And so was his investigation. An early debriefing with the teams, followed by almost two hours with Greaves, most of which had been a waste of time, meant that Gilchrist had scarcely discussed the day’s events with Stan and the others. Although he trusted Maureen, and shown her details of previous cases, for some reason he did not want her involved in the massacre of the McCullochs.
He gripped his pint and asked, ‘So, how’s Jon?’
‘Wouldn’t know. I hardly see him these days.’
‘I thought you liked him.’
‘I thought so, too,’ she agreed. Her next sip of wine almost drained the glass.
Well, that put an end to that. Like father, like daughter, he thought. Or maybe like father, like family was more correct.
In the several years leading up to their separation, Gail had cut back on her alcohol intake. He had since wondered if her sobriety had contributed to their break-up. Maybe through sober eyes she had seen what a failure he had been as a husband and father, which in turn had encouraged her to have the affair with Harry.
He almost felt relieved when Jessie reappeared.
‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’m ready to chew nails.’
‘Ouch,’ said Mhairi.
‘There are never enough stools when you want one,’ Jessie said, looking around.
‘That’s ’cause it’s Friday and the bar’s busy.’
‘Who’s a clever Stan? Can I squeeze in beside you, Andy?’
Gilchrist took his chance and said, ‘My turn.’ He stood, mobile already in hand, and left Jessie to take his chair. Without another word, he threaded through the crowd and exited by the side door on to College Street.
Outside, the air felt raw, as if the temperature had plummeted ten degrees. A bitter wind brushed the cobbles, and he turned his back to it as he made the call. A gull screeched from the black skies above Church Street as he counted five rings, then six. He was about to hang up when Cooper answered.
‘I’ll give you a call back,’ she snapped.
The line died before he had time to respond.
He returned the mobile to his pocket and eyed the entrance to the bar. If Maureen had not been inside, he would have walked to the Merc and driven straight to his cottage in Crail. As it was, he returned inside with a heavy heart, saddened by the knowledge that Cooper would be sharing her bed with her undeserving husband that night.
CHAPTER 9
Morning hit Gilchrist with the sickening pain of a thudding headache. He lay still for several seconds, struggling to pull his mind from the dark cobwebs of sleep, before daring to open his eyes. The familiar twin skylights assured him he was at home in his own bed. He flapped an arm to the side, felt only cold emptiness. He rolled over and stared at the pillow.
No Cooper.
Memories of last night came back to him in fluttering moments of clarity intertwined with clouds of emptiness as dark as space. He remembered the others departing – Jackie with her crutches; Jessie leaving with her, and helping her to the door; Stan and Mhairi not long after, trying not to look like a couple, but failing comically.
Then it had been just the two of them, daughter and father.
He closed his eyes and counted two more pints of Deuchars, followed by two – or was it three? – Glenfiddichs, while a carefree Maureen kept easy pace alongside, downing four large glasses of wine, maybe five. So much for having only the one. He cursed himself for being too lenient. Just like her mother, once Maureen started, she did not want to stop until the bottle was finished. Gilchrist tried to convince himself that she was just a young woman with a tortured memory who liked the mental release that a hefty dose of alcohol gave every now and again. She did not do drugs – or so she told him, and he chose to believe her – so he reckoned the occasional heavy session was not all that bad.
As his memory peeled back the previous night’s events layer by misted layer, he remembered dropping Maureen off at her flat – he escorted her upstairs, made sure she got inside safe and sound – then driving back to Crail rather than abandoning the Merc and taking a taxi.
But it had not ended there.
Once home, he tried to make sense of what they had achieved so far and made a list for the following days. But like the fool alcohol often made of him, he opened a bottle of The Balvenie and poured himself a double Doublewood, or maybe a treble, and maybe even more than one.
Then came the recollection of calling Cooper, which had him groaning at the memory.
‘I said I would call you back.’
‘I know, but I thought you might like to-’
She hung up, and that should have been that. But, on impulse, he dialled her number again, only for it to be answered by a man’s voice telling him it was late and to stop calling his wife. Gilchrist did not hang up. Instead, he held on to the call in silence. The stalemate lasted all of ten seconds, after which Gilchrist took drunken pleasure from the fact that Mr Cooper ended the call first.
Christ, just the memory of it brought a hot flush to his face.
He dragged himself from bed and just about managed to make it to the bathroom without throwing up. A scalding shave and a shower long enough to flood the bath did little to ease the headache, but he was able to keep down a mug of tea and a half-slice of unbuttered toast, followed by four Panadols that dulled the edge of the pain.
On the stroll to the Merc, it felt more like mid-winter than early March. An icy wind cold enough to bite the fingers off you, blasted in from the sea as if in advance of a hurricane. Or, as the Scottish meteorologists tended to say, gusty winds and scattered showers. They could be broadcasting hurricane alerts around the globe with winds as strong as these, but in Scotland it was business as usual.
He waited until he drove through Kingsbarns before calling Jessie.
She answered with, ‘Are you never late?’
‘We’ve a meeting in Glenrothes this morning, remember?’
‘I know, Andy. You reminded me fifty million times last night. Talking of which, how’s your head? When I left, you looked as if you’d settled in for the night.’
‘My head’s fine,’ he lied. ‘But I’d feel a lot better if Jackie had been able to find an MO that at least bore some resemblance to the… the…’ He let the words die.
‘Do you ever think’, she said, ‘that we might have got it wrong? That it doesn’t necessarily have to be a serial killer?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Or that we don’t know we’re dealing with a serial killer until the MO shows up at least another two times.’
‘So you’re saying this might be a first?’
‘Serial killers have to start somewhere,’ she said. ‘If there was an identical MO out there, Jackie would have found it. So, if we don’t have anything similar from any other case in the country, then, yes, it probably is a first.’
The first of a serial killer’s victims? It was a plausible theory, but why did he not believe it? This killer had killed before. He was sure of it. But with nothing more than gut instinct, he knew he had little chance of convincing others.
He stared at the road ahead. In all his thirty-odd years with Fife Constabulary, he had never witnessed such a brutal crime scene. He had seen some horrific deaths in his time, but an image of the bloodied bathroom floor hit him with such clarity that he almost had to pull over. He tugged the steering wheel as a gust of wind buffeted the car. Away to his right, windswept surf painted strips of white on a blackened sea. The horizon flickered grey and blue, dangling the promise of a calmer day before his hurting eyes. For all anyone knew in Scotland, it could be warm enough to barbecue that evening.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘It’s too…’ He struggled for the words, then found them. ‘It’s too thorough. Too targeted. Too precise.’
‘The girls, you mean?’
‘Yes. Not a hair out of place. All tucked up like he’s put them to bed.’