The Meating Room (13 page)

Movement at the back door caught his attention, and he was surprised to see Cooper pushing it open, mobile still in hand. Without a word, she reclaimed her seat and stared at her coffee. He thought of pouring the milk for her, then realised he didn’t know how she took espresso. Until then, she had always ordered latte with no sugar, the way he liked it.

Had she done that just to make it easy for him?

He reached for the milk jug. ‘Shall I play Mum?’

She said nothing as he poured and stirred. Then he sat back and lifted his latte to his lips. Cooper reached for her drink with both hands, her fingers squeezing the cup tight.

‘Maxwell’s going to talk to Greaves,’ she said, then took a sip.

‘About what?’

‘Come on, Andy, don’t play dumb.’

‘Is he going to confess that he has marital problems?’

‘You have this extremely irritating way of talking in questions.’

‘So what do you want me to ask?’

She glared at him, and for the first time since she had taken over from Bert Mackie as head of Forensic Pathology at Dundee University, he saw how formidable an opponent she could be. He had always believed that Mr Cooper – man of the world, philanderer about town and overseas – gave out more than he got in that marriage. Now he was not so sure.

‘Okay. Tell me why you’re worried about your husband talking to Chief Super Greaves.’

‘You don’t know Maxwell,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t do half-measures.’

Gilchrist was unsure what she meant by that, but found himself reluctant to ask. ‘I’m already in Greaves’s bad books,’ he said. ‘And I don’t see me getting out of them any time soon.’

‘No. But
I
could lose my job.’

‘Ah.’ Now they were getting down to it. Nothing to do with what Greaves might say to Gilchrist, but everything to do with how his affair with a married woman, Fife’s foremost forensic pathologist, might impact on
her
career. Rather than rising to the bait, he decided to be awkward. ‘I could lose mine, too.’

‘After what you’ve got away with in the past?’ Her lips creased into a wry smile and she took another sip of coffee.

He waited until she returned the cup to the table before saying, ‘What are you not telling me, Becky?’

She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Nothing.’

‘Now who’s acting dumb?’

Her eyes flared, making him think she was about to storm out. But she reached for her coffee again, clutching the cup with both hands as if seeking warmth. Well, it was chilly outside.

‘Would you like another one?’ he asked.

She shook her head, an act that looked strange without the benefit of long hair. He missed her curls, and fought off the oddest urge to reach out and undo her bun. ‘One’s enough,’ she replied. ‘I’ll be twitching all evening if I have two of these.’

He returned her smile, placed his hand palm upwards on the table, but she still refused to reciprocate. He said nothing as she sipped her coffee and avoided his eye. He was starting to wonder why she had asked to meet him at all. For all she had said, a text message would have done just as well. The stalemate was broken by a call to his mobile. He removed it from his pocket, glanced at the screen – Stan – and rose to his feet.

‘I’ll take this out the back,’ he told her, but Cooper seemed uninterested, or perhaps resigned to perpetual interference from others.

Outside, Gilchrist tugged up his collar to ward off a gust of bitter wind.

‘Does the name Jerry McGovern mean anything to you, boss?’

Gilchrist struggled to make a connection. ‘Any relation to Malky McGovern?’

‘They’re brothers.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Malky was killed in a car accident on the A85 ten days ago, just outside Crieff.’

Gilchrist pulled up a faint memory of something on the news – the TV camera zooming in on a mangled pile of metal that had once been a car. Then he realised Stan was waiting for him to say something. ‘Did they find anything in his car?’

‘Driving licence. Wallet in the centre console. Files in the boot.’

‘Files?
What kind of files?’

‘Photographs,’ Stan said. ‘Lots of them. And we’re not talking happy families here.’

Electricity trickled the length of Gilchrist’s spine. ‘What
are
we talking, then?’

‘Young women having sex, giving blowjobs, getting licked—’

‘Any way to ID them?’

‘No chance, boss. Their faces have been blanked out.’

‘Inked out, you mean?’

‘Pixelated is the technical term.’

Gilchrist felt a surge of interest. He was beginning to understand why Stan had called. ‘So they’re printouts from a computer, is what you’re telling me.’

‘They are indeed. And this is where it gets interesting.’

Gilchrist glanced back into the coffee-shop and felt a flutter of confusion at Cooper’s empty sofa.

‘When the police contacted Jerry as Malky’s only next of kin, they thought he seemed nervous. Not how you would expect a seasoned criminal to behave.’

Gilchrist pushed through the door, eyes on the abandoned sofa – no jacket and scarf this time – then strode past it. He glanced at the counter, the main door, the seats at the window, through the glass to the street beyond.

No sign of Cooper.

‘With Jerry acting like he was hiding something, the SIO applied for a search warrant and yesterday they went over and confiscated his computers.’

Gilchrist had worked his way through the coffee-shop. He stepped into Market Street, but Cooper was nowhere in sight. ‘I’m listening,’ he said, scanning the thoroughfare, searching the pavements. But it seemed as if Cooper had just upped and left.

‘Well, in the process, they discovered some of Amy McCulloch’s jewellery.’

‘
What?
’ Gilchrist stopped in his tracks.

‘Matching necklaces and earrings, that sort of stuff.’

Gilchrist started walking again, faster now. He strode across College Street, heading back to The Central. ‘Had the McCullochs reported the items as stolen?’

‘No. McGovern just came clean. Eager to get it off his chest, by all accounts. He served four years in Barlinnie for serious assault, which could have been murder if the victim hadn’t survived. What do you think, boss? Think he might be involved in the massacre?’

‘Serious assault’s different from gutting, skinning and decapitating,’ Gilchrist said. ‘No, Jerry’s just shitting himself in case he gets mixed up in it.’ He gave it some thought, then said, ‘So how did he come by the jewellery?’

‘Said he’d been staking out the mansion for a couple of weeks, boss, and broke in on Thursday morning.’

‘Jesus, Stan,’ Gilchrist gasped. ‘Was this before the family was massacred?’

‘That’s what he’s saying. The house was empty.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Glenrothes Police Station.’

Gilchrist reached The Central, rapped his knuckles on the window, loud enough for several heads to turn his way, and the barman to frown at him.

Jessie heard, too, and jerked in surprise.

Let’s go
, he mouthed to her, then turned away.

‘How long’s McGovern been there, Stan?’

‘Since last night.’

‘And when did they make the connection with the jewellery?’

‘This morning. When he was interviewed.’

Jessie interrupted with, ‘This must be serious. You’ve still got a pint to finish.’

Gilchrist nodded for her to follow, and they entered College Street. ‘Call Whyte,’ he said to Stan, ‘and tell him we’re on our way to talk to McGovern.’

‘I’ll do what I can, boss.’

‘I’m talking to McGovern with or without Whyte’s approval,’ Gilchrist said, and ended the call.

‘Something I need to know?’ Jessie said.

‘I’ll explain in the car.’

Jessie had her mobile out. ‘Here, listen to this from Jackie.’ She read from the screen. ‘Confirm Magner married twice. Still married, question mark. PO in office.’

Gilchrist stuffed his hands into his pockets to ward off the stiff wind. ‘PO?’

‘Printout, I think.’

‘So, she’s found another marriage certificate. Did she find any divorce papers?’

‘I guess not. Nor a death certificate. Hence the question mark.’

‘When did you receive that text?’

‘Just opened it.’

Gilchrist tried to recall their interrogation of Magner, but could not remember asking if he was married. ‘Let’s see what Jackie’s got,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll head to Glenrothes.’

The door to Jackie’s office was closed, her seat vacated, her computer switched off, and no crutches in sight. It was Saturday afternoon after all, and civilian staff were less compelled to work overtime than members of the Force.

Gilchrist found the printout on Jackie’s desk with an attached Post-it on which was scribbled FAO: DS Janes. He picked it up. ‘Anne Mills,’ he said. ‘Married in February ’86, round about the time Magner started Stratheden—’

‘And within six months of his first wife dying,’ Jessie reminded him, as she fingered through more papers on Jackie’s desk. ‘Anything here that tells us where she’s living now?’

‘Text Jackie back and find out.’ He headed to the door. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m in just the mood to tackle a piece of shite.’

Once on the A92, Gilchrist called the Glenrothes Office and informed the duty officer they were on their way to interview Jerry McGovern. He expected an interview room to be made available.

Arrangements made, he turned to Jessie. ‘We were talking in The Central,’ he said. ‘Where were we?’

‘Can’t remember.’

From the way Jessie was staring at the passing countryside, Gilchrist knew she was regretting opening up to him about her relationship with Jabba, albeit for only a few minutes. Still, a bit of reluctance had never stood in his way.

‘Chief Super Lachie McKellar,’ he said. ‘More commonly known as Jabba the Hutt. As fat and as annoying as they come. He wants to set you and Robert up in a flat in town so he can visit the Fife coast every other weekend for a little bit of domestic life—’

‘Domestic life my arse,’ Jessie snapped. ‘Try domestic abuse. And it won’t be me taking it.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Look, I don’t want to talk about it,’ Jessie said.

‘I think you need to air any issues you—’

‘Please, Andy. Can we just leave it?’

Gilchrist tightened his grip on the steering wheel and concentrated on the road ahead.

By the time they arrived at Glenrothes, dusk was settling.

Jerry McGovern was already in Interview Room 2. He looked frail compared to Gilchrist’s recollection of his brother, Malky, with bedraggled hair and a lantern jaw that aged him by at least ten years. He looked as if he had lived all of his life in the shadow of a bigger, older brother. Or maybe he was just the runt of the litter.

By his side sat a young woman, no more than thirty, Gilchrist guessed, with spiked blonde hair and black-rimmed designer glasses. She stood and held out her hand.

Gilchrist ignored it and took his seat without a word. Jessie did likewise. He switched on the recorder and formally introduced himself and Jessie, stated date and time, and added that they were interviewing Jerry McGovern with respect to the deaths of the McCulloch family. He then confirmed that Mr McGovern was accompanied by his solicitor, at which point he looked across at the young woman.

‘Ali McCrae,’ she said, ‘R. K. Leith & Associates, Dundee.’ She handed Gilchrist her card, and slid another across the table to Jessie.

Gilchrist faced McGovern. ‘You’ve confessed to stealing jewellery,’ he said.

McGovern nodded. ‘That’s all I done. I didnae kill anyone—’

‘Just answer the questions one at a time,’ Gilchrist said.

McGovern pursed his lips, lowered his head. He could be a scolded child.

McCrae leaned forward. ‘My client has categorically denied any involvement in the murder of the—’

‘So he says,’ Jessie interrupted. ‘What else does he say?’

McCrae frowned. ‘Haven’t you read his statement?’

‘We’re not interested in his statement. We’re here to ask him—’

‘We’ve already been through this.’

‘
This?
’ Gilchrist said.

‘My client’s whereabouts on the night in question.’

‘And which night was that?’

‘Please tell me you’re not serious.’

Gilchrist sat back in his chair and eyed McCrae. Anger and incredulity seemed to lift off her like heat from rock. ‘I’m serious,’ he said.

‘If that were true, you would’ve made sure you knew all the facts before—’

‘If we knew all the facts,’ Jessie cut in, her Glasgow accent as heavy as a punch to the gut, ‘we wouldn’t be here asking questions, would we?’

McCrae glared at her for a long moment, then slumped back in her seat.

Jessie turned to McGovern. ‘Why don’t you tell us where you were on Thursday evening?’

‘I have to instruct my client not to answer—’

‘On what grounds?’ Jessie snapped.

‘On the grounds that he has already supplied the police with—’

‘You worried he might incriminate himself this time?’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Mr McGovern,’ Gilchrist interrupted. ‘I have to tell you that even though your solicitor will assure you that she is protecting your rights, she is doing you no favours at all here.’

McCrae slapped her pen on to the table. ‘I’ve heard it all now.’

‘Do you understand?’ Gilchrist asked him.

‘Don’t answer that.’

McGovern swallowed, a hard dunking of his Adam’s apple. When McCrae reached for his arm, he shrugged her off. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he said.

‘Since when has stealing jewellery been legal?’ Jessie asked.

‘Aye, okay. But I’ve no killed nobody.’

‘Once again, my client denies any involvement in—’

‘I’ve nothing to be afraid of,’ McGovern interrupted.

‘You’ve plenty to be—’

‘You’re no listening to me,’ McGovern snapped at McCrae, who seemed surprised by his angry tone.

‘Jerry,’ she said, ‘you need to—’

‘Shut it, yeah?’

McCrae’s eyes sparked with fury. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you’ve—’

‘Look nothing. I want to clear my name.’

Give McCrae her due. She dropped the aggressive tone as easily as casting off a coat, and said, ‘Fine. I’ll take notes, Jerry.’ She raised her hand to ward off any complaint. ‘And I won’t say another word, I promise. Okay?’ She could have been speaking to a temperamental child.