He needed to hear her voice, needed to know she was all right. He dialled her number and eyed the black silhouette of a ship sliding over the horizon.
“Hello?”
Maureen’s voice sounded tired and heavy, and he pulled up an old image of a sleepy-headed toddler. He used to waken her with, Wakey wakey let’s get shaky, and bounce her bed with a roughness that always pulled a smile to her face. Then she would reach up to him with tired little arms, and he would lift her from bed and carry her downstairs, the smell of sleep in her hair like her personal morning fragrance.
“Wakey wakey let’s get shaky,” he whispered.
“Dad?”
“The one and only.”
A rustling of covers, then a tired chuckle. “It’s been years since I’ve heard that.”
“I love you, Mo.”
A pause, then, “Where are you?”
“Looking out over the West Sands. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Cold. But beautiful. A lovely day for a walk along the beach. Care to join me?”
Another chuckle. “Mum never said you were a romantic.”
Something turned over in his stomach at that comment. He used to send flowers to Gail, leave silly little love notes on her bedside table or pinned to the fridge when he was out on a case. And it struck him that he could not recall when he had stopped doing that. And Gail, too. When had she changed? When was the exact moment she stopped loving him? And why did he still struggle with her not being in his life? Was it because she had taken Jack and Maureen with her? Or was jealousy still smothering his emotions? And as a dark shadow worked its way through his mind he wondered how much longer Gail had to live.
“How’s Mum?” he asked.
“I saw her last night.”
Gilchrist stared off across the water of the Eden Estuary, not trusting his voice.
“She’s not well,” Maureen said. “I mean, she’s, she’s desperately ill…”
“She’s not in any…”
“She’s on a morphine drip, Dad. It’s only a matter of time.”
Only a matter of time. Dear Jesus. When he and Gail married he would never have predicted this was how it would end. He had imagined they would grow old together, walk the beach with their grandchildren together. Not like this. Bitter and apart.
“Is there anything, I mean, can I do anything…”
“I don’t think so, Dad. I’m sorry.”
He felt his head nod.
“Have you heard from Jack?” Maureen asked.
“He’s here at the moment. Staying at the cottage.”
A pause, then, “Is it true about Chloe?”
“It’s looking that way.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “That’s awful.”
It’s worse than awful, he almost said. Necrophilia? Surely Mackie was wrong. “Did you know Chloe?” he asked.
“Met her a few times.”
“Recently?” he tried.
“A couple of months back.”
“Before Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“At Jack’s?”
“In town. How’s Jack taking it?”
“You know Jack. Doesn’t say much,” he said. “Keeps it to himself.” He felt a sudden need to change the subject. “Will you be seeing Mum again?”
“I see Mum every day now. But with the drugs and stuff she’s mostly out of it.”
He hated asking, but the words were out before he could stop himself. “Do you think she might… she might want to see me?”
“Oh, Dad.”
“Well then, if you can,” he said. “If you get a chance, Mo, will you tell her I love her?” Maureen’s silence only cut him deeper, made him feel the need to say more. “Will you tell her I’ve always loved her?”
“Oh, Dad.”
The words were whispered, and in her whisper he heard the echo of his own pain. He watched a pair of labradors splash into the sea and wondered why he had been against buying a puppy for Jack. “Listen, Mo,” he said, fighting to liven up. “Why don’t you come up to St. Andrews this weekend? I could maybe wangle an early night, take you out for an Indian-”
“I’d love to, Dad. But I’ve got stuff to do. You know. With Mum. And work and stuff.”
Her answer did not surprise him, but hearing her say she had work to do somehow settled his mind. “Sure, Mo. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
He wanted to tell her his fears about the case. But how could he? He could be wrong, so wrong, and doing so would only frighten her. “Take care now,” he said.
“Don’t I always?”
“And call me.”
“Sure.”
“No. I mean it, Mo. Call me.”
“Dad?”
“More often, I mean. We should talk to each other more often.”
“Okay, Dad. But I’ve got to go. Love you,” and hung up before he could respond.
He held onto the phone, listened to the echo of her voice in his mind, and worried that he should have been more direct with her. He felt that familiar need to fight off the dark feelings, heard his mind whisper, Focus on work. It’s how you’ve coped over the years. Cut everything else out and focus. On work. So he called Stan and asked him to track down anyone recently released from prison, who had been put away by Gilchrist years ago. But only those who had killed before, on the theory that revenge by itself was not reason enough to kill for the first time.
Or was it? Well, it was as good a place as any to start.
He walked from the seafront, back to DC Bowers. “Who’s checked in at the scene?”
Bowers opened his book. “Right here.”
Gilchrist scanned the signatures. His own was not there because he had arrived before Bowers, although a note had been added by Lambert that DCI Gilchrist arrived at the scene at 5:27 and thereafter identified the body part as a left leg. Gilchrist calculated that by the time he had donned his coveralls and carried out a preliminary inspection it had probably been close to 5:35, 5:40, when he left the scene. Nance’s signature was first after Lambert’s at 5:44, then Watt’s at 5:48.
Gilchrist thanked Bowers and walked past the R &A Clubhouse.
He reached his Mercedes and called the Office. “When was DS Ronnie Watt informed of the body part at the Golf Museum?” he asked.
“That would be, ah, here it is. 5:46, sir. You asked that we didn’t inform him before 5:45.”
Not quite, he wanted to say, but chose not to get into it. “Did you make the call?”
“I did.”
“How did he respond?”
“He just said he would be on his way, sir.”
Gilchrist snapped his phone shut.
Watt had arrived at the scene two minutes after the Office called, which meant he must have been on his way when they rang. Why would he be out and about at that time in the morning? He had guessed the correct body part. Had he also known when and where? It seemed that Watt knew more about the body parts than he should. Had someone called him before the Office had? If so, who? And why was Greaves hell-bent on having Watt on Gilchrist’s team when he knew about their past?
Too many questions. Too few answers.
Gilchrist promised himself he would change that.
Chapter 13
“MARTIN. ANDY HERE. Any luck?”
“It’s just come in. Like me to post it to you?” Gilchrist accelerated out of Golf Place. “I’ll pick it up.” He confirmed Coyle’s home address and assigned the directions to memory.
Twenty-five minutes later, after taking a wrong turn, he drove up to Coyle’s home, a detached stone mansion that sat on the outskirts of Cupar. Coyle met him at the front door, wearing a dressing-gown that looked as if it should be binned. White legs as bare as sticks dangled to a pair of scuffed slippers. He smiled at Gilchrist. “Stop in for a cuppa?”
Gilchrist found it impossible to resist Coyle’s gormless charm. “Why not?”
Inside, Coyle led him along a hallway with high-gloss doors that seemed out of character with the stone structure, and into a kitchen with grimy linoleum tiles centred by a beaten pine table. The room was redolent of coffee and toast, tainted by a musty fragrance that seemed to come at him from his side.