“I was interviewing Tam Dunn again.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“It was eleven thirty at night, and I wasn’t exactly celebrating.”
“That’s not the point. The public doesn’t expect to open their newspapers at the breakfast table and be confronted with photographs of Senior Investigating Officers looking like they’re out on the town when we’ve got such a bloody gruesome case to solve. Makes us look like the Keystone Cops, for God’s sake.”
“I really don’t-”
Greaves held up his hand, as if stopping traffic head on. “I don’t want excuses, Andy. I want results. And I want results now.”
Gilchrist eyed Greaves. They were getting down to it, and he did not like where it was heading.
“And we can’t have you and Watt bloody well squabbling in public.”
Greaves was referring to an incident at the University yesterday where Gilchrist had grabbed Watt’s arm and pulled him back from a heated interview with a student. The depth of Watt’s anger had surprised him.
“Are you any further forward?” Greaves demanded.
“I would be lying if I said yes.”
“Bloody hell, Andy. McVicar’s been on the phone twice today. Heat’s been turned up. Bloody flame’s turned from orange to blue, and aimed in my direction. I don’t like it, let me tell you.” He leaned forward. “Tell me something I want to hear, Andy. Give me something to calm the man down.”
Big Archie McVicar, Fife Constabulary’s Assistant Chief Constable, was a staunch supporter of Gilchrist. But there had to be a limit to the man’s patience. Gilchrist needed more than a pair of amputated hands and an army of police officers scouring the countryside. Like Greaves, he needed a result.
“Anything?” Greaves tried.
Gilchrist grimaced. Fabricating nonsense would help no one. “Nothing,” he said.
“What the hell am I supposed to tell him, Andy?”
“That we’re looking to increase manpower?”
“We’ve no one else to put on the bloody thing, for God’s sake. We’re stretched to the bloody limit as it is.”
“Chloe Fullerton lived within the jurisdiction of Strathclyde Police. I would think a call from the ACC-”
“Don’t,” snapped Greaves. “The answer’s an emphatic No.”
Gilchrist had anticipated no support on the touchy subject of requesting assistance from outside sources. He had tried the back door himself. But even Dainty had given him a body-swerve, saying he was up to his oxters in alligators of his own. Police units throughout the nation had their own tight budgets to meet. “We’re doing what we can,” he said, “but without the rest of the body we can’t expect much.”
“Well, do something, Andy.”
It was on the tip of Gilchrist’s tongue to ask for Watt to be replaced, but he thought better of it. “We’re widening our search,” he said, “but the body’s nowhere near here.”
“Where then?”
Where indeed? “Glasgow,” he said.
“You have proof?”
Gilchrist shook his head. “Just a hunch.”
“For God’s sake, Andy. I need more than just a hunch. I need evidence. I need results. I need… Oh for God’s sake, just get bloody well on with it, will you? I’ll think of something to tell Archie.”
Gilchrist felt his face flush as Greaves reached for his phone.
The meeting was over.
Outside, an easterly chill swept in from the sea and seemed to funnel its way along North Street. Overhead, gulls fought with the night storm, wings flashing white as they tumbled and swooped in the stiff gusts.
Gilchrist pulled his collar around his neck and walked towards College Street. The proverbial shit was piled at the fan and splattering through the system. First, ACC McVicar. Second, CS Greaves. Next, DCI Gilchrist, acting SIO in a case stacked against him. His name was printed on a note, and the press were baying for results. Thoughts of having it out with McKinnon surged through his mind for an angry moment, then he glanced at his watch.
Just after 8:00. To hell with it. He needed a pint.
He reached the corner of College and Market Streets and veered left into the Central Bar, promising to have greater willpower in matters of import. If McKinnon photographed him once more with a pint in his hand, well, that was just too damn bad.
The bar was redolent of cigarettes, beer, and warm food. The air swirled thick and blue under a high ceiling. Piped music competed with raucous laughter. High in the corner a television screen showed a muted football match. Rangers and Hibs, it looked like.
He found a vacant spot at the bar, close to the till, and managed to catch the barmaid’s eye. She mouthed, With you in a moment. While he waited, he dialled his own home number to talk to Jack, but was shunted into voice mail. He left a message, telling Jack he would be home shortly, and keep your hands off the Glenfiddich. He glanced up to see Nance waving at him from the opposite end of the bar.
When he joined her, she said, “Caught.”
“You or me?”
“Both of us.”
Gilchrist smiled. Nance was hardworking and thorough. If she wanted to have a drink at the end of a day’s shift, then who was he to question her?
“Pint?” she asked.
“You talked me into it.”
She laughed, a staccato chuckle that almost took him by surprise. It had been some time since he had seen Nance happy. He had heard she had split from Gregg, her partner of eighteen months.
Nance ordered two pints of Eighty-Shilling.
“On your second already,” Gilchrist said. “Must’ve been a hard day.”
“Hard partner, more like.”
“How are you getting along with my favourite DS?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
Gilchrist scanned the faces around the bar. “He’s not here, is he?”
Nance shook her head. “He’s checking out a lead.”
“Taking the dog for a walk?”
Nance chuckled. “I’ve stopped asking,” then tipped the remains of her first pint to her lips. “Cheers.”
Gilchrist did likewise, loving the beer’s smoothness as the first mouthful slid down his throat. He returned his glass to the counter, ran his fingers across his lips. “Boy, was I ready for that.”
“Have you heard about the sweepstake?” Nance asked.
“What sweepstake?”
“Watt’s started a sweepstake on when the next body part will turn up, and which part it will be.” She grimaced. “He’s one disturbed human being, let me tell you.”
An image of McKinnon writing a scathing article on Fife Constabulary’s gambling over murder enquiries burst into Gilchrist’s mind with the force of an electric strike. He felt his teeth clench. Watt had to go. The man was a liability. He made a mental note to have it out with him first thing in the morning and have all bets forfeited and the monies deposited into the charity box. Then the slimmest of ideas shimmered before him.
“Did Watt put on any money?” he asked.
“He led the way.”
“Which body part?”
“Leg.”
“Left or right?”
Nance looked at him as if he had sprouted horns. “I don’t know.”
“And when does he bet this leg is going to turn up?”
“Tomorrow,” Nance said. “You’re not suggesting…”
“Not really. But it’s an interesting thought all the same.”
Gilchrist lifted his pint. He had not heard from Martin Coyle about Watt’s phone records. Maybe Coyle could turn an interesting thought into something worthwhile.
“HAUD ON THERE, big man,” said Wee Kenny. “Watch what you’re doing.”
Jimmy Reid grimaced. “Just hold the fucker steady. Is that too much to ask?”
Wee Kenny scowled as Jimmy placed the red-hot poker flat against the skin. Black smoke curled into the air as he pressed down and rolled his wrist to ensure a deep brand.
“What’s the matter, wee man? Never smelt burning meat before?”