Hand for a Hand (18 page)

A pause, then, “On what charge, Boss?”

“On suspicion of murder.”

“You sure, Boss?”

No, he wanted to say,
I’m not sure. But I need to take action
. “He’s been seeing Maureen again,” he said. “Now Maureen’s missing and I can’t get hold of Watt.”

Stan whistled. “Greaves’ll blow a fuse, Boss.”

Gilchrist thought it an odd thing for Stan to say. “If Greaves has a problem with that, he can talk to me.”

“Okay, Boss.”

Gilchrist hung up.

“I suppose that makes a quickie out of the question.”

Nance had partially dressed and stood in thong knickers, the skimpiest of material that bulged with the lump of her pubis. Stubble speckled the tops of her thighs. Her breasts stood proud-nippled, and for one disorienting moment Gilchrist was back in his bedroom facing a fifteen-year-old Maureen.

“Get dressed,” he said, then tried to soften it with, “We’ve got work to do.”

But from the way Nance turned away, he knew he had not pulled it off.

Chapter 20

B
Y MID AFTERNOON
,
Gilchrist established that Maureen was employed as a marketing representative with the Topley Agency, a company owned and run by Chris Topley, an ex-hard-man from the Gorbals, now in his mid-thirties, who spent three years in Barlinnie for beating up his neighbour over a pint of beer. According to Dainty, the neighbour committed suicide the week before Topley was to be released. Rumour had it that if the man had not taken his own life, Topley had promised to take it for him.

The Topley Agency was housed on the fourth floor of a glass and steel building that overlooked the River Clyde. The reception area glistened with bronze statuettes and towering plants that had Gilchrist wondering just how much Maureen was earning. The receptionist asked them to wait while she paged Mr. Topley. Nance took one of the deep leather chairs. Gilchrist remained standing.

Fifteen minutes later, they were ushered into an office that looked as if it had been furnished by a minimalist. Two small black and white photographs in silver frames hung on otherwise bare walls. An expansive desk lay devoid of clutter. Gilchrist saw no filing cabinets or anything else that would suggest the room was ever used.

The door clicked.

Gilchrist and Nance turned like a choreographed act.

Despite the dark-blue suit with silver shirt and matching tie, Chris Topley had failed to lose his bruiser image. As he stood
framed by the doorway, it did not take much to imagine him booting someone to death in the wet streets of Glasgow.

The door closed behind him with a dull thud.

Gilchrist stood a good six inches taller than Topley’s squat figure. From that vantage point, Topley’s sandy hair, shorn to the bone, looked like roughened wood grain.

“Chris Topley?”

Topley eyed Gilchrist with the look of a businessman undecided if this was an opportunity about to blossom into cash or some past deal come back to haunt him. “And you are?” His accent was hard Glaswegian softened to a low growl.

“Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist.” Gilchrist declined to show his warrant card or tell Topley they were from Fife Constabulary. He had the impression that neither would matter to a man of Topley’s background. Instead, he offered his hand.

Topley’s grip felt hard and moist, like roughened leather greased smooth. An overpowering fragrance of aftershave hung around him, and his gaze slid off to the side as he eyed Nance from top to toe. By the time he offered her a gold-toothed grin, Gilchrist felt as if she had been stripped and abused before his eyes.

Topley held out his hand to her.

Gilchrist almost smiled when Nance ignored it.

“You have a name?” Topley asked her.

“Yes.”

Topley oozed charm like a snake in an alligator pool. His face had the hardened look of a street fighter and bore the faded scars of past disputes—a nick on the forehead; dotted line on the right cheek; disfigured knuckles on bunched fists.

“Well well well,” he growled. “Two detectives. I must say I’m honoured. How can I help you?”

“Maureen Gilchrist is one of your employees,” said Gilchrist.

“A lovely girl,” he said. “What about her?”

“She’s missing.”

Topley scrubbed the back of his hand under his chin, the sound like sandpaper on wood. Then he pointed a finger at Gilchrist. “Now I get it. You’re the old man.” He walked around his desk, and Gilchrist had the distinct impression that few paper trails were left in the company. Topley stood behind his high-backed leather chair, his right arm along the top. In the light from the glass wall, his eyes took on a hunted look, like a guilty man waiting for the damning question.

Gilchrist kept his voice level. “Do you know where she is?”

“Could do.”

For a moment, Gilchrist toyed with the idea of leaning across the desk and grabbing him by the throat. “I’m not here to play games,” he said. “Just answer the question.”

“Should I be talking to my solicitor?”

“That’s your prerogative.” It was Nance.

Gold fillings glinted either side of front incisors. “She speaks,” he said.

“She also arrests,” said Nance.

Topley held out his arms, wrists together. “Please. It’s been a while since I’ve been handcuffed by someone so pretty.”

And at that moment, Gilchrist knew Chris Topley was not Maureen’s boyfriend. Of that fact, he would bet his life. “We can cuff you later,” he said, “but for now we’re trying to establish if you can help with our enquiries, when you last saw Maureen, who you last saw her with, where she might be. That sort of thing.”

Topley lowered his arms. “Maureen told me I wouldn’t like you.”

The sound of his daughter’s name coming from the mouth of an ex-convict sent the chill of horripilation through Gilchrist. “Why would she say that?”

“Because she cares for you.”

Topley’s use of the present tense sent some signal buzzing through Gilchrist’s system. Maureen was alive. Was that what he was saying? And if so, how did he know?

“As an employee, what does Maureen do?” Nance again.

“Marketing.”

“Marketing what?”

“Topley clients.”

“Who are?”

“The rich and the famous.”

“And the infamous?” Gilchrist tried.

“I’m clean,” Topley growled. “The past is past. This business is legit.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Topley’s eyes flashed, nothing more than a widening of the pupils. But for a fraction of a second Gilchrist caught a glimpse of the wilder version of the man. “I couldn’t give a monkey’s toss what you believe.”

“How long has Maureen been employed here?” Nance again.

Topley puffed his cheeks. “Less than a year.”

“The job pay well?”

“Basic of sixty to seventy. Then a bonus that usually doubles it.” He flashed some more gold. “At Christmas.”

Maureen earning upwards of a hundred-thousand at the age of twenty-three did not sit well with Gilchrist. Why had she never told him about this job? Had Gail known? Had Harry? Or Jack?

“When did you last see Maureen?” Nance asked.

Topley turned to the tinted glass panels that ran from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Beyond, the Clyde slid past like some dirt-caked beast, its murky waters a silent reminder of Glasgow’s industrial past. He stood with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him so that Gilchrist caught the blue lines of some tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. The twin-tipped tail of a swallow, he thought.

“Two nights ago,” Topley said. “We went out for a drink after work.”

“Just the two of you?” Nance had her notebook out.

“Yes.”

“Like on a date?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“What way would you put it?” Gilchrist interrupted.

“Two friends having a drink.”

The emphasis on
friends
rankled Gilchrist, but he nodded to Nance to continue.

“Anyone see you?” she asked.

“See us?” Topley shrugged his shoulders. “Of course they saw us. We weren’t hiding.”

“Who saw you?”

“Other than everyone in the pub?”

“At work, I mean.”

“Most of the office staff.”

“You make a habit of going out for a drink with your employees?”

“Just the good-looking ones.”

Gilchrist tightened his lips, thought it better to let Nance get on with it.

Nance seemed to sense his discomfort. “Where did you and Maureen go?” she asked.

“Had a glass of wine in Arta.”

“Where’s that?”

“Not far from where she lives.”

“You know where she lives, do you?”

Topley chuckled. “Of course I do. I own the place.”

“She rents it from you?”

“In a way.”

“What kind of a way?”

“The flat comes with the job. It’s a perk.”

“Any other perks come with the job?”

Topley turned at that question. His eyes creased in a knowing smile. “Depends on how hard-working my staff are. How far up the ladder they want to climb.” He flicked an ophidian glance at Gilchrist. “Know what I mean?”

Nance scribbled hard into her notebook as if trying to lead Gilchrist away from the trap. But it was no use. “No,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Topley turned to the window again, and Gilchrist sensed the man was not as tough as he liked people to think. “She does stuff for me,” Topley went on.

“What sort of stuff?” Gilchrist pressed.

“Stuff stuff.”

“Illegal stuff stuff?”

Topley shook his head, gave a dry chuckle. “She told me about you.”

“Why would she do that? She expecting me to visit you sometime?”

Silence.

“What else did she say about me?”

Topley turned then, and any thoughts Gilchrist might have had of the man losing his hardness evaporated. “That you’re a fucking cunt,” he said. “And a wanker. A fucking wanker.” He smiled. “That’s what she said about you.”

“Those her exact words?” Gilchrist asked. “Fucking cunt? Fucking wanker? She say that, did she?”

“More or less.”

“So, she never said those words. Not exactly,” he added.

“If it makes you happy, those were her exact words.”

Gilchrist almost smiled. In all the time he had known Maureen, the use of that single word,
cunt
, had never passed her lips. “So,” he continued, “after Arta, where did you go?”

Topley tilted his chin, as if to look at Gilchrist down the length of his flattened nose. “Babbity Bowster.”

“How do you spell that?” Nance asked.

“Any way you like, sweetheart.”

Nance shook her head, scribbled in her notebook.

“What did you have to drink there?” Gilchrist asked.

“More wine.”

“A glass?”

“A bottle.”

“Or two?”

“Probably.”

“Pay by cash?”

“How else?”

How else indeed?

“Maureen likes her wine,” Topley continued, as if warming to the idea of being interrogated. “It loosens her up, if you catch my drift.”

Gilchrist ignored the taunt. “What kind of wine?” he asked. “House? White? Red?”

“Red.”

“Red?”

“Yeah. Red. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Got you, you plonker
. Gilchrist had no doubt Maureen frequented those pubs. They were both within walking distance of her home. But why would Topley lie? Or was he just stringing them along for the hell of it? “Two bottles of red between the two of you?” he went on.

“We might have left the second one unfinished.”

“Might?”

“Yeah. I think we did.”

“Red wine? Like a Cabernet?”

“Yeah. That’s the one. Cabernet.”

“Sauvignon?”

“Yeah. Cabernet Sauvignon.”

“Did you have a meal?”

“No. We drank.”

“More red wine?”

“Gin.”

Maureen liked the occasional gin and tonic, so Topley was telling him a mixture of lies and truth. “Then what?”

“We went back to her place and fucked each other senseless.”

Nance giggled, God bless her. She shook her head, slapped her notebook shut. “In your dreams, big boy.”

Topley seemed not to have heard. He glared at Gilchrist, his eyes like blue burning beads. “She likes it up the arse. Hard and fast. She swears when she’s getting fucked. Did you know that? She swears like a trooper. Fuck me harder, Chris baby, she says. Go on. Deeper. Harder. Fuck me. Fuck me.” Topley stopped his billy-goat thrusts then, and lowered his arms. He ran the back of his hand across his lips, as if out of breath.

Gilchrist smiled. “Finished?”

Topley frowned.

“Would you like me to charge you with obstructing a criminal investigation?”

“I’m obstructing nothing. You’re asking questions. I’m giving answers.”

“You’re lying.”

“Prove it.”

“Maureen doesn’t drink red wine.”

“Do what?”

“Red wine makes her sick.” Gilchrist stepped towards the door.

“Maybe it was white, then.”

“Maybe you weren’t even with her.”

Topley’s face deadpanned.

“Thanks for your time,” Gilchrist said. “I’ve enjoyed myself.” He gripped the door handle, then hesitated. “If I were you I’d make sure my books were in order.”

“I’m legit.”

“You’d better be,” said Gilchrist, and raised his wrist. “Because in about twenty-four hours this place is going to be crawling with inspectors from the Inland Revenue and Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. Wouldn’t you say, Nance?”

Nance shook her head. “Wouldn’t think it would take them that long.”

Gilchrist opened the door. “And one other thing.” He turned to Topley, pleased in some cruel way to see his fists bunching. “Maureen’s never liked it up the arse. She prefers to be on top.”

Topley unclenched his fists, then closed them in a white-knuckled crush.

Gilchrist pulled the door shut. His stomach churned. He should not have mentioned Maureen, but he had caught an image of her turning, dismounting from Watt, and the words had slipped from his lips before he could stop himself.

Outside, Nance said, “He’s lying through his back teeth. There’s no way Maureen would let him touch her with a barge pole. And what’s with the gold fillings? Did you see them?” She shivered her shoulders. “Was it true about the red wine?”