The Whey Pat Tavern. The pub where he and Gail first met. He had not set foot in it since Gail left, as if to do so was a violation of his memories of her, of his family, of how it used to be when they were in love, before his career and her infidelity destroyed what they had.
“You don’t know where Maureen works, do you?”
“Changed jobs about six months back. Works in some big-shot agency in the city centre. Don’t ask me where. Got the job through her latest boyfriend.”
“Chris?”
“That’s the one.”
“And you’ve never met him?” he tried.
“Just the once. Utter plonker. Wads of cash. Buys every round. You know the kind. I hated him the instant I set eyes on his alligator-skin wallet.”
Gilchrist felt himself deflate. Jack knew as little about Maureen’s personal life as he did, which only compounded his feelings of failure. When he stumbled across Gail’s affair with Harry, all he had wanted to do as a father was to convince Gail to stay with him. Stay together for the sake of the children. Is that not what parents did? But not Gail. At the first confrontation, she rushed off to Glasgow with Harry and the kids faster than a skelped cat.
“Mum wouldn’t know where Mo works, would she?” Gilchrist asked.
“Not a chance, Andy. Sorry.”
Well, that was that. He closed his phone. “No one knows where she is,” he said.
“Maybe she’s out shopping. You know, that thing women like to do.”
Gilchrist tried a smile. But what was the point of faking despair? He should have acted sooner, instead of waiting for the next body part to turn up.
Murder. Massacre.
Even with those two words, he had seen something, been suspicious of the letters M and A being first and second in their respective notes. But two letters were not enough for a progression. And that was his mistake. He had known, God damn it. He had known.
But had failed to act.
And now he was acting, he was terrified he was too late.
On the unlikely off-chance that Maureen had phoned the Office, he called for his messages. None. Not from Maureen, not from Watt, not from anyone else. He asked for Chief Super Greaves, but was told he was unavailable. Jesus, he felt as if he was becoming obsolete. He drove on in silence, deep in the pit of his misery.
DARKNESS AGAIN, BUT this time not total.
Wooden floorboards, rough and grainy, pressed against her face.
Even lying on her side, she could make out the dark shape of a curtained window next to a narrow door rimmed with grey light. Dark shadows of four walls told her the room was small. She lay still, let her eyes adjust, worried at pulsing cramps in her stomach. If no one came soon, she would have to…
She forced her mind off the body’s natural urge, shifted her weight-
And froze at the rattle of a chain.
She choked back a gasp, and realised her mouth was gagged.
A cold frisson chilled her neck, ran the length of both arms, and turned into a tremor that shivered her body and caused tears to sting her eyes.
She held her breath, concentrated on catching the slightest sound.
Was she not alone?
MAUREEN LIVED IN a modernised apartment building in Glasgow’s Merchant City. Once derelict and soot-covered, the brick and sandstone tenements had been refurbished and converted into low-tech office space and luxury residential flats.
Gilchrist parked his Roadster on a double yellow line.
He stepped into a grey Glasgow drizzle, and upped his collar to ward off the cold. The upmarket area surprised him. What had he expected? He eyed the sand-blasted façade, the pedestrianised streets, the painted bollards, the shining pub sign at the end of the road, all painted, all new. Even the cobbled walkway seemed to glisten in the rain.
“You never told me your daughter was a high earner.”
“I never knew.”
“What does she do for a living?”
“Last I heard she was studying to be a physiotherapist,” he said, and puzzled once more at his failure to follow her career. He was about to push the entrance door open when he noticed it lay ajar. “Not as upmarket as we thought,” he said, then felt a cold rush as he saw the lock was damaged, the wood splintered where it had been jimmied off.
His peripheral vision sensed movement to the side. He turned, watched a red Mini Cooper pull up with a sharp stop at the far end of the street. Something about the driver’s look, a furtive glance his way, told Gilchrist he was watching out for someone.
And waiting?
On instinct, he walked towards the car. From that angle he could not read the number plate. He was halfway across the road when the Cooper’s engine burst into life with a growl.
“Nance.” He started running. “The number plate.”
Nance surprised him by sprinting ahead.
The Cooper took off, front wheels spinning, and bullied its way down Candleriggs. He caught up with Nance in time to see its disappearing tail-end as it zipped from sight into Argyle Street. Nance had her mobile phone in her hand.
“Got it.” She poked at the pad of her phone.
“I don’t like this,” he said, and jogged back towards Maureen’s flat. Nance jogged alongside him, and he was surprised by how fit she seemed, how fluid her movement was.
“Run a check on PNC for me,” she ordered into her mobile. “One of the new Mini Coopers. Red with a white roof.” She recited the registration number.
Through the entrance door the clamour of their feet echoed off the walls. Maureen’s flat was on the top floor, and Gilchrist took the stairs three at a time, Nance so close behind him that he swore he felt the heat of her breath on his neck.
They reached the landing together.
Gilchrist gasped for breath, tried to still the pounding in his chest. He thought he kept himself fit, but Nance was barely breathing.
“Is this it?” she asked.
He could only nod.
She gripped the handle. “Locked.”
For a moment he thought he had screwed up, that the Mini was nothing to do with Maureen’s flat, that he had it all wrong. Then an image of Maureen as a child crying flashed into his mind, and he remembered promising to do whatever it took to protect her.
He thudded his shoulder to the door. Solid. He tried again. It barely budged.
He stood back, lifted his foot, and heeled it hard against the lock.
The door rattled, maybe moved. But not much.
He kicked again.
“Almost there,” Nance said, and kicked at the door in time with Gilchrist.
The lock burst open, and Nance beat him inside.
“Police,” she shouted, and raced down the short hallway.
Gilchrist followed, opened a door on the left. Bedroom. No curtains. No furniture.
Ahead, Nance crashed through the door at the end of the hallway.
Gilchrist watched her fall off to her right, then leap backwards in a move that defied the laws of physics. Glass smashed. He rushed to her aid, burst into the room, and charged at the body as a foot lifted and caught him a fraction too high to threaten his manhood.
He grunted from the blow, pulled his handcuffs out, whipped them like a chain at a gloved fist that caught him on the chin and snapped his head back. He hit the edge of the door as his knees cracked the floor, and he reached out at the departing figure. His fingers touched fabric, caught it, gripped tight. A black leather boot buried its toe into his shoulder. It swung again, connected with his chin.
He felt his teeth crack and his grip slip free, and he grunted in despair as long legs strode off and slipped through the door. He pulled himself to his feet, flapped a hand at the wall, missed it, and stumbled across the room. By the time he reached the window and fumbled with the blinds, the figure, a tall man dressed all in black, was running across the cobbled street, phone to his ear. At the corner, he waved an outstretched arm as the Mini Cooper pulled level. He opened the door and jumped in as the Cooper sped away.