Life For a Life (29 page)

‘Not over the phone, Mr Gilchrist. This has to be between you and me.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘At the house in Kingsbarns, at the front door, you will find two flowerpots. Under the flowerpot on the left is an envelope. In the envelope is a note that will tell you where we shall meet.’

‘How can you trust me to come alone?’ Gilchrist said.

Another chuckle, long and deep, with no trace of concern or fear. ‘You are on your way to your home in Crail. I know where you have been this evening, and I know who you have been with. I know where your children live, too . . .’

A hoof thudded Gilchrist in the gut.

‘Jack and Maureen,’ Kumar added, as if Gilchrist needed another snippet of proof that the man had him where he wanted. ‘So I think you will find it in your interests to meet me alone. Don’t you agree?’

Gilchrist tried to work spittle into his mouth but his tongue was as dry as cardboard. He dabbed sweat from his brow. He tried to think of some smart riposte but his mind could have belonged to someone else. ‘When?’ was all he could say.

‘You are no more than five minutes from Kingsbarns,’ Kumar said, which had Gilchrist glaring into the rearview mirror. The road behind lay clear, then his mind kicked alive and told him the van that had just passed must have been one of Kumar’s men.

Gilchrist pushed into gear, pressed the accelerator.

‘Once you find the note,’ Kumar continued, ‘it will take you only ten minutes or so to reach me.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Gilchrist said, and killed the call.

Gilchrist suspected he had likely been shadowed for most of the day. They had seen him tackle the media in Tayport, seen him with Nance in the Dunvegan, seen him drop her off at her flat, and followed him on his return home.

He gripped the steering wheel and pressed into the night. He tried to still an awful pounding in his chest which thumped its way to a pain behind his eyes. He jerked the neck of his shirt, tugged it open, took a deep breath. Christ, he had suffered less physical discomfort from running five kilometres.

What was happening?

But he knew what was happening. He was scared. The monotony of Kumar’s voice, and the unerring certainty with which he gave instructions, frightened him to his core. He was dealing with a man who knew no fear, who had killed before and would kill again, a man who could murder someone just to test the blade of a knife or to satisfy an itch, who took pleasure from watching the life fade from a victim’s eyes.

Gilchrist thought of calling for backup but feared that Kumar would keep to his word and seek revenge on his children. He could have his team try to locate where Kumar called from, but he had used Bill’s mobile just to let Gilchrist know who was calling. Bill’s SIM card would have been removed once again.

The mention of his children had been the final nail, the one piece of information that Kumar knew would have him following any instruction to the ends of the earth. Gilchrist eyed the dark tunnel of the road ahead, pushed his speed up to seventy, then eighty, and caught the glimmer of tail lights of the truck ahead.

He felt his grimace turn into a tight smile.

‘OK, you bastard,’ he said. ‘I’ve got you now.’

But Gilchrist was unarmed, and once he caught up with the van, his fleeting sense of invincibility passed. He slowed down, sat well back, at least a dozen car lengths, and worked through his thoughts.

He now felt certain that Kumar was not working alone –
we will be watching you
. He suspected the van would be driven by the person who had fed information to Kumar on where he was –
in your Mercedes . . . on your way to your home in Crail . . . no more than five minutes from Kingsbarns
– all drip-fed to Gilchrist to instil fear. Well, Mr Kumar, if it’s fear you’re trying to instil, it’s working. You’ve got me scared, all right. But you’ve slipped up, and I’m just about to nail you.

Gilchrist devised a plan, which was simple. And clear.

He would drive to the cottage in Kingsbarns, collect the note that told him where to meet. But instead of driving to his rendezvous with Kumar, he would send in a team. In the meantime, if he did as Kumar suggested – park his car at the corner of North Carr View, then walk to the cottage alone – Kumar would think his plan was working.

But did Kumar really believe he was that stupid?

The cottage could be a trap, the note under the flowerpot the bait.

Kumar could have no intention of striking any deal. Perhaps he had someone hiding at the cottage, someone who would shoot him the moment he turned up on the doorstep. But as that scenario wormed through his brain, Gilchrist came to understand that shooting policemen was not Kumar’s style, beheading them was – witness Gordie, Bill and Eilidh.

That thought made up his mind for him.

He dialled the office and spoke to the duty officer.

‘Check the PNC for a white Transit van,’ he instructed, then read off the registration number of the van ahead. ‘And have someone from the Anstruther office pull it over, with extreme caution. The occupants are likely armed and dangerous.’

Having taken care of the van, he then called HQ Glenrothes and spoke to the SPOC – the single point of contact, the person in charge of the Control Room – and instructed him to have an ARV – armed response vehicle – maybe two, ready for quick deployment.

Ahead, the van slowed down as it entered the village of Kingsbarns.

Gilchrist did likewise.

Back Stile was a road that ran all the way to the beach, off the A917 just beyond Kingsbarns. Whoever was in the van would surely know Gilchrist was now behind them, and would probably not turn into Back Stile but drive straight on.

Gilchrist followed, his eyes peeled for any other vehicles.

Other than his Merc and the van ahead, the road ran clear, as if the village had locked down for the night. The Barns Hotel passed by on his left, and moments later the primary school on his right. Gilchrist felt his body tense as he readied to leave the village. With Back Stile coming up on the left, would the van turn left?

It powered past Back Stile and accelerated into the open country road.

Gilchrist slowed down and turned off the main road.

Although snowploughs had cleared Back Stile, subsequent snowfall had laid down another couple of inches. Tyre tracks rutted fresh snow. The asphalt pavement that ran along the left side of the road, all the way to Seagate, after which it became gravel, lay thick with snow, its surface disturbed by a solitary set of footprints. Street lights cast a hazy glow over the winter scene.

The clock on the dashboard read 11.56 p.m. Gilchrist eased the Merc forward, keeping his speed at a steady twenty-five, taking it slow, peering into the dark tunnel ahead, ready to accelerate, or slam it into reverse if he happened to see anything suspicious. A glance in his rearview mirror told him no one was following. He turned the radio to low, then switched it off altogether.

He eased through a shallow left-hand bend, then cruised past the entrance to The Steading, then MacKenzie Garden. The road appeared to widen at the branch for North Carr View, taking with it the last of the tyre tracks.

Ahead, Back Stile lay white with pristine snow, the entrance to Seagate on the left, lit by the last of the street lighting on the right. Beyond, the road ran on to the sea and the beach parking. The snowploughs had not cleared that far, and the road’s surface lay in whitened darkness, as if untouched by humans.

Seconds later, Gilchrist turned left and parked against the kerb.

He kept the engine running, flicked his headlights to full beam. Seagate stretched before him, as smooth as a white blanket. Light snow continued to fall, the tiniest of flakes that glinted for a moment then seemed to melt under the glare of his full beams.

At that moment, Gilchrist realised his luck. If anyone was lying in wait at the cottage, their footprints would give them away, the recent snowfall not heavy enough to obliterate all trace. That thought settled him, and he took one steady three-sixty degree look around him before turning off the engine. He disconnected his mobile from the car’s system, slipped it into his pocket, and opened the door.

His shoes settled into snow no more than three inches deep, his footprints the first disturbance that day, it seemed. He pressed his key fob, and the locks clicked. Ahead, the scene was brightened by street lights and roadside homes and Christmas lights on bushes and hedges, which flickered and pulsed in blues, reds, whites. He pulled up his collar, shivered off the cold air, and walked towards the abandoned cottage.

He took his time, his senses on full alert, his eyes scanning the ground ahead for the tell signs of a trap. Lawns and driveways lay thick with snow, parked cars like hibernating beasts huddled under white blankets. A stone-eyed snowman watched him in silence. He stopped twice, turning his head to the wind to catch the tiniest hint of movement.

But the place was graveyard silent.

It took him no more than three minutes before the cottage appeared on his right. The windows of the houses either side glowed with welcoming warmth, as if in invitation to the weary traveller to stay for the night. In contrast, the abandoned cottage lay in complete and utter darkness, putting Gilchrist back on full alert.

If someone was hiding, would he be able to see their footprints?

As he stood at its wooden gate, he saw that the path outside was clear of footprints. His gaze eyed his own trail back to the footpath on the opposite side of the road. Other than a pair of tracks on a neighbouring driveway, it seemed as if the residents in this housing estate had battened down their homes for the winter storm.

He faced the cottage again, gripped the gate, and pushed it open.

Even in the midnight darkness, the snow reflected sufficient light to confirm that the short walkway to the cottage – no more than twelve feet – lay undisturbed. Snow-covered bushes guarded the garden boundary either side. Two flowerpots on the step to a black door held dead conifers cloaked in snow. Strips of yellow police tape –
Do Not Cross
– stretched across the doorway, the cottage’s very own Christmas wrapping.

Gilchrist removed a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket, and slipped them on. Next, he pulled out his mobile phone, and swiped it on. The screen lit up, which he used as a poor man’s torch. One more three-sixty scan confirmed he was still alone.

Then he stepped through the gateway.

He reached the front doorstep, leaned down, and lifted the flowerpot on the left.

Sure enough, there was Kumar’s note, a small white envelope, just as he said.

Gilchrist picked it up—

Something fluttered to his left, movement in the dark.

He froze, his breath locked in his throat. His gaze darted around the shrubbery, and he saw with a gut-wrenching sense of helplessness how careless he had been, how they had waited for him in the bushes. His heart pounded in his chest, telling his brain that his lungs had to breathe. He held out his mobile phone, as if that alone could stop the attack, its weak light barely helping him—

Movement. Another flutter.

He saw it that time, snow falling from the branches of an overladen bush.

Not Kumar’s men. Not a trap.

Just nature shifting and stirring around him.

His heart and lungs kick-started with a sharp exhalation and intake of air.

Bloody hell, he was too old for this.

He clutched the envelope, retreated along the cottage walkway, retraced his steps across the road, until he stood under a street light, his back to the house behind.

Across the street, the cottage stared back at him in dark and derelict silence.

He waited thirty seconds, maybe more, while his lungs and his heart did what they could to settle his nerves. And it struck him then, with a clarity that shook him, how stupid he had been, how easily he could have been attacked, how an ageing detective – because that was how he now saw himself – was no match for a gang of killers intent on expanding their criminal activities beyond London, Manchester, Glasgow into the quieter regions of the Fife countryside.

That thought had him doing another three-sixty.

But he could have been alone on the moon for all the activity around him.

He turned his attention to the envelope. It was unsealed. He pulled back the flap, removed the note – hand-printed. In addition to any fingerprints they might lift, the printed word might help nail Kumar to the proverbial cross.

He read the note:
Outside the secret bunker in 15 minutes.

Gilchrist knew the secret bunker, constructed during the Second World War to house the regional government in the event of a nuclear or biological attack. The only evidence of its existence was the guardhouse in the form of a farmhouse that sat over a labyrinth of heavily reinforced underground offices and tunnels, the size of two football parks, 100 feet underground. He had taken Jack there, years ago, when security restrictions on the bunker’s existence were lifted and it was opened to the public.

He did another three-sixty scan.

If Kumar was watching him, he could not tell from where.

He dialled HQ Glenrothes again, and got through to the SPOC. He arranged for one ARV to take up position on the east end of the road that led to the secret bunker, and another on the west end, and to wait there until he gave further instruction. But time was not on his side. He knew that. Kumar’s words came back to him –
only ten minutes or so to reach me
. It would take at least half an hour before the ARVs were in position, maybe much longer. He might be able to stall the meeting in some way, and if he did, the ARVs could move in and make the final arrest.

Maybe not the best of plans, but it was a plan.

And no matter what, Kumar was going down.

Gilchrist ended the call to the SPOC with, ‘I’ll get back to you in fifteen minutes.’

He walked towards his car. He still held his mobile in his hand, and despite the hour, he thought of calling Jessie to see if she would be interested in making her first formal arrest in Fife. But he realised he was being inconsiderate. Jessie had just moved to St Andrews, and with trying to settle into a new job and set up a new home, she needed more time with her son. So he decided to call her later.