Fuck you, Ronnie, flitted through Gilchrist’s mind, followed by, That’s my girl.
Nance said, “And did you ever see Ronnie Watt with Chris Topley?”
Gilchrist almost smiled. Nance was beginning to make jumps in logic on her own, jumps that could catch someone cold, himself included.
“Once or twice,” Brian said.
What? “When?” Gilchrist snapped.
Brian held up his hands. “Hey, man. Steady on.”
Gilchrist was breathing hard. The whole thing with Maureen and Watt was getting to him. And now a link to Topley. “Do you know what Topley and Watt talk about?” he asked. Brian shook his head.
“Think about it.” He slid Maureen’s photo back into his wallet, then handed over a business card. “And when you’ve worked it out, give me a call.”
Outside, the sky had darkened. Swollen clouds hugged the skyline, low and dark.
“Let’s try Arta.”
But after showing Maureen’s photo around the place, they called it a day. She might have been seen, she might not, she looked familiar, but then again, did not. As they stepped outside, Gilchrist pulled out his phone and searched its memory. He found the number he was looking for.
It rang four times before being answered.
Gilchrist said, “Terry Leighton?”
“Speaking.”
“DCI Gilchrist. You did some work for me last year.”
A pause, then “Oh, yes, I remember. How can I help you?”
“I have a laptop I’d like you to take a look at. I want you to print out every file in it.”
“Every file?”
“Just your common or garden Microsoft Word files.”
“Oh, I see. That should be quite easy.” A pause, then, “When do you need them?”
“I’ll be with you in a couple of hours.” He hung up before Leighton could object.
“What a pity we’re heading back to St. Andrews,” Nance said.
“Why’s that?”
“I was looking forward to another treat.”
From the look in her dark eyes, Gilchrist realised she was serious. Why would she want to get involved with someone like him? He was twenty years her senior, drank too much, spent too many hours at the Office, and seemed incapable of sustaining any relationship with the opposite sex. All she had to do was talk to Beth.
She lifted her hand to his face. “You look sad,” she said. “And vulnerable. Not like the fearsome crime-buster of legendary fame.”
“Who writes that stuff, anyway?” he said. “Come on,” he growled. “We have work to do.”
Nance shoved her hands into her pockets and strode alongside. “You can be a real bastard at times, Andy.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I wonder why.”
Gilchrist grabbed her by the arm.
She stopped, frozen in mid-step, and glared at him until he released his grip.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Anger danced behind her eyes, as if she was preparing to let him have it. Then she shook her head. “You’re an easy man to like, Andy. But a difficult man to get to know.”
“You got to know me last night,” he tried.
“Fleetingly.”
He was not sure how to take that remark. Was she letting him know he had been too selfish? Could he be blamed for that? It had been almost a year since he had last been with a woman. And with Chloe’s murder and Maureen’s disappearance, it was a wonder he’d been aroused at all. He felt something touch his hand, and looked down to see Nance’s fingers entwine with his.
“Come on,” she said. “We really do have work to do.”
He let her lead him back to his car.
Chapter 22
AT STRATHCLYDE POLICE Headquarters in Pitt Street, Gilchrist pulled in an old favour by having Dainty put out another appeal on national television. Dainty was all hard handshakes and curt commands, with nothing being too much for the search for an associate’s daughter, not even a follow up call with Chris Topley, which he seemed pleased to offer.
“It’ll keep the cheeky bastard on his toes, let him know we’ve got our eyes on him.”
“Getting too big for his boots?” Gilchrist asked.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
The appeal was set for the evening news, targeted for Glasgow and the surrounding areas. Gilchrist watched it with Nance in a bar off Charing Cross, and found himself holding his breath when Maureen’s face filled the screen. But no one seemed to take notice-Any person knowing the whereabouts of Maureen Gillian Gilchrist, twenty-three, slim-built, five ten, shoulder-length dark hair, last seen having a drink in Babbity Bowster in Merchant City several nights ago, should contact Strathclyde Police. A number was given for callers to use with anonymity.
Gilchrist pushed his unfinished pint across the bar and stomped out, Nance close behind him.
On the drive back to St. Andrews, he called Jack. Although Jack had not heard from Maureen, he sounded upbeat. Gilchrist took advantage of his cavalier mood and asked if he would call Mum, find out when she last spoke to Maureen.
Ten minutes later Jack called back.
“Mum was asleep, but Harry says he hasn’t spoken to Maureen since last week.”
“Did he mention the news? We put out an appeal.”
“He never said a word, Andy.”
Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. This was his and Gail’s daughter, Jack’s sister, Harry’s step-daughter, for crying out loud, and no one seemed to-
“I tried Jenny again, on the off-chance. But she hasn’t heard from her either.”
“Jenny?”
“Jenny Colvin. A friend of Chloe’s.”
At the mention of Chloe’s name, Gilchrist felt his lips purse. He had not told Jack about the left arm. Now was not the time to bring it up.
“Jenny saw Chloe last year. Way before Christmas. We would sometimes go out with her.”
“You and Chloe?”
“Sometimes Maureen, too.”
“I didn’t know you and Maureen went out together.”
“Not often. Maureen’s got her own circle of friends.”
“How about boyfriends? Did you meet any of them?”
“That’s how I met Chloe.” Things always seemed confused with Jack. “Jenny’s boyfriend knew Kevin.”
Kevin. Chloe’s boyfriend before Jack. Out of nothing comes something. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Jenny used to go out with Roddy. Roddy knew Kevin. We went to a party in the south side. I was with Sheila. Chloe was with Kevin. That’s where we met. Me and Chloe…”
Gilchrist caught the saddening in Jack’s tone, thought he should end the call before the conversation turned to his investigation. But he still had a couple of questions left. “Whose house was the party in?” he asked.
“Kevin’s.”
“You wouldn’t know where Glenorra is?”
“Who?”
“I thought not. Did Maureen ever mention Glenorra?”
“Not that I remember.”
Gilchrist felt powerless to lift Jack’s spirits and now regretted having called. “Listen, Jack, I’ve got to go. Call you later.”
“Yeah.” And with that, Jack hung up.
Gilchrist sat his mobile phone in the centre console. What the hell was he doing? Have a chat with Dad and ruin your day? When was the last time he had spoken to Jack without picking his brain?
“Do you ever feel you’re losing control?” he said to Nance.
Nance placed her hand on his thigh and squeezed. “You give the impression of always being in control.”
He eyed the road ahead. Always in control? Of what? His family? His career? His life? That was a laugh. He felt as if he was hanging on by his fingernails while the stallion of life galloped off like some untamed beast. And Nance’s hand on his thigh had his thoughts reverting to other problems. If Greaves found out, he would-
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Gilchrist gave a defeated shrug.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “No one’ll find out about last night.”