Greaves’ eyes narrowed, showing in their damp reflection the tiniest glimmer of compassion. “Very well, Andy.” He returned to his seat, stared hard at his desk for several seconds, then looked up. “Ronnie’s with Strathclyde Drug Squad.” He held up his hands. “I can’t give you details, for the simple reason that I don’t know. My remit was to find him a position in this Division and make it look as if he was back with Fife Constabulary.”
“That doesn’t explain why you assigned him to me.”
“It was a perfect arrangement.”
“What are you talking about?”
Greaves gave a tiny smirk. “You hate the man. Can’t say I blame you. So, I knew you would do your damnedest to keep him out the picture.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Oh, do come along, Andy. It’s a bit late in the day to play dumb.”
Gilchrist wondered why he had never before noticed the cruelty reflected in Greaves’ eyes. But he was still missing something. Then he thought he saw it, and wondered if Greaves could really be that devious.
“You knew I would keep Watt busy,” he said. “You knew I would bury him in the investigation, have him go off on his own, effectively give him the means to carry out his Drug Squad business.”
Greaves gave a tight smile.
But Gilchrist was in no mood to let him off. “Did you know Watt was seeing my daughter in Glasgow?”
Greaves frowned. “What?”
“Soon after Watt arrives back in St. Andrews, Maureen goes missing.” He leaned closer. “Does that not make you suspicious?”
“Of what?”
“Now who’s acting dumb?”
“Watch that tongue of yours.”
Gilchrist struggled to keep his voice steady. “If I ever find out that Watt is involved with Maureen’s disappearance, I swear to God, Tom, I’ll hold you personally responsible for interfering with my investigation.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Don’t pretend. Pray.” And with that, Gilchrist strode from Greaves’ office.
Outside on North Street he thrust his hands into his pockets. His outburst had drained him. He felt emptied, flattened, beyond anger. He imagined Greaves on the phone with ACC McVicar, demanding his resignation. McVicar had stood up for him in the past, but there were only so many rules a man could break, and his final threat to Greaves might have broken the lot.
He pulled out his mobile, called Watt’s number, but it was unobtainable, or his mobile was dead. He tried Nance, and she picked up on the third ring.
“Have you seen Watt?” he asked her.
“Good morning to you, too,” she said. “He’s standing right beside me.”
“Put him on.”
“He’s on his mobile.”
Gilchrist almost cursed, then realised that his calling Peggy Linnet’s number earlier had warned Watt off, forced him to change his SIM card, or use another phone. For all he knew, Watt might be on his new mobile to Greaves, listening to his confession that he had to let the SIO know about Watt’s connection to the Drug Squad.
“Where are you?” he asked Nance.
“Outside the University Library.”
“Nail that bastard to the wall. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
By the time he entered the University grounds, he had cooled off some, but not by much. Watt grinned at him as he approached, his lips lopsided from chewing gum, and Gilchrist had a sense of Nance backing away.
He reached Watt, grabbed his shirt at the throat. “I warned you,” he growled.
Watt dead-eyed him. “Don’t make me have to break your arm.”
“I should kick you off the-”
“You can’t kick me anywhere,” Watt said. “This goes higher than you, higher than Greaves, higher than McVicar.”
Gilchrist tightened his grip. “I’m not talking about that,” he snarled. “When did you last see Maureen?”
Watt seemed to freeze, but only for a second. Then he lifted his hand and took hold of Gilchrist’s bunched fist. “I told you I didn’t want to break-”
“Give it up, boys,” Nance interrupted. “You’re causing a scene.”
Gilchrist relaxed his grip. Watt pushed his hand away, tugged at his collar.
“I won’t ask you to kiss and make up,” Nance said. “That might scare the students even more.”
All of a sudden, Gilchrist was aware of young men and women standing in silent groups, watching them. “Outside,” he growled at Watt.
On North Street, Nance had the sense to keep out of earshot while Gilchrist had a face-to-face with Watt. “Does Nance know?”
“Only you and Greaves. The silly fucker shouldn’t have told you.”
“Then you’d have no excuse not to be kicked back to Glasgow.” Watt grimaced at Gilchrist’s logic.
“How about Maureen?” Gilchrist pressed on. “Does she know?”
“Not a chance.”
“I know you’re seeing her.”
“Not any more,” Watt said. “It’s over.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “And so is this half-arsed interrogation.”
“Not so fast, Ronnie. When did you last see Maureen?”
“About three weeks ago.”
“And the last time you spoke to her?”
“About a week ago.”
“And what about her job with Chris Topley?”
“What about it?”
“Why is she working there?”
“A job’s a job.”
“And you know Topley.”
“In Glasgow, who doesn’t?”
“Who’s Peggy Linnet?”
“Never heard of her.”
Gilchrist knew he was being stone-walled.
“Are we through?” Watt said.
If Watt’s authority was higher than McVicar, then the chances of Gilchrist being made privy to an on-going drug operation ranged from zero to one hundred below. Watt would tell him nothing, and he would just have to live with it, work alongside the man. But now he had confronted Watt, he could think of no reason for him to be lying about Maureen.
“Make sure Nance has your new mobile number,” he growled, and stomped off.
Past the Dunvegan Hotel, he turned into Grannie Clark’s Wynd, then veered onto the Old Course, oblivious to the golfers. A cold wind hit him, bringing with it the smell of a brisk sea. The Old Course seemed such an important part of the killer’s plan that he felt an almost irresistible need to walk the links.
Was the Old Course itself significant? Or was it being used simply to gather media attention? He walked past the Road Hole Bunker kicking his feet through the rough that bordered the fairway’s length. He continued alongside the sixteenth. From there, the course ran all the way out to the Eden Estuary. He plodded on in his solitary search, criss-crossing the dunes like some game-dog, groping as far as he could into gorse bushes that cluttered the rough. He had to dislodge himself from a bristling clump off the fourteenth fairway to answer his phone.
The rush of Jack’s voice had him pressing his mobile tight to his ear.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Maureen?”
The question almost threw him, but he recovered with, “It’s early days, and I-”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Harry told me there’s an appeal on the TV for information on Maureen’s whereabouts. That doesn’t sound like early days to me.”
“I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure.”
The fight seemed to go out of Jack then. “Don’t tell me Mo’s next,” he said, and before Gilchrist could offer anything, he hung up.
Gilchrist folded his mobile and eyed the grass and gorse around him. How could he go on with this? How could he search for Chloe when his own daughter was missing? But even as he asked that question of himself, he knew the answer to Maureen’s disappearance would be delivered through the remaining parts of Chloe’s body.
He hung his head and struggled on.