He had heard criminals say they would swing for the bastard.
Now he knew how they felt.
SHE KICKED OUT, thought she hit a thigh, and tried again.
“Fuck-”
Another pair of hands gripped her ankles, and a man’s voice, damp with spittle and stale with the smell of cigarette smoke, hissed in her ear.
“Steady, steady…”
Already her peripheral vision was dimming. She tried to shake her head, break free from the rough hand that pinched her nose and pressed as hard as wood across her mouth. She screamed, but could only mumble, and knew she was using up the last of her breath.
Her lips felt as if they could burst under the pressure. Her lungs burned.
She tried another kick, but her legs could be wrapped in lead. She snapped her head back, thought she connected, but her heart felt as if it was about to explode. She thought she heard a voice mumble, “No,” but it could have been the rush of blood in her ears.
The room darkened, the walls tilted, and the floor came up and pressed its woven carpet against her back.
Chapter 14
As GILCHRIST NEARED the Old Course Hotel, all thoughts of choking the truth from Watt were put on hold. Two SOCOs were erecting an Incitent on the other side of the stone wall that bounded the hotel grounds. Had they found another body part? But no one had called him. As he reached for his mobile phone it rang. He expected it to be the Office, but it was Mackie.
“They said they couldn’t find you.”
“I’m almost with you, Bert. What’ve you got?”
“The other leg.”
“And a note?”
“Cut into the flesh. Gouged out more like.”
Gilchrist slowed down. Up ahead, the Incitent shivered in the breeze. Would this note confirm his theory? If the order was wrong, the cryptic message might not make sense.
“What word this time?”
“Matricide.”
Gilchrist took a few seconds to go through the letters, then felt something heavy slap over in his gut. Murder. Massacre. Bludgeon. And now Matricide.
He hung up, stared off to the horizon, pressed his mobile to his lips.
He had his message.
He had known. He had known as soon as he had the third word.
And he had failed to act.
Two hands. Two legs. Four body parts. Four notes.
And he saw how the order could not be mistaken.
Left hand, right hand. Left leg, right leg.
The notes were being delivered in a specific order so the message was clear, with the simplest of codes so that he could not fail to work it out. He now knew he would be given three more body parts, all the killer would need to send his entire message. But it was worse than that. Much worse. If the killer planned on Gilchrist solving the puzzle, then he reasoned that it would be too late for him to be able to do anything about it when he did.
He parked on the expanse of grass that separated the Old Course Hotel from the main road, tried Maureen again, and cursed when it rang out. He should have been shunted into voice mail. He tried her mobile, but again could not get through.
Christ, it was happening. It was really happening.
He punched in the number for Strathclyde Police Headquarters and asked for Dainty.
“DCI Small speaking.” The voice sounded thin, just like the man.
“Pete, it’s Andy Gilchrist. I need your help.”
“If I can, Andy.”
“It’s Maureen.” He tried to sound calm, but could not control a quiver that seemed to catch the back of his throat. “Did you assign someone to watch her?”
“PC Tom Russell. He’s a good guy.”
“Can you have him bring her in?”
A moment’s pause, then, “Care to explain?”
Gilchrist did, and Dainty reassured him that Maureen must be all right, or he would have already heard from PC Russell. But when he hung up, Gilchrist could not rid himself of the gutsinking feeling that he was too late. It was her answering machine being switched off that worried him. Whenever Maureen was out, her answering machine was always on. It seemed to be how they communicated.
Now he was too late. And seventy miles too far north.
But Dainty was a good detective, and a good man, and Gilchrist took comfort from the thought that he would treat Gilchrist’s request as if Maureen were his own daughter. And maybe, just maybe, Gilchrist could do something at this end.
Mackie greeted him with a hardened face and a spare set of coveralls and gloves.
Gilchrist pulled them on and entered the SOCO tent.
A faint yellow light spread over the scene, making the leg look as if it was made of plastic. Gilchrist kneeled. MATRICIDE was cut along the length of the inner thigh and calf. Although the curves of the R, C and D looked irregular, he thought the word had been formed with some care. The leg had been amputated at the top of the thigh, with a clean cut. But the cut had been made too high, and a thin strip of pubic hair trimmed the edge like the beginnings of a weak moustache.
Gilchrist felt his throat constrict. This was the leg of a young woman he had spoken to, laughed with, had a drink with, someone who shared a life with his son with all the youthful aspirations of the future.
What could he tell Jack?
“Same method of amputation,” Mackie mumbled. “Some sort of saw. See here?” He pointed at the cut through the bone. “You can see the curved marks on the femur. See? And where it cuts into the skin. Here.” He ran a pointed finger along the edge.
Gilchrist nodded.
“I would say circular saw. We may be looking for a workshop of sorts.”
“Like a home workshop?”
“Could be.”
Gilchrist frowned. He was looking at too wide a target. Anyone could install a workshop in their attic, garden shed, or God only knew where. He needed to refine it. “How about the saw marks?” he said. “Can we tell the size of the blade from the curve?”
“Might do,” said Mackie. “But I wouldn’t want to bank on a high level of accuracy.”
“You might be able to define some diametrical limits.”
“Possible.”
Gilchrist eyed the leg, resisted touching the skin. “Why the different techniques?” he asked. “The first two notes were printed. The next two by mutilation.”
“To make us think there’s worse to come?” Mackie offered.
Gilchrist grimaced. Mackie had a point. If each body part was presented with a hand-printed note, where were the scare tactics? The purpose was to frighten him, let him solve the cryptic clues, so he would know revenge was being sought. He swallowed the lump in his throat, dabbed at the cold sweat on his brow. The tactics were working. He knew what the killer had planned, and now he needed a break in his investigation before, before…
Jesus. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Think. Damn it. Think.
But his mind refused to work.
“This guy’s one sick bastard,” he said, and pushed past Mackie, out into the open.
He freed his hair from the coveralls and peeled off the gloves. The cold air carried the tangy taste of kelp. He breathed it in, almost revelled in the light-headedness of the moment. He unzipped the coveralls, removed his phone to try Maureen again, and was about to punch in the number when Mackie said, “Andy?”
Gilchrist snapped his phone shut and faced Mackie. Deep intelligence hewn from a lifetime of pathology shifted like a shadow behind the old man’s eyes.
“You know,” Mackie said. “You know what the killer is saying.”
Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. Did he know? Did he really know? He could be wrong. He hoped to God he was wrong. But every nerve in his body told him he was not. He shook his head. “I’m not sure, Bert,” he said. “It’s just a thought.”