Life For a Life (9 page)

‘Maybe I’ve got it wrong,’ he said.

‘Let me call Tam,’ she said, and fiddled with her iPhone.

While Jessie called Tam, Gilchrist’s mind swelled with images of Gordie’s execution. He tried to shift his thoughts, but the sawing knife, and the dark hand to steady the head, refused to leave. And the guttural screaming too, the sound of an adult man howling in pain for his life, would not leave his senses.

Jessie hung up. ‘Tam says they clocked the ring but couldn’t make nothing out of it.’

‘Couldn’t make
any
thing out of it.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘What about the other recording? Of the brothers?’ he asked, and hoped she would not suggest he sit through it, just to prove a point. ‘Can you get a better image of it there?’

‘That’s what puzzled me,’ she said. ‘When he sticks their cocks into their mouths, you can see both his hands, and there’s no rings anywhere.’

‘So he must have taken it off ?’ Gilchrist said.

‘Maybe he put it on.’

Jessie’s remark puzzled Gilchrist, until he realised that the brothers’ execution could pre-date that of Gordie’s beheading. But why had Kumar decided to wear a ring for the second recording? And did it make any difference if he had?

Maybe he was searching for clues where there were none.

‘And you’re sure it’s the same person?’ he tried.

Jessie nodded. ‘Same voice, same suit, same size, same shape.’

‘There had to be at least two of them. One to work the camera, one to—’

‘For all we know there could be a team of them. An audience, too.’ Jessie snorted. ‘Maybe he’s selling tickets by the busload.’

An image of an audience-filled studio surged into Gilchrist’s mind with a clarity that had him struggling to find his breath. He pressed a button, and his window cracked open. Even with just an inch, he felt the heat evaporate from his face. ‘Going back to the other recording,’ he said. ‘The one with the brothers. Is it the same knife?’

Jessie nodded. ‘We tried to tie it to some manufacturer. But it’s like trying to figure out which farm a blade of straw came from.’

‘It looked like a boning knife,’ he offered.

‘General consensus is carving knife, with the blade worn down by repeated sharpening.’

‘Hotels? Butchers?’

‘Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt.’

‘What about the voice?’

‘Quality’s shite.’

‘Accent?’

‘Maybe Middle Eastern. Maybe not. Maybe European, Mediterranean. Male and foreign is about as close as we’ve come.’

‘Right,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Which leaves the ring.’

‘Which is unidentifiable, and brings us back to Go.’ She scowled at her iPhone and said, ‘Hang on,’ then placed it to her ear. ‘Yeah?’

Gilchrist caught the metallic crackle of a woman’s voice, too faint to hear what was being said but loud enough to catch the anger. Without saying a word, Jessie listened for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, then powered her iPhone down and stared at the passing fields.

The miles and the minutes passed by in silence.

Not until they reached the backup for the Kincardine Bridge did Gilchrist attempt to open the conversation. ‘What did your mother say?’ he asked her.

Jessie looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘I don’t listen to your conversations so I don’t want you listening to mine.’

‘I didn’t listen,’ he explained. ‘Just guessed.’

‘Well how about making yourself useful and guessing what the Rangers-Kilmarnock score will be this Sunday?’ She returned her gaze to the window.

Gilchrist followed her line of sight, let his gaze drift across the sludge-like waters of the River Forth, its banks slick and slimy with mud. Several boats in dire need of repainting, or more probably scuttling, lay tilted on their hulls, high and dry. Rotted wooden moorings stood from the thick gunge like dead stumps, black and lifeless. He let several seconds pass, before saying, ‘At the risk of repeating myself, I can’t help if I don’t know the problem.’

‘At the risk of repeating
my
self, why don’t you mind your own effing business?’

It took another five miles of silence for Jessie to say, ‘I’m sorry.’

Gilchrist thought silence was probably his best response, but memories of his late wife, Gail, and more recently the inherited brooding silences of his daughter, Maureen, persuaded him to search for dialogue.

‘Cooper said the tattoos looked more like symbols than numbers,’ he offered.

‘Oh, it’s Cooper now. What happened to Rebecca?’

Well, maybe silence was best.

Jessie shuffled in the passenger seat. ‘You’ll be thinking I’m the bitch from hell.’

‘Maybe not from hell.’

She chuckled, sniffed, chuckled some more. ‘You’ve got to laugh.’

‘Laughing helps.’

‘Do you know why wellies were invented?’ she asked.

He glanced at her, saw she was grinning. ‘Give in.’

‘To stick the sheep’s back legs in when you’re shagging them.’ She chuckled again. ‘That image always makes me smile.’

‘That one’s before Robert’s time,’ he said.

‘It’s a golden oldie. But he’s good, is Robert. Got a great sense of humour, despite being stone deaf.’

‘You make him laugh,’ he said. ‘I think having you as his mum is good for him.’

She snorted. ‘What do I know? I was sixteen when it happened. Went to a party and fancied this guy like mad. Spent most of the night trying to get off with the useless turd.’ She snorted again. ‘I’ve always been on the tubby side, and the bird he was with was some skinny blonde bimbo with the big eyes and the posh Bearsden accent. So what chance did I have? In the end, I got blitzed and screwed to the floor by some guy who was so drunk he could hardly keep it up. Amazing I got pregnant at all, when you think about it.’

‘Some guy?’ Gilchrist said. ‘So you don’t keep in touch?’

‘That’d be the day. Said he would call me. But he never did. Months later, I came across a scrunched-up piece of paper in the bottom of my purse, with a name and a phone number on it. I had a wee memory flash of him slipping me his address before slipping me the bit. By this time I was out to here, but I thought to myself, you know, maybe he cared. Maybe he would want to know. So I called him.’

‘Let me guess.’

‘Right first time.’ She shook her head, cursed under her breath. ‘Said he didn’t know what I was talking about. Denied everything. I told him I wasn’t asking him to marry me or anything, just that I thought, you know, that he might want to know.’ She snorted. ‘Lead balloon doesn’t come close.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Gilchrist said.

‘I called him once more,’ she pressed on, ‘after Robert was born. Just to tell him he had a son, and if he ever wanted to visit, I wouldn’t stop him. But the stupid prick accused me of coming after him for money, and hung up. I thought, right, fuck you, so I tore up his number and that was the end of that.’

Gilchrist tightened his grip on the steering wheel, frustrated at the unfairness of it all. How many other women suffered the same fate, walked out on after being taken advantage of, left to fend for themselves, raise a child they never intended to have in the first place? He glanced at Jessie, surprised to see she was smiling.

‘He’s never visited,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t expect him to.’

‘Will you tell Robert who his father is?’

‘Maybe one day.’

Gilchrist let her words simmer. If he knew he had an illegitimate son, he would want to see him. But only if the mother agreed. Turning up on the boy’s doorstep and announcing that he was his biological father could cause serious psychological damage and expose the mother as someone who had lied to her son throughout his life. How could he ever rebuild that trust—

‘You know what?’ Jessie said. ‘Even though it’s been tough, Robert’s father doesn’t know what he’s missing.’

‘Not everyone could do what you’re doing, being a single parent, and a good mother to a . . .’ He caught himself before saying
handicapped child
, and said, ‘. . . to Robert.’

‘Anybody ever tell you you’re a smooth-talking bastard?’

‘Not in so many words, no.’

‘That phone call?’ she said. ‘My bitch for a mother says she’s going to take legal action for custody of Robert.’

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Gilchrist replied, ‘from first appearances, and from what I know of the law, I’d say her chances of succeeding are zero to a hundred below.’

‘She doesn’t want Robert to live with her. That would cost money. All she wants is for me not to have him.’

‘Still zero to a hundred below.’

‘She’s got witnesses to me hitting him.’

‘You hit Robert?’

‘See?’ she said. ‘See how easy it is to make someone question the truth? I’ve never hit Robert in my life, you twerp. But dear old Mum’s got my two fuckheads for brothers ready to go to court to testify to that. And they’re stupid enough to do that.’

‘Robert would deny it.’

‘I’m not going to have Robert go to any family hearing. He’s just a wee boy.’

‘Well, the Social Services wouldn’t—’

‘Have you seen how those bastards in the Social Services work? They swan in, wave a bit of paper, and cart him away. It’s eff all to do with what he wants, or what I want, it’s what they decide is best for us. Best for
us
. . . ?’ Her voice had risen, and she stared out of the window for a long moment. But when she came back, her low grumble told it all. ‘I’ll kill first before I let anyone take Robert from me.’

‘It won’t come to that,’ Gilchrist said, then tried to make light of it. ‘Besides, if you’re locked up, you won’t be around for Robert when he needs you most.’ But when she looked away, he knew he was missing something, perhaps some dark family secret, some
thing
that was deeply personal to her. But what it was, he could not say.

‘Can you tell me why?’ he asked.

‘Why what?’

‘Why your mother wants to take Robert from you.’

‘It’s personal. I already told you that.’

‘Yes, you did,’ he said. And as these words passed his lips, he resolved to make a point of finding out.

No sooner were they back in the office than Jessie was collared by Alex of Human Resources. Gilchrist knew from experience that she could spend the rest of the day filling out forms to become an official employee of Fife Constabulary, so he spent time catching up and reading the latest reports from DIs Wilkes and Rennie.

Three other households in Kingsbarns had reported strange goings-on in the cottage, with the lights being left on night and day, and a dark-blue Volvo – no one seemed to have noticed the model or registration number – coming and going at all hours. But no one could confirm seeing any women or girls, or men of an ethnic background, enter or exit the cottage. One couple even went so far as to suggest the house was haunted – activity was present, that was true, but not necessarily in human form.

A check with the post office in Main Street confirmed that mail – mostly utility bills and advertising leaflets – was being delivered to the cottage under the name of the registered owner, not the tenant. A search on the PNC revealed that a 1998 Volvo, dark-blue, originally registered in Birmingham, had been stolen from a Tesco multistorey car park in Hull. The car’s owner was working overseas in Al Khobar, Saudi Arabia, and had been out of the country since August, which tied up with the rental agreement Angus contracted, and the theft from Tesco. A BOLO – be on the lookout – was put out on the Volvo, only to confirm that an abandoned Volvo matching the description of the one stolen in Hull, or rather what was left of it, had been found torched in a field on the outskirts of Stirling three days earlier.

It seemed to Gilchrist that if he wanted to work his way to a dead end, he was going about it the right way. So he stuck his head into Jackie’s office.

‘Did Nance give you crime scene photos?’ he asked her.

Jackie nodded.

‘Any luck?’

She wobbled her head – yes and no – and reached for her crutches.

‘I’ve got them, Jackie,’ he said, and removed the printouts from her printer.

He flipped through each of the images, faces of young women, some no older than children, it seemed, with forlorn eyes devoid of hope. He stopped at one, the head shot and profile of a scruffy-haired blonde, eyes aged beyond her years, charged with stealing a van and driving without insurance or a licence. He was intrigued by her face, its wide eyes, small mouth and pointed chin, giving an almost alienlike triangular shape to her head, which somehow seemed familiar.

Was this the girl on the Coastal Path?

He checked her date of birth, which put her at seventeen, and her height – 1.70 m. He still thought in feet and inches, and did a quick mental calculation to five foot seven. He covered one half of her face with his left hand, to account for the twisted eye and lips on the body in Cooper’s PM room, but could not be sure.

Despite that, he felt it was a better than good start.

‘This one,’ he said to Jackie. ‘See if you can find anything else on her.’

Jackie’s mouth opened.

‘Send me a text when you do,’ he said.

On the way back to his office, his mobile rang – ID Cooper.

‘You sound busy,’ she said.

‘I am.’

‘Am I to understand you won’t be able to make our small gathering this evening?’

‘It’s unlikely, I’m afraid. Sorry.’

Cooper gave out a throaty chuckle, which had him pulling up a memory of her settling on to him, her hair curling over his face as she gasped in his ear. If he inhaled at that moment, he swore he could still smell her fragrance—

‘Bones,’ she said.

‘Pardon?’

‘The tattoos appear to be two bones. Side by side. Like the number eleven.’

‘Bones?’ He tried to picture them. ‘Why bones?’

‘African witch doctor?’

Gilchrist wondered if she was on to something. But the CD of Gordie’s beheading, the cock-sucking finale of the Georgian gangsters, the tinny sound of the man’s accent, even the name Kumar, all seemed to point away from Africa.

‘And I’ve also found traces of benzodiazepines in their blood,’ she continued.

‘All three of them?’

‘Only the two who were killed in the cottage.’