“Surprise, surprise,” he hissed. He felt his teeth grind. “When Watt shows up, make sure you nail his feet to the ground until I get back.”
“Got it.”
Another glance at the dashboard. Almost ninety. If the Astra was doing sixty, he was making up a mile every two minutes. If it had a ten-minute start on him, it would take twenty minutes to catch up. By which time he could have reached Cupar and had a cup of tea and a sandwich. That thought settled him down. No need to kill himself hounding the rabbit into the snare.
He eased his foot from the pedal and called the Office. As soon as he was connected, he said, “Has Cupar Division been called?”
“One minute, sir.”
“Don’t put me on…” Shit. He pulled out to overtake a van, caught a glimpse of an angry face as he shot past. What were these people doing up at this time? Back into the inside lane, dabbed the brake for the left-hand bend, through it and foot to the floor again.
Seventy-plus. Still too fast.
He eased back.
“I have Cupar Division on the phone for you, sir.”
“That’s not what-”
“DC Grant Neville. How can I help?”
Gilchrist felt his jaw clench. Nothing had been done about setting up the road block. Not a damn bloody thing. He should have called himself. Shit. And damn it. He felt his foot pressing to the floor again. “This is DCI Gilchrist of St. Andrews Division,” he said, struggling to keep his tone level. “I asked for a road block to be set up on-”
“Yes, sir. We’re taking care of that.”
Gilchrist felt a surge of regret at his misplaced assumption. Maybe he needed a refresher course on anger management. “That’s good,” was all he could think to say.
“The occupants are armed and dangerous,” continued DC Neville. “What are we looking at here?”
All of a sudden, Gilchrist felt like the boy who cried wolf. What could he say? That it was a spur of the moment thing? That it was only a hunch? Greaves’ voice came back at him, ingratiating as ever. I need more than just a hunch. I need results. Why the hell could he not keep his thoughts to himself?
“Sir?”
Gilchrist cleared his throat. “I’m SIO on the body part investigation in St. Andrews. A limb turned up half an hour ago. We believe the occupants of the Vauxhall can help in our investigation. We need to apprehend them for questioning.”
“Do you have the registration number?”
“No.”
“How many occupants?”
“Don’t know.”
“Male or female?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do you know if they’re armed?”
Bloody hell. This was as bad as being cross-examined. “We don’t know for certain,” he said, “but he, she, or they should be approached with caution. Is that clear enough?”
“Very good, sir. Anything else I need to know?”
Gilchrist’s mind turned up a blank. “I’ll be with you in five minutes. Don’t let any cars through until I get there.”
“Very good, sir.”
Gilchrist offered curt thanks and hung up.
He neared the Guardbridge roundabout, shot through it at sixty-plus, and up the hill towards Dairsie. He tried to rationalise his thought process, but that niggling gut feeling of his was telling him to keep going, keep chasing, you’ve got them trapped.
At 5:54 he reached the roadblock, no more than twenty cars end to end in a line that stopped at a police car with blue twirling lights. He pulled his Merc onto the pavement, and switched off the engine. The ground felt dry, the air fresh and crisp. The rain had somehow missed Cupar. He walked past the end car, a yellow Fiat, then on past a white Lexus, then a tired-silver Jaguar XJ-12 with an unfinished repair to the boot lid. Under the streetlights the red-oxide patch looked like blood, which had him thinking what Chloe’s last thoughts had been as she watched her lifeblood leave her.
Jesus, he was torturing himself. But images of Chloe’s body lying in a pool of blood kept stirring in his mind. He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and kept walking, past a decrepit pick-up with a ladder strapped to its roof, onto a Ford, past a Transit van, another Ford, and a-
The black Astra sat four cars from the front.
He forced himself to keep walking.
Exhaust fumes rose from idling engines like steam from panting horses. He felt his pulse quicken as he neared the Vauxhall. Almost on it. For one moment he toyed with the idea of just opening the driver’s door and dragging whoever was inside onto the ground.
He drew level, threw a glance inside. The windows were misted.
But through the steamed glass he saw two passengers. Both male.
Then he was past it, fighting the urge to glance back.
He kept walking until he reached the police car, its lights rotating in the night air. Two uniformed constables stood with their backs to their car. He stepped up to the taller of the two, a smooth-faced hulk of a man, about an inch or so taller than himself. He flashed his warrant card and introduced himself.
The tall constable was Mark Graham. The other, Vic MacKay.
“Where’s DC Neville?” Gilchrist asked.
“On his way, sir,” Graham replied.
“Did he tell you what we’re looking for?”
“Vauxhall Astra. Dark blue or black.” Graham nodded over Gilchrist’s shoulder and, with all the stiff-lipped subtlety of a trainee ventriloquist, added, “Like the Vauxhall four from the front, sir?”
“We’ve checked with PNC,” MacKay said. “It’s registered to a James Fletcher.”
“Address?”
“Ardmore Street, Glasgow.”
Glasgow. Was his hunch right? Was his sixth sense doing the impossible? He told Constables Graham and MacKay how he wanted to handle it. They nodded in understanding.
“Right,” Gilchrist said. “Let’s get on with it.”
He turned to the first car, a glistening black BMW 531, and stepped onto the road. He waited until the driver opened his window, then said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. You can drive on now.”
The driver frowned, as if undecided whether to be annoyed at the delay or relieved it was over, then spurted through the gap between the police cars with a squeal from the tyres.
Gilchrist did the same with the next vehicle, an ageing Ford Capri and a carefree farmer, then the next, a Landrover and a platinum blonde in her seventies, two dogs in her lap. She had to be violating some traffic law, but he waved her on.
The Astra pulled level and drew to a halt as he held up his hand.
Graham and MacKay stepped onto the road in front of it.
Gilchrist tapped the window, leaned forward as it opened.
The driver tried a smile. “Any problems?”
Even from those two words, Gilchrist detected the hard Glasgow accent, the street-wise manner. Not your upper-class citizen. He eyed the passenger who sat with his face to the front, as if he could not look the law in the eye. “Pull off to the side of the road, sir.”
The driver grimaced, swarthy features gaunt and rough from a couple of days’ growth. “What’s this in aid of?”
“Pull in over there, sir.” Harder that time.
The driver bumped the Astra onto the pavement with a squeal of rubber that had MacKay reaching for his truncheon.
Gilchrist waved the remaining cars through while Graham stood next to the Astra and MacKay returned to his vehicle to carry out preliminary checks. When the traffic cleared, Gilchrist walked over to MacKay and pushed his head through the open window.
MacKay was seated, the driver’s licence in one hand, his radio in the other.
“Does it check out?” Gilchrist asked.
“It checks. James Fletcher. The Vauxhall’s registered in his name.”
“And the other guy?”
MacKay shook his head. “Says his name is Joe Smith. I was thinking nothing out of ten for originality, then he hands me a passport.” He held the burgundy-coloured passport up and gave a wry smile. “Joseph Smith.”