The screen opened to a short message from Maureen Gilchrist to Chris-no second name-titled Incoming.
As requested, written confirmation has been sought for incoming order expected to arrive within the week.
How harmless was that? It was so harmless it rattled alarm bells.
Then the Topley name came to him with a chill that iced his spine. Was the message recipient Chris Topley?
And what was the incoming order?
He clicked through several older emails, but at first glance they offered nothing more.
He exited and eyed the column of folders, this time focusing on Kevin.
The name niggled at him. He had come across it last year on a visit to Jack’s flat in Hillhead. Chloe’s paintings had struck him as not only vivid and colourful, but tempestuous and wild, verging on the surreal. Chloe told him she had painted that series to work through the sudden death of her friend, Kevin.
Didn’t Chris Topley have a brother called Kevin? He seemed to remember that. But the likelihood of Chloe’s Kevin and Maureen’s Kevin being Kevin Topley, or even the same Kevin, was almost laughable. Still, the name would not leave. He opened the folder to a single email, dated about four weeks ago, and stared in disbelief at the screen, at an untitled message from Maureen Gilchrist to Ronald Watt. Had Maureen mistakenly filed this in the wrong folder after deleting all emails to Kevin? He gritted his teeth and read on.
Hi Ron,
I’m sorry I haven’t written since before Christmas, but I’ve been busy. Work is hectic. You know how it is. And Chris can be a real slave-master. But you know that, too. I’ve missed you, and I look forward to seeing you again at Glenorra, if only to say farewell. I’m sorry things haven’t worked out between us the way you would have liked, but that’s life. You have yours, and I have mine. Let’s live and let live. And let bygones be bygones. Love. M xx
He was not sure if he was angered by Maureen’s feelings for Watt, or embarrassed at reading her personal correspondence. However he felt, he could not dispute the fact that she had resurrected her relationship with DS Ronald Watt, transferred from Fife Constabulary’s Crime Management Department to some outpost in the city of Glasgow all those years ago.
And now Watt was back in Fife, and Maureen was seeing him. Again.
Gilchrist seethed. This was betrayal at its worst. Maureen had lost her virginity one month after her fifteenth birthday, had since renewed her affair with the culprit, a man ten years her senior. Now after eight years, after all that time, here was written proof that she had reneged on the promise she made to her father.
He eyed the email.
I’ve missed you.
Gilchrist squeezed the bridge of his nose. Christ, Mo, what were you thinking? How could you let the man back into your life? He grimaced at the screen.
I’m sorry things haven’t worked out between us the way you would have liked.
He read that line again, then once more, and felt his heart grasp onto that slice of hope and cling to it. Watt wanted to keep the relationship alive. Not Maureen.
… let bygones be bygones.
Gilchrist clenched his jaw. How could she ever forgive the man? And in his mind’s eye, Watt pulled himself from bed and staggered to the bathroom, crumpled bed-sheets pressed to his bloodied face.
Gilchrist had moved towards Maureen then.
Stay away from me.
The words had been screamed. Even now, he flinched at the memory.
He remembered his breath rushing in and out in short hits, as if his body had forgotten how its lungs worked. He was as fit as he had ever been, but his burst of anger had carried him beyond some physical limit.
“You hit him,” she shouted. “You beat him up.”
“What did you expect?” he shouted back at her.
“Not that.”
At fifteen, Maureen had the verbal alacrity to argue with her elders. Rationale and logic were not necessary prerequisites, of course, and even Gail had a tough time withstanding the occasional verbal lashing.
It seemed surreal to be talking to his naked daughter, her eyes defiant, her clothes clutched to her body.
“He raped you.”
“He didn’t rape me.”
“That’s not what it looked like to me.”
“Was I screaming for help?”
“That’s not the point,” he shouted. “Having sex with a minor is against the law.”
“Not if I wanted to.”
Gilchrist felt a pain stab his chest. “It doesn’t matter if you wanted to or not. You’re fifteen. It’s against the law.”
“I don’t care what the law-”
“You’re underage.”
She turned her back to him then, took hold of her knickers, and he had to avert his eyes from the swell of her vulva as she leaned forward and stepped into them, one leg, two legs, then up. And something about the way she did that reminded him of Gail all those years ago. “So?” she said.
“So you could be charged,” he tried.
“Charge me.”
Gilchrist remembered feeling stunned. It seemed such a challenging thing for any daughter to say. “You don’t understand what-”
“I understand perfectly well. You hit him. You hit a defenceless man who-”
“He was having sex with a minor, for God’s sake. That is rape. It is against the law. Can I make it any clearer than that?”
She slipped her bra over her tight breasts. “Minor?”
“Yes. Minor. Now get dressed.” He had turned then, not knowing what to do, what to say. His knuckles were bloodied from battering Watt. The sound of water running in the bathroom had him fighting off the ridiculous urge to apologise to the man. But his dilemma was clear. Charge Watt with rape, and Watt would reciprocate by charging him with assault. Which was why Watt had not fought back. He had been caught breaking the law, could lose his job in a heartbeat, and had egged Gilchrist on simply by smiling at-
The door clicked.
Gilchrist exited the file.
Nance walked into the bedroom, her hair a glistening mass of blackened curls, a cream cotton bath towel around her body. She gave a white smile, and Gilchrist tried to reciprocate.
“What’s got you upset?” she asked.
“Maureen’s seeing Ronnie Watt.”
“Tell me you’re joking.” She slipped off the bath towel and dried her hair as she walked towards him, firm breasts bouncing from the effort. Her pubic hair stood at the joint of her thighs, as trim and tidy as a black exclamation mark. “What’ve you got?”
Gilchrist struggled to concentrate. “Some emails,” he said.
“From Watt?”
Gilchrist bit his tongue. Just the thought of Watt contacting his daughter riled him. He should have charged Watt for all he was worth, taken his chances with his own assault charges. Instead he had let Gail talk him out of it.
What would the gossip do, for goodness sake? She’s only a child. And there’s your career to think about. You might lose your pension. And what about the mortgage? Think about someone other than yourself for once in your life. Damn you to hell if you do this.
So he had not pressed charges, instead worked a deal with the powers that be to have Watt transferred out of St. Andrews. Now eight years on, Watt had the audacity to be seeing Maureen behind his back. And back in St. Andrews. It did not bear thinking about-
His mobile rang. He turned from Nance’s nudity. “Bad news, Boss. We got an arm this morning.”
“Left arm, Stan?”
“Correct, Boss.”
The left arm was significant, because whoever was feeding Chloe to him needed to keep the sequence in order. Left right, left right. Like marching, he thought. Was that significant? Was the killer in the military? Was that part of the message?
“Any note?”
“Yes, Boss. Felt-tip pen printed along its length.”
Thank God for small mercies.