“Dismember, Boss.”
The fifth note. He spelled it in his head to the fifth letter-E.
M A U R E. Christ, how clear could it be?
“Where was it found?”
“Lying on Grannie Clark’s Wynd on the eighteenth fairway, wrapped in plastic.”
“Close to the boundary fence?”
“About ten yards in.”
“Thrown there?”
“Bert thinks it was placed, Boss.”
Gilchrist puzzled over the killer’s fascination with the Old Course. But it was open to the public and almost impossible to monitor around the clock. At night, it would be the simplest thing to drop an amputated limb in the passing.
But surely someone somewhere must have seen something.
“Tell me we’ve got a witness, Stan.”
“Afraid not, Boss.”
“Don’t we have the place flooded with uniforms?”
“No one saw a thing.”
How could someone drop an arm on a golf course in the middle of the night and not be seen? They were supposed to be patrolling the place, for God’s sake.
“Where’s Ronnie Watt?” he demanded.
“Haven’t seen him today.”
“When was the last time anyone saw him?” he asked.
“Yesterday afternoon, Boss.”
Gilchrist’s mind crackled with possibilities. Maureen had been corresponding with Watt, ending their affair. The logic seemed improbable, but Maureen’s recent email would have given Watt time to set things in motion, if that had been his intention. First Chloe, then Mo. Revenge for Gilchrist kicking him out of St. Andrews, and for Maureen dumping him? Was that possible? Had the man they chased from her flat been searching for Maureen’s laptop so he could delete any reference to Ronnie?
Gilchrist decided to take the beast by the balls. If he had acted on his hunch sooner, Maureen might be safe. Now he could no longer afford to wait. “Stan,” he ordered. “Get a warrant for Watt’s arrest.”
A pause, then, “On what charge, Boss?”
“On suspicion of murder.”
“You sure, Boss?”
No, he wanted to say, I’m not sure. But I need to take action. “He’s been seeing Maureen again,” he said. “Now Maureen’s missing and I can’t get hold of Watt.”
Stan whistled. “Greaves’ll blow a fuse, Boss.”
Gilchrist thought it an odd thing for Stan to say. “If Greaves has a problem with that, he can talk to me.”
“Okay, Boss.”
Gilchrist hung up.
“I suppose that makes a quickie out of the question.”
Nance had partially dressed and stood in thong knickers, the skimpiest of material that bulged with the lump of her pubis. Stubble speckled the tops of her thighs. Her breasts stood proud-nippled, and for one disorienting moment Gilchrist was back in his bedroom facing a fifteen-year-old Maureen.
“Get dressed,” he said, then tried to soften it with, “We’ve got work to do.”
But from the way Nance turned away, he knew he had not pulled it off.
Chapter 20
BY MID AFTERNOON, Gilchrist established that Maureen was employed as a marketing representative with the Topley Agency, a company owned and run by Chris Topley, an ex-hard-man from the Gorbals, now in his mid-thirties, who spent three years in Barlinnie for beating up his neighbour over a pint of beer. According to Dainty, the neighbour committed suicide the week before Topley was to be released. Rumour had it that if the man had not taken his own life, Topley had promised to take it for him.
The Topley Agency was housed on the fourth floor of a glass and steel building that overlooked the River Clyde. The reception area glistened with bronze statuettes and towering plants that had Gilchrist wondering just how much Maureen was earning. The receptionist asked them to wait while she paged Mr. Topley. Nance took one of the deep leather chairs. Gilchrist remained standing.
Fifteen minutes later, they were ushered into an office that looked as if it had been furnished by a minimalist. Two small black and white photographs in silver frames hung on otherwise bare walls. An expansive desk lay devoid of clutter. Gilchrist saw no filing cabinets or anything else that would suggest the room was ever used.
The door clicked.
Gilchrist and Nance turned like a choreographed act.
Despite the dark-blue suit with silver shirt and matching tie, Chris Topley had failed to lose his bruiser image. As he stood framed by the doorway, it did not take much to imagine him booting someone to death in the wet streets of Glasgow.
The door closed behind him with a dull thud.
Gilchrist stood a good six inches taller than Topley’s squat figure. From that vantage point, Topley’s sandy hair, shorn to the bone, looked like roughened wood grain.
“Chris Topley?”
Topley eyed Gilchrist with the look of a businessman undecided if this was an opportunity about to blossom into cash or some past deal come back to haunt him. “And you are?” His accent was hard Glaswegian softened to a low growl.
“Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist.” Gilchrist declined to show his warrant card or tell Topley they were from Fife Constabulary. He had the impression that neither would matter to a man of Topley’s background. Instead, he offered his hand.
Topley’s grip felt hard and moist, like roughened leather greased smooth. An overpowering fragrance of aftershave hung around him, and his gaze slid off to the side as he eyed Nance from top to toe. By the time he offered her a gold-toothed grin, Gilchrist felt as if she had been stripped and abused before his eyes.
Topley held out his hand to her.
Gilchrist almost smiled when Nance ignored it.
“You have a name?” Topley asked her.
“Yes.”
Topley oozed charm like a snake in an alligator pool. His face had the hardened look of a street fighter and bore the faded scars of past disputes-a nick on the forehead; dotted line on the right cheek; disfigured knuckles on bunched fists.
“Well well well,” he growled. “Two detectives. I must say I’m honoured. How can I help you?”
“Maureen Gilchrist is one of your employees,” said Gilchrist.
“A lovely girl,” he said. “What about her?”
“She’s missing.”
Topley scrubbed the back of his hand under his chin, the sound like sandpaper on wood. Then he pointed a finger at Gilchrist. “Now I get it. You’re the old man.” He walked around his desk, and Gilchrist had the distinct impression that few paper trails were left in the company. Topley stood behind his high-backed leather chair, his right arm along the top. In the light from the glass wall, his eyes took on a hunted look, like a guilty man waiting for the damning question.
Gilchrist kept his voice level. “Do you know where she is?”
“Could do.”
For a moment, Gilchrist toyed with the idea of leaning across the desk and grabbing him by the throat. “I’m not here to play games,” he said. “Just answer the question.”
“Should I be talking to my solicitor?”
“That’s your prerogative.” It was Nance.
Gold fillings glinted either side of front incisors. “She speaks,” he said.
“She also arrests,” said Nance.
Topley held out his arms, wrists together. “Please. It’s been a while since I’ve been handcuffed by someone so pretty.”
And at that moment, Gilchrist knew Chris Topley was not Maureen’s boyfriend. Of that fact, he would bet his life. “We can cuff you later,” he said, “but for now we’re trying to establish if you can help with our enquiries, when you last saw Maureen, who you last saw her with, where she might be. That sort of thing.”
Topley lowered his arms. “Maureen told me I wouldn’t like you.”
The sound of his daughter’s name coming from the mouth of an ex-convict sent the chill of horripilation through Gilchrist. “Why would she say that?”
“Because she cares for you.”
Topley’s use of the present tense sent some signal buzzing through Gilchrist’s system. Maureen was alive. Was that what he was saying? And if so, how did he know?