Topley said nothing as Gilchrist walked away and stood with his back to the far wall, arms crossed. It took Topley several slow seconds to turn to his solicitor. “Beat it, Jer. Go on. Skedaddle.”
“I must advise against-”
“And don’t bill me for your fucking time, you useless twat. It’s a fucking crime what you lot charge. We’re through. Got that?”
Foster spilled his papers into an opened briefcase, and snapped it shut. Then he eased his bulk upright, lumbered splay-footed to the door, and squeezed himself from the room.
Topley pushed back, stretched his arms behind his neck. “Fucking wanker.”
Gilchrist returned to his chair, eyed the recorder that lay between them, and clicked it off. He hoped Topley would catch the sincerity in his words. “I only want to find my daughter,” he said.
“You expect me to trust you?”
“It’s your choice.”
Topley pressed his elbows on the desk. “Or?”
“Or it’s back inside.” Gilchrist lowered his voice to that of a co-conspirator. “And believe me, I’ll trump up the charges so much that you’ll make Peter Manuel look like a virgin choirboy.” He smiled. “Ready?”
Chapter 34
IS THIS WHAT death is like?
No sound. No feeling. No movement.
Just stillness. Like dreaming. Like floating on air.
She tried to sit up, move her neck, reach for the wall. But although she was no more than two feet from it, she could not find the strength to touch its roughened surface.
I have died. That is why I feel nothing, hear nothing, can move nothing.
Because I am dead. But if I am dead, why is it so cold?
So cold again. Freezing.
She managed to pull her legs up, tried to lock her knees against her chest, but toppled onto her side.
I am so weak, I don’t know how…
… I don’t know…
… how long…
… I can…
… hold…
“BULLY’S GOT IT in for you,” Topley said. “He hates you so much, he’s forgotten why.”
“Tell me what he said about Maureen.”
Topley levelled his head, stared hard into Gilchrist’s eyes. “I don’t know a thing about that. And that’s the truth.”
Gilchrist felt a nip in his gut. Did he have it wrong? “What about Ronnie Watt?” he asked. “Did Ronnie ever talk to you about Bully?”
“Not a chance.”
Gilchrist was not sure he believed that answer. But for the time being it would have to do. “How do you know Ronnie?”
“Does a bit of stuff for us.”
“Us?”
“My company.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Stuff stuff.”
Now where had he heard that before? “Did you know Watt’s with Strathclyde Drug Squad?”
Topley’s eyebrows shifted. “You’re joking. Right?”
Ham actor of the century. Maybe even the universe. “Why did Bully want your father buried in the Auld Aisle?”
“Who says he did?”
“Me.”
Topley paused, as if deciding whether or not to continue lying, then shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Stop pulling my plonker.”
“I’m telling you. I don’t know why the fuck he wanted the old man buried there.”
“But you did as he asked.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“He was your old man. Why let Bully get involved?”
“Why not?”
Gilchrist moved closer. “You scared of Bully?”
Topley cracked his knuckles. “I can look after myself.”
“Why not tell him to bugger off?”
“What the fuck did I care? I mean, the old man’s as stiff as a parrot. What the fuck difference does it make? He’s gone. Out of it. Food for the worms.”
“It made a difference to your mother.”
“What the fuck is this? You’ll be pulling the old violin out next.”
“She cared.”
“Yeah, well, she’s gone where she doesn’t need to care any more.”
“Ashes in the attic?”
Topley looked off to the side, as if trying to avoid Gilchrist’s eyes. But Gilchrist was having none of it. He fingered the recorder.
“Did Bully tell you not to bury her beside your father?”
Silence.
“Did you ever ask yourself why?”
Topley’s flattened nose flared with anger.
Gilchrist pulled back. He was missing something. But what, he could not say. Did it matter that Bully had ordered Topley to bury his father in some cemetery far from the family plot? And then not to bury his mother there? Or was Gilchrist toddling up the wrong track? He did not know. But what he did know, from the heavy-lidded look in Topley’s eyes, was that some impasse had been reached. Mrs. Hutchison had said ten years, but Gilchrist was interested in hearing how Topley would answer.
“When did your father die?” he asked.
“Fuck sake. How would I know? It was years ago.”
“Twenty?”
“Not as long as that.”
“Ten?”
“Yeah. About that.”
“Were you in Barlinnie when he died?”
“Fuck off. I had a good job back then.”
“Did you like your father?”
“Bad-tempered drunk, is what the old fucker was.”
“Ever hit you?”
“That’d be the fucking day.”
“How about Kevin? Your father hit him?”
“Kevin would have nailed him to the door.”
Gilchrist frowned. Nothing seemed to fit. He had met Jack’s girlfriend. And what had struck him about Chloe was her sensitivity, her artist’s gentleness. Yet Kevin Topley had been her boyfriend before Jack. It seemed improbable. But there was Maureen, too, his own daughter, an employee of the likes of Topley. What the hell was the world coming to? Or more to the point, what the hell was he missing?
The door opened.
Gilchrist spun round.
“Sorry, sir. You did tell me to let you know.”
“Well?”
“Yes. Sir.”
Gilchrist succeeded in maintaining his composure in front of Topley. “Thank you,” he said, and waited for the door to close. He wanted to ask Topley one more question, and leaned closer. “When was the last time you visited your father’s grave?”
Topley shrugged.
“You’ve never visited it. Have you?”
Topley dead-eyed him. “Like I said. He’s dead as a parrot. What’s the fucking point?”
Gilchrist felt disappointment flush through him. Would anyone visit his own grave after he was dead? Had he made any impact on the world, left anything of any significance behind him? The futility of it all seemed insurmountable. The world was filled with villains much worse than Topley, who murdered without pity or compassion, the cruellest of human beings who took everything and gave nothing. And after trying to extract information from Topley, he now felt like a dog that had been scraping for a meatless bone in the wrong hole.
“You’re free to go,” he said.
“Didn’t know I’d been arrested.”
“Don’t push it.” Gilchrist tugged his hand through his hair. His fingers tined the thinning spot at the back of his crown. He gritted his teeth at the memory of Maureen teasing him. Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll still love you when you’re bald. What would he give to hear her say those words again?
He waited until Topley’s footfall faded before he stepped from the room. “Do you know how to get to Kirkintilloch?” he asked Nance.
“Not yet.”
“And when you’re at it, find out the location of John Topley’s grave.”
GILCHRIST DROVE HIS Roadster through the gateway of the Auld Aisle Cemetery. The watchtower stood in the oldest part of the graveyard. Beyond the old stone wall, rusting cages huddled over gravesites with tilted headstones weathered smooth.