Hand for a Hand (16 page)

Next, he clicked his way into the
Novels
folder to reveal more
Folder
icons entitled by novel. He clicked on
Novel 1
to find yet more folders and files that contained research notes, character traits, synopses, and even one that listed titles. He clicked on
Correspondence
and spent the next twenty minutes discovering that Maureen had written to over thirty literary agents in London and sent another twenty query letters to agents in the States.

He felt as if his daughter was a stranger to him. How long had she wanted to be a novelist? Why had she never mentioned it to him? And what about her photography? Had she given that up? He took another sip of whisky, worked his way out of
Correspondence
, and jerked his head to the side as the bedroom door clicked open.

Light from the front lounge cast a faint glow along the hallway, exposing Nance in the doorway. A blanket draped around her shoulders hung almost to the floor. Her feet and ankles were bare. “I can’t sleep,” she said.

“That makes two of us.”

She eased into the room. “Do you mind?”

Gilchrist tilted his glass to her. “Like a half?”

“You rat,” she said. “Where did that come from?”

He eyed her over a pair of imaginary spectacles, and said in a ridiculous German accent, “I haf my sourses.”

Nance flitted towards him like a shrouded ghost and sat on the edge of the bed. The laptop lay between them like some tech-age chastity belt. She eased the tumbler from his fingers and took a sip.

From the way her lips puckered, Gilchrist could tell she was not a whisky drinker.

“Like it?” he asked.

“The occasional sip.”

He finished the glass and poured another. Three pints and two large measures was not the recipe for feeling great in the morning, but sometimes stuff happened. Besides, alcohol helped his powers of deductive reasoning. Or so he told himself.

“Any luck?” she asked. In the faint light, her cheeks looked sunken, her chin square. Her eyes lay hidden in pools of shadow, as if shielding her thoughts from him.

“Most of it is innocent enough,” he said. “Daily correspondence. That sort of thing.”

“Know what you’re looking for?”

“Any connection to Ronnie Watt for starters. But I haven’t found it yet.”

“You hate him, don’t you.”

“Oh, much worse than that.”

“Care to tell me why?”

“Not really.”

Nance reached for the glass again. Her fingers wrapped around his as they clutched the tumbler together. She leaned forward, took a sip, and the blanket fell away, just sufficient for the blue-white light of the computer screen to reveal the round swell of her right breast, the nipple hidden in shadow. “That tasted better,” she said, and pulled the blanket back around her as if warding off a light chill.

Gilchrist felt something shift deep in his groin. Nance had removed her make-up. In the glow from the laptop her face looked pale and smooth, her eyes dark and large, as if the absence of all things unnatural allowed her own beauty to shine through. But the alcohol and long hours were finally taking their toll, and he felt a wave of sleep fold over him. Or maybe it was Nance prying into his hatred of Watt that had him wanting to end the day.

“I’m done in,” he said, and powered down the laptop.

“Me too.”

“I thought you couldn’t sleep.”

The room fell into darkness. Light glowed from the open doorway.

Nance lowered the laptop to the floor, then stood, the blanket hugging her body. She removed the tumbler from his grip and laid it on the bedside table.

“I was enjoying that,” he said.

The blanket slipped to the floor.

Other than the briefest of knickers, she stood naked, her body a grey silhouette against the soft light from the hall. Her pubic mound, hidden in shadow, lay level with his face and acted like a magnet to his eyes. He forced himself to look up, and in doing so, scanned the length of her.

Even in the dark, as naked as she was, he could see she was slim and fit. Her pinched waist made her hips look large, her thighs long and lean. She stared off to the side, and he caught a glint in her eyes that told him she was pleased to see her body excited him.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he tried, but his heart wasn’t in it.

She leaned down, pulled the cover from his light grip. Her breasts hung as firm as half-melons as she slid in beside him. “You can tell me to leave anytime.”

Her feet felt as cold as ice against his legs. With a familiarity that surprised him, she turned on her side, threw a leg and an arm over his body, and snuggled in.

“You’re all lovely and warm,” she said. She kissed his shoulder, buried her head into the crook of his neck. “Do you mind if I go to sleep?” she whispered.

“You’re quite the woman of contradictions.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

For an instant, he was confused as to how to respond, then said, “No. I don’t mind if you sleep.”

“Good.” She pulled closer.

Gilchrist felt the lump of her pubis on his thigh, the swell of her breasts on his chest, the warmth of her breath on his neck. He lay still, staring blind-eyed at the ceiling, and wondered what Greaves would do to them if he ever got wind of this.

Within seconds, it seemed, sleep pulled Nance down. He felt her muscles twitch as she faded away. He turned his face to her and brushed his lips through hair as soft as merino. He felt his own fatigue overpower him and pull him down into the dark unconsciousness of troubled sleep.

Then he fell away.

Twisted images of amputated body parts swelled in his mind then manifested into the body of a female. She held her arms out to him. He recognised her, knew she was calling to him for help. He tried to fight his way towards her, but failed, trapped by a dead weight that clung to his body as she pulled away from him.

Maureen
, he tried to call.
Maureen
.

But she could not hear him.

J
IMMY EYED THE
paint-job. What a fucking mess. He’d have to get someone else to sort it out. Which made up his mind for him. The wee man had to go. He took one last draw, deep and hot, felt the fire burn his lips, and flicked the dowt away.

“Fancy a pint, wee man?”

Wee Kenny cringed as Jimmy clasped his shoulder. “I’m skint,” he said.

“Consider it payment for painting the car.”

“You gonnie buy the beer?”

“A couple of pints for the job you done.”

Although Wee Kenny smiled, Jimmy seen the fear in his eyes. The wee man was thinking something was not right. In the four years since he’d took Wee Kenny under his wing as his goffer, he never once bought the wee man a pint. And even though the Jag was Wee Kenny’s, he never let him drive it. Wee Kenny paid for
all the petrol, tax, insurance, repairs. It was his car after all. Well, fuck it, times were about to change.

“You drive, wee man.”

“You sure, Jimmy? I mean.…”

“I already said you done a good job.”

Without another word, Wee Kenny took his seat behind the wheel. In the mirror, he watched Jimmy walk around to the passenger side. He turned the key, gripped the steering wheel as the engine roared to life, and for one crazy moment thought of just booting it. But Jimmy would come after him. Then what? No, he would do as he always done. He would do as he was told. That’s what goffers were for.

The big car leaned to the side as Jimmy slid into the passenger seat. Wee Kenny could feel the presence of the man, the heavy heat from his body, which told him Jimmy was not well. He was sure of it. The big man looked rough as fuck some mornings. He winced as the door slammed shut with a hard thud.

“Where to, Jimmy?”

“Just drive.”

Wee Kenny dared a glance. “Like, just anywhere?”

“Don’t make me have to tell you again.”

Wee Kenny eased the Jaguar from the derelict warehouse into the unlit streets of the abandoned business park. It was too soon to take the Jag out for a drive. His paint job was too fresh. No sooner had those thoughts crossed his mind when the skies opened, and he knew his paintwork was fucked. He would need to do it all over again.

But no when Jimmy was looking.

“Drive, wee man. I’m thirsty.”

“Right, Jimmy. Where to?” He darted a glance. “I didnae mean that, Jimmy. Slip of the tongue.”

“Just drive, wee man.”

So he drove. He had no idea where to, only that he had to keep going.

“Get onto the M80, wee man.”

He did as he was told, pleased that at last Jimmy was giving directions. That usually meant Jimmy had business to attend to. Not that he ever asked what kind of business, but he heard about some stuff in the pub a few days earlier. Some punter with their head smashed in. Or their throat cut. Beads of perspiration gathered on his lips, and he ran a hand behind his neck, surprised to find it damp.

Getting your throat cut must be a right sore way to go, he thought. But Jimmy’s business was not deadly that night. He felt sure of that, because he had not seen Jimmy’s ten-inch butcher’s knife. He drove on in silence, and forty minutes later said, “Is it much further, Jimmy? It’s just that I need to fill it up.”

Jimmy twisted his head, looked out the back. “No much further, wee man,” then ahead out the windscreen. “Here it’s now. Take this exit on the left.”

Wee Kenny did as he was told.

“Turn right at the top of the hill,” Jimmy said. “Then go for about a mile and you’ll come to a bridge. Cross it and take the next left.”

“Nae bother.”

After the bridge, the road narrowed. Wee Kenny peered ahead as he searched for the next turning. The Jaguar’s headlights pierced the night rain. The skies pelted down as he pulled into a narrow lane that was no more than two wheel ruts overgrown with grass.

Fifty bumpy yards later, they arrived at a closed gate.

“Douse the lights, wee man, and give me a hand to open the gate.”

Wee Kenny stepped into the rain, and wondered why Jimmy had asked him to switch off the headlights. It would be easier to open the gate if he left the lights on.

“Over here, wee man.”

He stumbled towards Jimmy’s lean figure in the shadows.

“The key’s down there.”

“What key?”

“The key for the padlock. Fuck sake, wee man, don’t annoy me. It’s down there. Under a stone. Get it.”

Wee Kenny wondered how Jimmy knew the key was under a stone, but he stepped past him and pushed his hands into the dripping bushes.

“Where abouts, Jimmy. It’s dark.”

“Here, wee man. Let me show you the way.”

As Wee Kenny stood, a couple of things struck him—that it was more painful having your hair grabbed and your head twisted than it was having your throat cut. And having your throat cut was not sore at all, more like not being able to catch your breath. But the sound of blood spurting over the bushes confused him.

“Down you go, wee man,” as a hard hand kept a grip of his hair, and lowered his head to the ground.

The grass felt cold and soaking wet. He tried to lift his hands to feel the slit in his throat, but he had lost all strength, just wanted to close his eyes, go to sleep. He heard the Jaguar’s engine roar into life, and for a fleeting moment his world exploded with light.

Then that, too, faded, until all that was left was darkness and the sound of rain.

And his own bubbling whimpers.

G
ILCHRIST WAKENED WITH
a start.

He lay still for several seconds, confused as to where he was and who he was with. They had turned from each other in their sleep, and he felt a shiver of surprise as his fingers found, then touched, bare skin.

Nance moaned, a soft sound that hinted of consent and compliance, and she rolled her body into his. An arm slid over his chest, a leg over his thighs. He felt the press of her pubis and
the heat of her breath as her lips worked up his neck like damp fingers, searching for him.

They found each other.

His body pulled towards her while his mind flew away, as if some sensual part of him had been released from his physical being and was floating, looking down at what was left of him. From somewhere deep in the logical part of his brain he heard a whisper call out to him, a sound that was almost indistinguishable from the rush of blood in his ear. Then the whisper took on an urgency that ordered him to stop.

He came to with a jolt.

“Nance,” he said. “I’m—”

“Sshh.” Her finger pressed against his lips. “You don’t have to say a thing.”

“I—”

“Not a thing.” She kissed him then, her lips swollen and soft, like flesh of the sweetest fruit peeling apart. Then she pulled back. “Would you like me to stop?”

Gilchrist felt his heart bound in his chest like some caged animal.
Yes, I would like you to stop. But make love to me first. Please stop
.

“No,” he said.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

That was how he should have answered her first question.
Yes
, he should have said.
Yes, I would like you to stop
. But now it was too late. He felt as if some part of him that had lain dormant for too long had resurfaced in all its sensual libidinous glory. He felt, too, that he was breaking the rules. Not just constabulary rules, but his own unwritten code of ethics that had guided him since his affair with Alyson Baird several years earlier. He had made a promise to himself to keep sexual relationships remote from the Office.

“Kiss me again,” she said.

Her lips tasted as moist as mango, and when he opened his
mouth her tongue powered inside like some living thing driven to search out every sensual nerve of his being.

Her fingers slid down his chest. His breath caught.

Her hand found him, slid down the base of him, cupped him in its warm grip. He heard someone groan, then let himself freefall into the dream.

Was he dreaming?

She seemed to be all around him, in his mouth, against his chest, his thighs. Fingers of the lightest silk slid over him, down and under to hold him, rubbing, stretching, then up again, caressing the head of him.