“Share it with me.”
Gilchrist stared off past the hotel, across the fairways to the grass-covered mounds of the dunes where they had sat on the windswept sands drinking ice-cold champagne.
First Chloe. And now…
“I think Maureen’s next.”
Silent, Mackie returned his stare.
“I think that’s what the notes are trying to tell me.”
“Why do you think that?” Mackie’s voice resonated deep and calm. He placed his hand on Gilchrist’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Run it past me.”
“First note, Murder. First letter, M.
“Second note, Massacre. Second letter, A.
“Third note, Bludgeon. Third letter, U.
“Fourth note, Matricide. Fourth letter, R.”
Gilchrist watched the meaning of his words work through the old man’s mind.
“M, A, U, R,” Mackie said.
“E, E, N,” added Gilchrist. “Three more body parts.” He watched Mackie’s head turn to the side and his eyes stare at the tent, as if trying to imagine how he would feel if that leg belonged to his own daughter.
“I don’t want anyone to know, Bert.”
Mackie turned back to him, eyes creased against the sunlight. “Can I ask why?”
“I want whoever’s doing this to think we don’t know what’s going on.”
“Playing for time?”
Playing for time. What a way to put it. It sounded like a game. But it was no game. And Gilchrist saw then how he had run out of time. He should have had a couple of minders watch her round the clock earlier. But maybe he had it wrong. He stepped away from Mackie and opened his mobile. But he could still not get through.
He tried his cottage.
Three rings and he was through. He could not mention the latest leg to Jack. “I need to get hold of Maureen.” He struggled to sound calm. “Do you know where she is?”
“Probably with Chris.”
Gilchrist’s hopes soared. “You have a number for him?”
“Sorry.”
“Home number?”
“No.”
“Address?”
“Never met the guy.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know his surname, would you?”
“Sorry.”
“Thanks, Jack. You’re a great help.”
“Why don’t you try Mo on her mobile?”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” he said, and hung up.
He stared at his phone. When he had been Jack’s age, had he been as uninterested in family? He saw, as if for the first time, how like Gail Jack was. And Maureen, too. Had he contributed nothing to the gene banks of his children?
He struggled to refocus.
Despite the obvious, he tried Maureen’s mobile again, once, twice, then her home, counting twenty-two rings before hanging up. He glanced at his watch. Even if he jumped into his Merc at that moment, it would take him the best part of an hour and a half to drive to Maureen’s. But what would that achieve? And that thought made him realise that he had to place his trust in Dainty. Dainty would call as soon as he found Maureen. In the meantime, Gilchrist would do what he could to move his investigation forward, and pray that he had it all wrong.
But if his worst fears were realised, even God could not help him.
SHE CAME TO, her face pressed against carpet pile as short and rough as sandpaper.
She opened her eyes, but in the darkness she could have been blind. She moved her arms, and realised with a spurt of panic that she was bound, her hands tied behind her back. She gasped, but a gag as tight as binding tape pressed her lips shut. She breathed in through her nostrils, hard, struggling to stay calm as other senses stirred awake.
The smell of dirt and petrol…
The thrum of speeding tires…
Her stomach lurched at that moment, from movement that told her she was in the boot of some car. And again, as they crested a hill at speed and another fear hit her in a cold wave as she fought off the dizzying sensation of motion sickness.
She could not throw up. Her lips were sealed.
If she vomited, she would choke to death.
No. Not this, not this. Concentrate…
Her throat constricted as her stomach spasmed.
Dear God, no…
Chapter 15
GILCHRIST CORNERED NANCE at Golf Place.
“Find anything?” he asked.
She opened her notebook to a tabbed page. “A Mr. Fraser Crowley, staying at the Glen Eden Guest House, saw a car race out of Golf Place at around 4:00 this morning.”
“Details?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid.”
“Make? Model? Colour? Registration number? What?”
“Hold your horses. The elderly Mr. Crowley-”
“Elderly?” Gilchrist groaned.
“Fraser is seventy-two with a mind as sharp as a tack.”
“First name terms, are we?”
“He’s quite the lad.”
Even so, Gilchrist felt a rush of disappointment. The elderly often proved unreliable witnesses and could break down in court under relentless cross-examination. Just how sharp was a tack at seventy-two?
“He thought the car was being driven erratically,” Nance continued. “Before passing the R &A clubhouse it swerved across the road then sped uphill.”
Gilchrist eyed the lone stone building. The car could have crossed the road so the driver could throw the package beyond the footpath. Had Crowley witnessed the leg being dumped?
“A Jaguar,” Nance pronounced. “XJ-12 with silver paintwork.”
Gilchrist blinked once, twice. He had seen a Jaguar just like that. It took him several seconds to remember where. The road-block in Cupar. He had walked past it, more focused on the Vauxhall Astra. Damn. Had that been the XJ-12? Was there any difference between the body of an XJ-12 and an XJ-6? If so, could Crowley have noticed it at that time in the morning? And from a hotel room window?
“Where was Crowley when he saw the car?” he asked.
“Martyrs’ Monument.”
“At four in the morning?”
“Said he had an upset stomach and went outside for a breath of fresh air.”
Martyrs’ Monument stood on the hill at the crest of the Scores. Which meant that Crowley would have been about a hundred yards away.
“Where is this Crowley?” Gilchrist asked.
LIGHT EXPLODED, BLINDING her.
Fingers as sharp as talons dug into her hair, pulled her upright, dragged her from the boot. The sudden movement, the brightness, the sense of freedom-
Her stomach pumped.
Vomit surged into her throat, choking her airways, squirting from her nostrils.
“Ah, fuck,” and a hand as hard as a board sent her tumbling to the ground.
Fingers tore the tape free, letting vomit splash from her mouth.
She spat it out, gulped in lungfuls of cool clean air. But any thoughts of calling for help thudded into darkness as a fist as hard as stone cracked the side of her head.
IT TOOK THEM two hours to find Crowley by the rocks that fronted the Scores, kneeling by one of the sea pools, nothing more than puddles of seawater trapped by the receding tide.
Crowley looked up as they approached, then stood with barely a grimace. “Ah,” he said with a grin. “The lovely Nancy Wilson.” He came towards them, stepping over rocks with the sure-footed agility of a man half his age. Sunlight sparkled in eyes as blue as bleached denim. His teeth were gap-spaced, long and white. “We meet again,” he said.
“This is DCI Gilchrist,” Nance said. “My boss.”
Crowley nodded, as if he was a competitor about to post a challenge for Nance’s hand. “A pleasure,” he said.
“You don’t wear glasses,” Gilchrist said.
“I’m a retired pilot. My eyesight has always been excellent.”
“The Jaguar,” Gilchrist went on. “You sure it was an XJ-12?”
“You can tell from the front grille.”