Gilchrist frowned, doubts already niggling at him. Who carried their passport around with them? “Right,” he said, and walked over to the Astra. He nodded to Graham. Like a choreographed act, he and Graham gripped opposite door handles and opened the passenger and driver doors in unison.
“Could you please step out, sir,” Graham said.
Gilchrist smiled down at the upturned face, then stepped back as Fletcher slid out.
“Will someone tell me what the fuck’s going on?”
“No need to use foul language, Mr. Fletcher.” Gilchrist watched a mixture of anger and surprise shift behind the man’s dark eyes. “Where are you driving to?”
“Glasgow Airport.”
“From?”
“St. Andrews.”
“Both of you?”
“Yeah. Me and my mate, Joe.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? Because I like him. That’s why.”
“I meant, why are you driving to Glasgow Airport? Do you have a plane to catch?”
“Yeah,” growled Fletcher. “We were going on our holidays until you lot stopped us.”
Hence the passport. “Spain, is it?”
“Cyprus. Like to see the tickets?”
Gilchrist gave a short smile, doubt swelling in his mind. “Not at the moment,” he said, then added, “Your car was spotted this morning parked adjacent to the Old Course.”
“So?”
“What was it doing there?”
“That’s where I park it.”
“Overnight?”
“Yeah.”
And at that instant, Gilchrist saw his error. The dry patch on the road surface. The storm had lasted the best part of an hour. The Vauxhall must have been parked longer than that, and he felt the beginnings of a flush warm his neck and work its way to his cheeks.
“Your licence has your address in Glasgow,” he tried.
“We’ve just moved up here.”
“To do what?”
“Look for work.”
“As what?”
“Caddies.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At a friend’s flat.”
“Student?”
“Yeah.”
“Address?”
“A dump in Howard Place.”
The Links was no more than a couple of hundred yards from Howard Place. “Why park in The Links?” Gilchrist asked.
“Starter motor’s shot. Park at the top of the hill, so I can get a good run.”
“For a bump-start?”
“Is that against the law?”
“Not yet,” said Gilchrist, and tried another smile. Shit. How could he have been so blinkered? He had it wrong. Or was he missing something? He was about to buy Fletcher’s story, when he frowned. “How long are you staying in Cyprus?”
“Nine days.”
“Nicosia?”
“Limassol.”
“Where are your suitcases?”
“In the boot. Where’d you think?”
If Fletcher was telling the truth, then either Gilchrist or Lambert should have heard the boot being closed. “This morning, did you?”
“Huh?”
“Put your suitcases in the boot this morning?”
“Last night. So we’d get a quick start.” Fletcher must have seen the despair in Gilchrist’s face, for he said, “Look, pal, we really do have a plane to catch. Do you mind?”
Gilchrist tried one final question. “When you fly back from Cyprus,” he said, “how are you going to start your car at the airport?”
“Jump leads.” Fletcher looked at his watch. “Why don’t you look in the boot?” He held up his keys. “Here,” he said. “Let me show you.”
He raised the boot lid, pulled one of the cases out, and thudded it to the ground. Then he slipped his hands down the side of the other. “Look,” he said, holding up a pair of jump leads. “Believe me now?” He threw them back into the boot with a whispered curse, and said, “Joe’s got the tickets.”
“Thank you for helping us with our enquiries, Mr. Fletcher.” He tried a smile. What a fuck up. “Have a good holiday.”
“Is that it?”
“It is.”
Fletcher grunted and heaved the suitcase into the boot.
Gilchrist gave Graham a quick shake of his head, and heard the boot lid close with a force that made him think Fletcher imagined decapitating him.
Before the Astra drove off, Gilchrist called Nance. “Forget the PNC,” he said. “It’s the wrong car.”
“There is a God after all.”
“Praying for a break, were you?”
“Something like that.”
“If you’re going to pray for anything, Nance, pray that we find this guy. I think we’re in for a rough ride.”
He hung up and watched the Astra pull to a halt at the traffic lights. Maybe it was something in the heat of the moment, some surge of adrenaline in the anticipation of making an arrest that triggered his thought process. Or maybe not. Whatever it was, he had learned over the years to trust it.
Murder.
Massacre.
Now Bludgeon.
He whispered the words, rolled them around his mouth, not liking the feel of them, liking even less the dread surging through him like a wave of despair. Three. That was the magic number, the minimum needed to create a sequence. And he thought he saw the start of some sequence, some reason for the order in which the words were being fed to him.
But he could be wrong.
He dabbed his forehead. It felt sweaty and cold.
Which told him he was worried. He was worried sick.
His hunch with the Astra had been wrong. So wrong.
And he prayed to God that the thoughts stirring in his mind to reach their numbing conclusion were wrong, too.
But he could not rid himself of the fear that this time he was right.
“NEXT TIME I tell you to fill it up with petrol, you fill it up with petrol. You got that?”
“Yeah, big man.”
Jimmy clipped the side of Wee Kenny’s head.
“I hear you, big man, I hear you.”
He clipped Wee Kenny’s head again, once, twice, then balled his hand into a fist and thudded it into Wee Kenny’s head with two quick hits.
Wee Kenny howled. Tears filled his eyes. But Jimmy knew Wee Kenny would not retaliate. That would make it worse. Wee Kenny had fucked up.
Jimmy punched him again, this time caught him on the ear.
Wee Kenny squealed. “Sorry, big man. Sorry. It’ll no happen again.”
“You’re fucking right it’ll no happen again.”
His next punch glanced off the back of Wee Kenny’s head. “Stupid wee fucker,” he growled. “That could have been us back there. Done and fucking dusted. D’you fucking understand?”
Wee Kenny looked up with a silent plea, and Jimmy timed a punch to his mouth that cracked his lips and cut short any thoughts he might have had of trying to explain. “And how often have I told you to get the boot painted?” Jimmy roared.
“A lot of times, big man.”
“That’s right. A fucking lot of times.” Jimmy leaned across and punched Wee Kenny in the mouth again, pleased to see that he had drawn blood at last. Then he pressed himself into his seat and gripped the steering wheel. The first thing he would do when he got back to Glasgow was organise a respray. Maybe change the colour. But he liked silver. The paint might look a bit dull. But it gave the Jaguar some class.
Except that dent on the boot still needed doing.
And after the respray he would take care of Kenny.
The wee man was becoming a fucking liability. Thicker than two short planks, so he was. He would talk to his brother, convince him that Wee Kenny was no longer fit for the job. Bully would understand, then give the thumbs-up. Or was it thumbs-down? He bet the wee man would bleed like a pig. Squeal like one, too. He smiled at that thought and reached over to Wee Kenny’s shoulder.
“You all right, wee man?”
“I’m fine, Jimmy. I’m fine.”
“Sit up, then. I’m not going to hit you.”
“You sure?”
“Anyone can make a mistake.” Jimmy smiled. “Don’t worry about a thing, wee man. I’m going to look after you.”