T F Muir
The Meating Room
The fifth book in the DI Gilchrist series, 2014
For Anna
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing can be a lonely affair, but this book could not have been published without assistance from the following: Gayle Cameron, Police Scotland; Kenny Cameron (retired) Police Scotland; Mark Waterfall, CCTV Manager, Police Scotland and Jon Miller, ex-superintendent Tayside Police, for police procedure; Professor Sue Black, Director of the Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification, University of Dundee and Derrick Pounder, Professor of Forensic Medicine (Retired), University of Dundee, for the gory stuff; Heather Holden-Brown, Elly James, Claire Houghton-Price and Celia Hayley of hhb agency for encouragement and advice; Philip Parr, for tireless copyediting right down to the last comma; Krystyna Green and many others in Constable & Robinson who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to give this novel the best possible start; and finally Anna, for putting up with me, believing in me and loving me all the way.
This book is a work of fiction. Those readers familiar with St Andrews and the East Neuk may notice that I have taken creative license with respect to some local geography.
Any and all mistakes are mine.
CHAPTER 1
5.41 a.m., Friday, early March
Tentsmuir Forest
Fife
Maggie Ferguson heard the car before she saw it.
The sound of its burbling engine reached out to her through the morning darkness. At the age of sixty-seven her hearing was still good, although her eyesight was not what it used to be. And the haar that had drifted inland off the North Sea, shrouding the forest in a stirring fog, did nothing to help. She thought it odd that the car was parked in the clearing, with its lights off and its engine running, and her first thought was that it must be a couple of young lovers up to no good in the back seat.
She gave out a short shrill whistle and a ‘Here boy. Over here,’ and sighed with resignation when Fergie, her golden Labrador, ignored her call and carried on criss-crossing the ground, nose to the pine-needled carpet. Poor old Fergie, she thought, his hearing was now as bad as her own eyesight. But as she walked off towards the beach, the wind rose, and the haar shifted, and the shadowed hulk of the car revealed itself for a fleeting moment before settling once more into the fogged darkness.
She was no good with cars, never knew their names, although she did notice that it was one of these big posh ones, far too expensive for a pair of youngsters. Which made her think it must belong to someone older, and that he, or she, might be on the phone. So she ignored it, and strode on through the trees towards the sea.
But with that shifting of the wind, Fergie caught some new scent, and he tracked off, nose to the ground, in the opposite direction.
‘This way, Fergie. This way.’
But Fergie wandered on, oblivious to Maggie, until he noticed the car.
Later, in her statement to the police, Maggie would say that Fergie had seemed to know something was wrong, that he must have sensed death, for he stood there, his hackles raised like a fur fin on his shoulders, his coughing bark straining his canine vocal cords as if ready to snap. But in that early morning chill, Maggie was unaware of what she was about to find as she rushed to quieten him.
‘Shush,’ she ordered. ‘Shush now, Fergie. That’s enough.’
But Fergie was as good as deaf, his hearing drowned by his own barking.
‘Oh, dear,’ Maggie said, digging into her pocket. ‘We’ll need to put your lead on.’
Even then, when she leaned forward to clip Fergie’s lead to his collar, and cupped her hand over his nose to stop him barking, she did not notice that the driver’s window was just a touch ajar, a crack at the top. Nor did she notice the rubber tube that led from the window to the exhaust pipe. Only when she stood upright, tugged Fergie away and gave the car a parting glance did she realise that the windows were steamed up, and that a scarf, or a pullover, or something woollen, was stuffed into the crack in the window, through which smoke seeped into the early morning air.
The driver, nothing more than a silhouette in the mist, took no notice of her – not on the phone, but sleeping. Or maybe not sleeping, but…
‘Dear goodness,’ she gasped, and stumbled backwards.
In her panic, as her mind struggled to compute what her eyes were telling her, it never occurred to her to open the door and check if the driver was alive or needed help. Nor did she think to switch off the engine, or use her mobile phone to call for an ambulance. Her thoughts were clouded with the panic of the moment, intent only on putting as much distance between herself and the car.
Fergie seemed to have found new life in his old legs, too. He tugged hard at his lead, as if chasing after some new, irresistible scent. Or maybe his canine senses caught the danger in what had gone before and urged him to pull his owner away from the scene, to the safety of her car and the drive back to Leuchars.
‘Has anyone ever told you you’re a gentle lover?’
Gilchrist held Cooper’s enquiring gaze. Her eyes fascinated him. They always had. The lightest blue, sharp and clear as a winter sky. Even after the night before – one too many Deuchars in The Central and a bottle of Moët back home in Fisherman’s Cottage to celebrate nearing the end of the week, any excuse for a session – her eyes looked fresh and alert. Or maybe, at the age of forty-one, Cooper was too young for him, and now it was showing. But he thought he caught a sense of wariness in her question, a subtle probing, and he pushed a hand through her hair. He loved the way her curls spilled on to his face, loose and long and shampoo fresh. He breathed her in, slid his other hand down the length of her back, heard her gasp.
‘Why do you ask?’ he said.
She leaned forward, settling deeper onto him, pressed her lips to his. ‘Why do you always answer a question with a question?’
‘Do I?’
‘See what I mean?’ She smiled, as if to make him think she was letting him off the hook, then said, ‘Well? Has anyone ever told you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’re too much of a gentleman to tell me any secrets from your past.’
‘And what about secrets from your past?’
If he had to analyse her reaction, he might have thought it was a warning to back off, a silent Just don’t go there. Instead, he chose to believe that her questioning, their back-and-forth banter, was a form of verbal foreplay. Which seemed to be confirmed when she leaned forward, her breasts against his chest, her lips at his ear, breath warm and rushing as she-
His mobile rang.
‘Leave it,’ she instructed.
But he reached for it, read the screen – Jessie. ‘I have to take this.’
Cooper flexed her thighs, slipped off him and lay by his side.
‘Jessie,’ Gilchrist said. ‘It’s early.’
‘And it’s Friday, and we’ve got a body.’
‘Keep talking.’ Gilchrist held Cooper’s gaze as he listened to Jessie rattle off a sequence of events that began with a call from a Mrs Ferguson in Leuchars. The name rang a faint bell, but he couldn’t place it.
‘We’ve run the registration number through the PNC,’ Jessie said, ‘and the car’s a… hang on, here it is… Jaguar XJ8 Vanden Plas, whatever that is when it’s at home, registered in the name of Stratheden Enterprises Ltd.’
The company name rang a bell, too, but again Gilchrist couldn’t pull it from his memory. Of course, Cooper’s hand on him did not lend itself to clear thought, but a Vanden Plas was a top-of-the-range Jag, suggesting the company had money, or at least the directors did.