,” said Nance. “Fancy a bite?”

Gilchrist tried to remember when he had last eaten, and thought a pint and a bite might uplift his spirits and re-energise his sense of detection.

“We could go out for your favourite,” Nance pressed on.

“Which is?”

“A pint of real ale?”

“And a bridie, chips and beans. With HP Sauce?”

“I know just the place.”

T
HE
H
ORSESHOE
B
AR
in Drury Street—a narrow lane running between West Nile and Renfield Streets—was one of Glasgow’s more famous pubs. The bar itself, shaped more like a circle than a horseshoe, had once been listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the longest in Great Britain at one hundred and four feet.

Gilchrist ordered two Eighty-Shillings that came still and creamy with a hint of spillage. He lifted his glass to Nance’s, took that first mouthful, cold and smooth, and could have purred with pleasure.

The bar buzzed with the hubbub of a Glasgow evening. A powerful fragrance of second-hand smoke tainted with the faintest aroma of cooked meat filled the air. Gilchrist eyed the crowd. It felt good to be out, to let his mental powers relax and recover, if only for an hour or so.

“How did you know about this place?” he asked Nance.

“Spent two years at Strathclyde studying biology.”

“I never knew that,” which had him thinking that he also seemed not to know much about Maureen. Or even Gail. His thoughts darkened as his mind cast up his parting image of his ex-wife, teary-eyed and pale, and bitter beyond reason.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she said.

Gilchrist was not sure how to take that remark. Nance had a reputation as a bit of a teaser, but had kept all relationships off her own doorstep, so to speak. But the beer was hitting the spot, so he said, “Like what?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Why give up biology and join the police?”

She almost sneered. “Biology gave me up. I lost interest. Spent too much time in places like this. Met the wrong guy. Failed my
exams. More or less in that order. Give or take the odd shag or three on the side.”

All of a sudden, Gilchrist felt unsure of himself. Nance seemed different, as if being in a bar in Glasgow gave her thoughts of re-enacting her student days, guzzling beer and screwing men. She had developed a devil-may-care attitude in the space of one pint, and a hint of sexual mischief sparkled in her eyes, which had him trying to shift his own thoughts. He eyed the black and white framed pictures, the massive mirrors on the back wall, thought the motif on one of them looked like a horsewhip twisted into the shape of an S.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what that letter S stands for?” he tried.

“Scouller. The original owner in the late eighteen-hundreds. He also owned another couple of bars named after horsey stuff. The Snaffle Bit was one. And The Spur.”

Gilchrist tipped his beer. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. I have a good memory. That’s all.”

He nodded to other initials. “And JYW?”

“John Whyte, I think. He took over in the early nineteen-hundreds.” She glanced at him, her pint poised at her lips. “And no,” she said, “I don’t know what the Y stands for.”

Letters
. Gilchrist sipped his pint, troubled by his thoughts. Letters defied time. A century ago, two pub-owners, Scouller and Whyte, immortalised themselves in Glasgow’s pub-lore by having their initials imprinted on bar memorabilia. Was that what would happen to Chloe’s case? A hundred years from now, would someone browse through police records and come across the words
Murder, Massacre, Bludgeon, Matricide
, then the letters M, A, U, R, and ridicule the SIO for his inability to jump-start such an obvious case? Which thought brought with it the need to find out what was on Maureen’s laptop.

He downed his pint with a rush.

“Hold your horses, Andy,” Nance said, and had a twenty-pound note in her hand.

“I’m getting these,” he protested. “This is my treat.”

“Your treat comes later,” she replied with a wink, and ordered two more pints.

Gilchrist knew it was a mistake not to leave. He tried to convince himself he would not be tempted, that he was mature enough to resist, had done so in the past. Not with Nance, but with others. But two pints later, with not too much to eat, they traipsed into Drury Street.

In West Nile Street Nance slipped her arm through his, and Gilchrist let her, telling himself it would be rude to pull free. Besides, it was cold. He could feel her body shiver, as their breaths puffed in unison in the damp air. As they crossed St. Vincent Street her thigh bumped against his, and he caught her fragrance as she swept her free hand through her hair. And all of a sudden it struck him that without discussing it they seemed to have decided to spend the night together.

Not so fast, he thought.

He considered driving to St. Andrews. But the earlier adrenaline rush from searching for Maureen, plus three pints in under two hours, had left him far from his brightest. A night in Glasgow would have to do. Besides, he had Maureen’s laptop to go through.

He clicked his remote. The Merc’s lights blinked. Like the gentleman he knew he should be, he held the passenger door open as Nance slid inside. He was conscious of her eyes on him as he sat behind the wheel and slipped the key into the ignition.

As he eased into traffic, Nance said, “Where are you taking me?”

Even though four weeks had passed since Beth ended their relationship once and for all, he said, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“No one’s forcing you.”

“I have a spare key for Jack’s flat,” he said. “It’s a bit rough at the edges, but at least it’s got two beds.”

“Good,” she said. “Then that’s settled.”

• • •

J
IMMY SQUEEZED WEE
Kenny’s shoulder.

Wee Kenny looked at the hard hand only inches from his neck.

“You look worried, wee man.”

Wee Kenny shook his head. “No me, Jimmy.”

“You done a good job there.”

Relief flooded through Wee Kenny in a rush so strong that for one crazy second he thought he was going to piss in his pants. “I done my best, Jimmy.” He tried to force a laugh, conscious of the fingers digging into his collarbone, but it fell flat.

“It’s looking good.”

Wee Kenny eyed the Jaguar’s boot lid. He had never spray-painted a car before, and paint rippled like orange peel in parts where he’d sprayed it too thick. But overall, he thought he done a good job.

“It’ll be dry for the morra,” he said.

Jimmy took a deep draw of his cigarette. Thin cheeks pulled thinner. Eyes as dark as coal closed for a moment’s pleasure. Smoke curled from nostrils thick with hair that leaked into a dank moustache. In the dim light, Wee Kenny thought Jimmy’s mouth looked like one more scar on a face creased with scars.

Jimmy kept a permanent week-old growth to hide his scars. Black stubble, a quarter of an inch long, hid the worst of them, a jagged welt that ran from the corner of his right lip to the lower jaw, the result of a broken bottle to his face. And Wee Kenny remembered what happened to big Archie Chalmers, the punter who done it to him.

It was years ago. Jimmy was fifteen. Not much more. Archie in his early twenties, a small-time thug making a name for himself as a hard-man to be reckoned with. Even though Jimmy still had the stitches in his face, he and his big brother, Bully, goes to see Archie at his home on the fourteenth floor in Red Road. Jimmy stands out of sight while Bully knuckles the door. Archie’s mother
opens up. Bully smiles and asks for Archie. But when Archie turns up, Bully steps back, Jimmy steps in, open razors slashing up and down, left and right, like a drummer gone wild. The story goes that the slashing was so bad, even Bully almost threw up.

One slash cut Archie’s left eyeball in half. Another almost had his nose off. Bully had to stick the head on Jimmy to stop him cutting Archie to death, and ended up with sixteen stitches himself from a cut that opened his palm. From that day on, no one messed with the Reid brothers.

But Bully was now in the Bar-L serving fifteen years for manslaughter. The charges should have been murder, but even the Procurator Fiscal seemed too afraid to go for the max. The Bar-L should have been enough to keep Bully out of the picture, but he was keeping busy behind bars, having Jimmy do his legwork.

And rumour had it that something big was about to break, and that Bully was filing an appeal. But Wee Kenny knew better than to ask Jimmy what it was. No way would he ask.

If he did, that would be the end of him.

Chapter 18

G
ILCHRIST STUMBLED ACROSS
Jack’s makeshift cocktail cabinet on the bottom shelf of the food cupboard—a Glenfiddich single malt that looked tempting enough, but contained less than an inch of whisky; or a ten-year-old Longrow, which he remembered gifting to Jack on one of his infrequent visits. He removed it from its burgundy gift box and confirmed it was almost half-full. Perfect.

He picked up a tumbler and walked along the hall to Jack’s bedroom, the bottle of Longrow in hand. As he passed the bathroom he heard the rattle of glass and the sound of running water.

“Goodnight,” he called out.

Nance did not reply.

In Jack’s bedroom, he poured himself a large one and powered up Maureen’s laptop. He double-clicked
My Documents
, and a screen flashed up with a list of
Folder
icons entitled
Novels, Letters, Research, Databases
, and the last one,
Spreadsheets
. The toilet flushed, and the bathroom door opened and closed with a quiet double click. A shadow drifted by the gap at the bottom of the door like a spectral image, then vanished as the hall light was switched off. He clicked his bedside lamp off and took a sip of whisky, feeling its fiery warmth work through his system. The only light in the room came from the laptop’s screen. He took another sip then clicked on
Letters
.

The screen flashed up a fresh page that contained a list of files with names such as
royalbank—12-01-03, dkerr—29-09-02
. He double-clicked one to confirm the simple filing system.
jstevens—11-02-03
was a letter to Joyce Stevens dated 11th February 2003. He dug deeper, did an automatic search for files that contained the title
rwatt
, but found none. He tried rearranging the lists alphabetically, then checked the Rs for Ronnie, the Ws for Watt, but came up empty, which pleased him.