“As an employee, what does Maureen do?” Nance again.
“Marketing.”
“Marketing what?”
“Topley clients.”
“Who are?”
“The rich and the famous.”
“And the infamous?” Gilchrist tried.
“I’m clean,” Topley growled. “The past is past. This business is legit.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Topley’s eyes flashed, nothing more than a widening of the pupils. But for a fraction of a second Gilchrist caught a glimpse of the wilder version of the man. “I couldn’t give a monkey’s toss what you believe.”
“How long has Maureen been employed here?” Nance again.
Topley puffed his cheeks. “Less than a year.”
“The job pay well?”
“Basic of sixty to seventy. Then a bonus that usually doubles it.” He flashed some more gold. “At Christmas.”
Maureen earning upwards of a hundred-thousand at the age of twenty-three did not sit well with Gilchrist. Why had she never told him about this job? Had Gail known? Had Harry? Or Jack?
“When did you last see Maureen?” Nance asked.
Topley turned to the tinted glass panels that ran from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Beyond, the Clyde slid past like some dirt-caked beast, its murky waters a silent reminder of Glasgow’s industrial past. He stood with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him so that Gilchrist caught the blue lines of some tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. The twin-tipped tail of a swallow, he thought.
“Two nights ago,” Topley said. “We went out for a drink after work.”
“Just the two of you?” Nance had her notebook out.
“Yes.”
“Like on a date?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“What way would you put it?” Gilchrist interrupted.
“Two friends having a drink.”
The emphasis on friends rankled Gilchrist, but he nodded to Nance to continue.
“Anyone see you?” she asked.
“See us?” Topley shrugged his shoulders. “Of course they saw us. We weren’t hiding.”
“Who saw you?”
“Other than everyone in the pub?”
“At work, I mean.”
“Most of the office staff.”
“You make a habit of going out for a drink with your employees?”
“Just the good-looking ones.”
Gilchrist tightened his lips, thought it better to let Nance get on with it.
Nance seemed to sense his discomfort. “Where did you and Maureen go?” she asked.
“Had a glass of wine in Arta.”
“Where’s that?”
“Not far from where she lives.”
“You know where she lives, do you?”
Topley chuckled. “Of course I do. I own the place.”
“She rents it from you?”
“In a way.”
“What kind of a way?”
“The flat comes with the job. It’s a perk.”
“Any other perks come with the job?”
Topley turned at that question. His eyes creased in a knowing smile. “Depends on how hard-working my staff are. How far up the ladder they want to climb.” He flicked an ophidian glance at Gilchrist. “Know what I mean?”
Nance scribbled hard into her notebook as if trying to lead Gilchrist away from the trap. But it was no use. “No,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Topley turned to the window again, and Gilchrist sensed the man was not as tough as he liked people to think. “She does stuff for me,” Topley went on.
“What sort of stuff?” Gilchrist pressed.
“Stuff stuff.”
“Illegal stuff stuff?”
Topley shook his head, gave a dry chuckle. “She told me about you.”
“Why would she do that? She expecting me to visit you sometime?”
Silence.
“What else did she say about me?”
Topley turned then, and any thoughts Gilchrist might have had of the man losing his hardness evaporated. “That you’re a fucking cunt,” he said. “And a wanker. A fucking wanker.” He smiled. “That’s what she said about you.”
“Those her exact words?” Gilchrist asked. “Fucking cunt? Fucking wanker? She say that, did she?”
“More or less.”
“So, she never said those words. Not exactly,” he added.
“If it makes you happy, those were her exact words.”
Gilchrist almost smiled. In all the time he had known Maureen, the use of that single word, cunt, had never passed her lips. “So,” he continued, “after Arta, where did you go?”
Topley tilted his chin, as if to look at Gilchrist down the length of his flattened nose. “Babbity Bowster.”
“How do you spell that?” Nance asked.
“Any way you like, sweetheart.”
Nance shook her head, scribbled in her notebook.
“What did you have to drink there?” Gilchrist asked.
“More wine.”
“A glass?”
“A bottle.”
“Or two?”
“Probably.”
“Pay by cash?”
“How else?”
How else indeed?
“Maureen likes her wine,” Topley continued, as if warming to the idea of being interrogated. “It loosens her up, if you catch my drift.”
Gilchrist ignored the taunt. “What kind of wine?” he asked. “House? White? Red?”
“Red.”
“Red?”
“Yeah. Red. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
Got you, you plonker. Gilchrist had no doubt Maureen frequented those pubs. They were both within walking distance of her home. But why would Topley lie? Or was he just stringing them along for the hell of it? “Two bottles of red between the two of you?” he went on.
“We might have left the second one unfinished.”
“Might?”
“Yeah. I think we did.”
“Red wine? Like a Cabernet?”
“Yeah. That’s the one. Cabernet.”
“Sauvignon?”
“Yeah. Cabernet Sauvignon.”
“Did you have a meal?”
“No. We drank.”
“More red wine?”
“Gin.”
Maureen liked the occasional gin and tonic, so Topley was telling him a mixture of lies and truth. “Then what?”
“We went back to her place and fucked each other senseless.”
Nance giggled, God bless her. She shook her head, slapped her notebook shut. “In your dreams, big boy.”
Topley seemed not to have heard. He glared at Gilchrist, his eyes like blue burning beads. “She likes it up the arse. Hard and fast. She swears when she’s getting fucked. Did you know that? She swears like a trooper. Fuck me harder, Chris baby, she says. Go on. Deeper. Harder. Fuck me. Fuck me.” Topley stopped his billy-goat thrusts then, and lowered his arms. He ran the back of his hand across his lips, as if out of breath.
Gilchrist smiled. “Finished?”
Topley frowned.
“Would you like me to charge you with obstructing a criminal investigation?”
“I’m obstructing nothing. You’re asking questions. I’m giving answers.”
“You’re lying.”
“Prove it.”
“Maureen doesn’t drink red wine.”
“Do what?”
“Red wine makes her sick.” Gilchrist stepped towards the door.
“Maybe it was white, then.”
“Maybe you weren’t even with her.”
Topley’s face deadpanned.
“Thanks for your time,” Gilchrist said. “I’ve enjoyed myself.” He gripped the door handle, then hesitated. “If I were you I’d make sure my books were in order.”
“I’m legit.”
“You’d better be,” said Gilchrist, and raised his wrist. “Because in about twenty-four hours this place is going to be crawling with inspectors from the Inland Revenue and Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. Wouldn’t you say, Nance?”
Nance shook her head. “Wouldn’t think it would take them that long.”
Gilchrist opened the door. “And one other thing.” He turned to Topley, pleased in some cruel way to see his fists bunching. “Maureen’s never liked it up the arse. She prefers to be on top.”