‘They were in bed.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he said, irritated by the speed of Jessie’s tongue. ‘He’s telling us that we’re looking for a man with a hatred of’ – he was going to say women, but that was wrong – ‘one particular woman. Amy McCulloch.’
‘So it’s a revenge killing. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Could be.’
‘But revenge for what?’
‘Therein lies the problem,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Listen, you’re keeping me back. I need to put my face on.’
‘I’ll be with you in ten-’
‘Make it fifteen, unless you want a scare.’
‘Could you go a Starbucks?’
‘Now you’re talking.’
‘Latte in fifteen?’
‘And no sugar.’
With that, she hung up.
It was closer to twenty-five minutes by the time Gilchrist pulled into the kerb outside Jessie’s semi-detached in Canongate. Her little Fiat, brand new and hardly used, sat parked by the back door. For the first two months after joining Fife Constabulary and moving to St Andrews from Glasgow, Jessie and her son Robert had lodged with a friend of hers, Angie, in Forgan Place. Their move to a home of their own three weeks ago seemed to have done wonders for Jessie’s spirits. Or maybe it was Robert’s imminent cochlear implant operation, and the promise that her boy would finally hear, after being deaf from birth, that had pulled her out of the doldrums. Confirmation that the operation would be covered by the NHS had been the icing on the top.
No sooner had Gilchrist shifted into neutral than the back door opened and Jessie scarpered down the drive, hand at her neck, head tucked into her chest, hiding from the wind.
The door opened, followed by a rush of ice-cold air and Jessie saying, ‘Fuck.’
‘Good morning to you, too.’ He slipped into gear. ‘Coffee’s in the holder.’
She removed it, peeled back the lid, and said, ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘A morning kiss?’
‘Just drive, will you?’
He waited until he turned left at the West Port roundabout and was accelerating along Argyle Street before asking, ‘How’s the coffee?’
‘Wet and hot. How’s the head? You look like shite.’
‘Surprised you noticed.’
‘With dog’s balls for eyes? Who wouldn’t?’
‘I’m getting too old for it all now.’
‘Men never learn.’
Gilchrist could not fail to catch the venom in the word men. He kept his speed at a steady thirty as he eased on to Strathkinness Low Road. He thought he knew the reason for Jessie’s change of mood and edged into it with, ‘So, Lachie called?’
‘Fat prick.’
‘Maybe he should go on a diet.’
‘Maybe he should jump in the Clyde.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘How about we talk about Veronica Lake instead?’
‘I don’t think Rebecca looks remotely like Veronica Lake-’
‘No, Veronica Lake’s dead. With Jabba on the hunt, I could be so lucky.’
Gilchrist thought silence was the best option, so he took a sip of latte. It was still warm, and did wonders for the turmoil in his stomach. His hangover was diminishing, and pangs of hunger nibbled at his innards. Beyond the junction to Strathkinness, he depressed the pedal and nudged the speed to sixty, then seventy, and held it there.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ he said.
‘You can have them for free if you promise to take Jabba for the day.’
‘Ah,’ Gilchrist said. ‘So he’s going to spend the day in sunny St Andrews?’
‘Not just the day. The whole bloody weekend, so he tells me. Jesus, Andy, what the hell is it with men?’
Once again, he chose silence. Chief Superintendent Lachlan McKellar of Strathclyde Police – or Jabba the Hutt, as Jessie preferred to call him – had a thing for Jessie. As far as Gilchrist knew, they’d had a brief fling, which Jessie immediately regretted, ending their affair before it started. But Lachie did not know the meaning of the word no and pestered Jessie until she finally transferred to Fife, which did little to dampen Lachie’s ardour. His recent threats to leave his wife had finished it for Jessie, and now she wanted nothing more to do with the man. End of.
Five minutes later, Gilchrist tried again. ‘Has he left his wife, then?’
‘She flung him out, more like.’
‘So, he’s up for grabs?’
‘Grab-hooks, I hope. Then over the side with the fat blob.’
‘What does Robert think about all of this?’
‘What is it with you this morning? Robert’s off limits. You know that. I don’t go asking about your family, so don’t go asking about mine. Why don’t you just stick to driving the car and getting over your hangover?’
‘I’m feeling better, I have to tell you.’
‘Well, it must be contagious. I feel like shite now.’
‘You’ll perk up once you get your teeth into Chief Super Whyte.’
She chuckled and shook her head, which had Gilchrist frowning at her, wondering what the joke was. Chief Superintendent Billy Whyte was the SIO in the Thomas Magner rape investigation. He worked out of Glenrothes HQ, and was scheduled to meet Gilchrist and Jessie at 10 a.m.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ she said. ‘Well, actually, I remembered last night, but I didn’t want to spoil your evening.’ She tried to tease him with silence for five long seconds, but he refused to bite. ‘Chief Super Whyte asked me if the meeting was really necessary.’
‘Why would he say that?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘Billy and I go back years.’
‘That’s what he said.’
Maybe he was still hung over, his brain too befuddled from its recent dose of alcohol to work out the obvious, but he could not think of any reason why Billy Whyte would not want to meet him. ‘You’ve lost me,’ he said.
‘Does the name Logan mean anything to you?’
Gilchrist shot a glance at Jessie.
‘Well, that brought the colour back to your cheeks,’ she said.
‘Don’t tell me…’
‘Afraid so.’
Gilchrist gritted his teeth as he waited for Jessie to confirm his fears.
‘DI Carol Logan’, she said, ‘is assisting Chief Super William Whyte in the Thomas Magner case.’
‘Ah, shit,’ Gilchrist said, tightening his grip on the wheel.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Jessie said. ‘A fucked-up weekend for both of us.’
CHAPTER 10
Gilchrist drove on in silence, the memory of that evening flickering back to life.
Lafferty’s on South Street, and deep into a Saturday night. It had seemed such an innocent comment for him to make: ‘Are you coming on to me?’ Well, Logan had bumped into him and caused him to spill his drink, and he had meant the question as nothing more than a bit of banter between colleagues. But the flash of anger on her face warned him she had missed the point.
So, he apologised. Mistake number one.
‘I seen what you done.’
The voice from behind surprised him, from a woman he had never seen before.
‘You touched her up. I seen you.’
‘I’m not that desperate,’ Gilchrist said, regretting the quip the instant it spilled from his mouth. Mistake number two.
He retreated to the corner of the bar with his pint, and tried to catch Logan’s eye when she and her friends left for the evening. But she was having none of it. And that should have been the end of that.
But it wasn’t.
Logan had witnesses – four women who swore they had overheard Gilchrist’s sexual innuendo and seen him brush his hand over her breasts. Gilchrist was interviewed – more like interrogated – by Complaints and Discipline for over two hours, and it took the intervention of Chief Superintendent McKay from HQ, and the promise of a recommendation for promotion to DI, to persuade Logan to drop her complaint.
Since then, Gilchrist had not set eyes on her.