Life For a Life (32 page)

The human survival instinct is arguably the most powerful of any living species. If Gilchrist could somehow delay the inevitable, perhaps convince Kumar that it made more sense to let him go rather than kill him, maybe even strike a deal of his own, he might yet be saved. But the tape around his lips and chin made speaking difficult, although he could pronounce his words if he took his time.

‘You’re only digging yourself deeper,’ Gilchrist managed to say.

‘Ah,’ Kumar said, and glanced at him before ducking behind the recorder again. ‘Say something else.’ A red light appeared on the front of the recorder.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Gilchrist said.

‘That’s better,’ Kumar said. ‘I think we have the sound working now.’

‘I can be bought.’

‘I know you can.’

‘I can.’ It felt good to be talking, even if his tongue felt as dry as cardboard.

‘I thought you didn’t do bribes.’

Gilchrist worked up some spittle. ‘Everyone has their price. That’s what you said. Your exact words.’

Kumar looked at him as he stepped back from the video, but said nothing.

‘Even me,’ Gilchrist tried. ‘And it won’t cost much.’

‘It won’t cost me anything, Mr Gilchrist, because I don’t believe you.’ He leaned down, picked up the carving knife with one hand, and a whetstone – which Gilchrist had not noticed until then – with the other. ‘I am always amused by the change in personality at the recognition of death being only a few moments away. The closer death comes, the more a person is prepared to agree to terms they rejected moments earlier.’ He worked the blade of the knife in a slicing action, one side other side, one side other side, back and forth, its steel blade ringing, again and again, like a butcher preparing to slice off a cut of meat – which in a sense he was. ‘But I know from experience that it is only a ploy to delay the inevitable. So I tend not to listen.’

Kumar put the whetstone down, dabbed his thumb on the knife’s blade.

‘I think we’re ready,’ he said, and laid the carving knife next to the whetstone.

Then he removed what looked like a small white package from the video case.

A surge of white fear exploded through Gilchrist. His blood thundered, his heart pounded, his peripheral vision darkened, as Kumar unfolded the forensic suit and slipped his legs into it. Then he pulled it up his thighs, inserted his arms, left first, next his right, then up and over his shoulders.

No associate to assist him, Gilchrist saw that now.

And no worries about blood spurts spoiling his nice tailored suit.

Gilchrist tensed his muscles, jerked his body on the chair, tried to tear free from his bindings. He pulled at his hands until the fire in his chest burned as if torched.

He was tied too securely.

As good as dead.

Steam from his urine lifted in the cold air as he watched Kumar lift the carving knife from the video case and walk towards him.

‘No . . .’ Gilchrist groaned. ‘No, no,
no
. . .’

‘How far away are we?’ Jessie asked Mhairi.

‘About fifteen minutes.’

Jessie glanced at the dash, calculated that they should arrive at 13.10, give or take. She gritted her teeth and pressed on, irritated by the sluggish traffic. She was fourth in a plug of cars that trailed a slow-moving tractor. Even with a clear run at it, her Fiat did not have the power to accelerate and overtake all the way to the front never mind that the cars ahead were so closely bunched together that she would have to wedge her Fiat in between them if she dared to try.

‘How much trouble has Angus got himself into?’ Mhairi asked.

‘If it was up to me,’ Jessie said, ‘I would drown him in the deepest shite. But I’m new to these parts, so what do I know?’

‘I could never live with myself if he was somehow associated with DCI Gilchrist’s death—’

‘What is it with everyone in Fife that they speak to each other in terms of rank? DCI Gilchrist? Andy’s Andy, as far as I’m concerned. And he’s very much alive until proven otherwise.’

Mhairi cleared her throat. ‘Do you think so? Do you think he’s still alive?’

‘I know it. Don’t ask me how or why I know. I just do.’ She glanced at Mhairi, but the worried frown on Mhairi’s forehead told her she was not convinced. ‘Do you know that most people bring on their own suffering by thinking about all the bad things they don’t want to happen to them? It’s true,’ Jessie said. ‘It’s in the Bible somewhere, and don’t ask me where. Can’t remember the last time I saw a Bible, let alone read one.’

Up ahead, the lead car pulled out and overtook the tractor, sharply followed by the car behind, exhaust belching oily smoke from its sudden surge of power.

‘Well, thank goodness for small mercies,’ Jessie said. ‘That’s us second in line. Not that I could pass that thing even if I wanted to.’ She glanced in her mirror, tried to catch Robert’s eye, but his head was still down – focused on his iPhone.

She retrieved her mobile from her pocket and passed it to Mhairi. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Do me a favour and dial the last number I called.’

‘Whose is it?’

‘That’s what I’d like you to find out. It was on Andy’s mobile and seems to be untraceable. I’ve called a few times but it just kicks me into the service provider’s voicemail. Try giving it a few calls. Maybe someone’ll pick up.’

Mhairi fell into silence as she tried to work her way around Jessie’s mobile. But being unfamiliar with it, she tutted as the menus refused to open.

‘Try swiping your hand across it,’ Jessie said. ‘Not poking.’

‘Got it,’ Mhairi said.

But from the way she was fiddling with it, Jessie thought it would take some time before Mhairi got it. She glanced at the dash.

Less than ten minutes away.

Kumar positioned himself behind Gilchrist.

He gripped Gilchrist by the hair and tugged his head back.

Gilchrist tried to resist but Kumar’s grip was too strong. He felt his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, felt his utter and absolute vulnerability as the razor-sharp blade danced in front of his face then slid down and under his chin, and move to the left. And even in that stunned moment of silence before his death, it struck Gilchrist that Cooper had been correct – entry wound to the left, a couple of inches beneath the left ear lobe, then across the throat in one smooth stroke—

‘
Fuuuck
. . .’ Gilchrist screamed, and jerked his head from side to side with every ounce of his strength, tearing himself free from Kumar’s grip.

His head jerked forward. Spittle dribbled from his lips. His breath pulled in and out of his lungs as if on fire. He gasped with disbelief as Kumar stepped round the chair to stand in front of him. What was he doing?

Was he going to behead him face on?

Then Kumar walked back to the recorder and laid the knife on the case.

Gilchrist’s heart raced as if ready to explode. Blood pounded through his system with a ferocity that could not be good for his health – as if that was of any concern at that moment. He tried to pull his body free but flames seemed to lick and savour every fibre of his being, their scorching tongues firing every muscle, every sinew, every nerve.

If he closed his eyes he could already be in Hell.

But he focused on Kumar, knowing that he was not in Hell. He was still alive. And as long as he had air to breathe and power to move he would continue to stay alive. He jerked his body back with all his strength, then jerked forward. He tried it again – back and forward, back and forward, rocking the chair free—

Hope soared as he felt some give in the chair’s legs.

Had he loosened the bolts into the concrete?

He glanced at Kumar but he seemed too focused on whatever he was digging out of the video case. Gilchrist jerked again, back and forward, his muscles tight, his chest molten. But he had no time to think of the pain. He continued to struggle and fight, the tape cutting into his legs, his arms, his face. He tasted blood on his tongue—

‘You’re wasting your energy,’ Kumar said. ‘You cannot break free.’

Gilchrist froze. His chest heaved as if he’d run the 400 metres. Perspiration blinded his sight. He blinked it free.

‘You should use what little time you have left to make peace with your God. You do believe in God,’ Kumar said, then walked towards Gilchrist like a doctor to a patient. ‘I do hope so,’ he added, holding up a syringe half-filled with clear fluid, as if for Gilchrist to approve.

Gilchrist gave a grunt of shock.

‘People of many religions ignore their God throughout their lives yet turn to Him in their darkest hour. Not like Muslims, who pray to Allah five times every day. I wonder if you now wish you had paid more attention to your God, Mr Gilchrist. Do you? No? You’re not an atheist, are you? Never mind.’ He pressed the syringe, causing a squirt of liquid to ejaculate. ‘This should help you to relax.’

Kumar walked to the back of the chair, out of Gilchrist’s sight.

Gilchrist rocked on his chair, hoping to make it difficult, maybe even impossible, for Kumar to inject him.

‘This is not potent enough to put you out,’ Kumar continued, as if Gilchrist were more a willing patient. ‘We wouldn’t want you to miss the fun. Oh no, Mr Gilchrist, we wouldn’t want to do that.’

Despite continuing to struggle, Gilchrist’s arms were secured behind the back of the chair with tape as tight as lashing. He could do nothing as he felt Kumar’s fingers touch his wrist, push his sleeve back, tap his skin as if in search of a vein. ‘You won’t get away with this,’ Gilchrist groaned, and grunted a curse as the needle pierced his skin with a sharp nip.

‘Whether I get away with it or not, Mr Gilchrist, will be of no concern to you. That I can promise you.’ Kumar reappeared at Gilchrist’s side.

Helpless, Gilchrist could only watch Kumar walk back to the recorder and replace the empty syringe in the case. Whatever drug Kumar had injected was already beginning to work through his system. The fire in his chest was dying down, as if the flames were being smothered with a blanket. His muscles, too, seemed salved in cooling lotion.

Kumar retrieved the carving knife and walked round the recorder to stand with his back to it, blocking Gilchrist from the viewfinder. Then he lifted the knife with a determined smile, an executioner keen to get on with the grim reality of business.

‘The day is getting late, Mr Gilchrist.’

Kumar walked from the video recorder towards Gilchrist, his step slow and precise, which had Gilchrist’s memory pulling up an image of a blank screen that opened up to a man – Kumar – walking away from the viewer to behead a terrified Gordie.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Andrew James Gilchrist,’ Kumar announced, more for the viewers’ benefit than for Gilchrist’s, ‘do you have anything to say? Any words of wisdom or advice you would like to pass on to family or colleagues?’

Gilchrist thought of just reciting a description of Kumar, giving his team something to go on. But on top of the drugs coursing through his system – making thinking as difficult as breathing through treacle – he knew Kumar would simply delete whatever he said, before sending the video to whomever he intended to send it.

He thought of saying a few parting words to his children, Jack and Maureen. But that would effectively ensure that they would watch a recording of him moments before his death, maybe even the beheading itself. Not the kind of legacy any father would want to leave his children.

‘Nothing?’ Kumar asked, ever the gentleman.

Gilchrist opened his mouth to tell Kumar to fuck off, but his lips refused to work and his tongue could have belonged to someone else. Even the carving knife, which had held his fearful attention for so long, seemed to slide away from view, as if Kumar was trying to hide it prior to Gilchrist’s decapitation. But Kumar would not be so considerate. Where was the fun in that?

Gilchrist’s dimming brain worked out that much at least.

His head seemed to have gained pounds in weight, making it difficult to keep an eye on Kumar as he neared. He no longer felt the fire in his chest, the pain in his arms, his neck, his legs. Not even Kumar’s grip as his fingers grabbed Gilchrist’s hair from behind and jerked his head back to expose the soft flesh of the neck and throat, the carotid artery pulsing away, like an indicator reminding Kumar where to slice his blade, just in case he had forgotten.

Kumar was talking for the benefit of his viewers. But it could have been in a foreign language for all the sense Gilchrist’s numbing brain could make of it. He felt the press of Kumar’s body, the warmth of his breath with its hint of garlic, as he leaned closer. An arm encircled his head, the fearsome blade flashing before him, then vanishing beneath his line of vision. An aromatic fragrance filled his senses, like Old Spice aftershave, reminding him of his father – how many years since he had died?

It seemed impossible to work out.

Gilchrist blinked once, twice, expecting each blink to be his last.

Would he feel any pain? The injection should take care of that, he reasoned.

Kumar’s voice had taken on an unearthly echo, as if he were whispering in his ear one second then shouting across an abyss the next. With his head tilted back, rafters seemed to swell from the shadows to take on the shape of the gallows, but for the life of him Gilchrist could not see the noose with its hangman’s knot.

And when had spring arrived? And birdsong, too?

Except the song turned into a sharp tone that beeped with electronic regularity—

The knife flashed, its silver blade slicing the air before his eyes—

Gilchrist gasped.

Kumar cursed, released his grip.

Gilchrist blinked. Was he dead? Dying?

He held his breath as his vision returned to the horizontal and Kumar walked off to the side. The ringing was coming from the shadows close to the wall on his right, from some point beyond the reach of the spotlights, which had Kumar’s irritated attention. Despite his leaden mental powers Gilchrist was still able to work out that Kumar would not want his video recording spoiled by the persistent ringing of a mobile.

Another curse as Kumar knelt down to a large bag on the concrete floor, which Gilchrist had not seen until that moment. He had to grit his teeth and strain his neck to watch Kumar as he tugged at the bag – except it turned out not to be a bag, but a body. Kumar tore at the man’s clothes and the body rolled over, its lifeless eyes staring at Gilchrist as if to say,
Remember me
?