‘Doesn’t he know you’ve just moved?’
‘It’s not about moving. It’s about control.’
Gilchrist took a mouthful of chips and scooped up some beans, more to prevent himself from cursing than for epicurean pleasure.
‘I told him I’d think about it.’
‘Sounds like he’s given you an ultimatum.’
Jessie nodded. ‘He says he needs to know by the end of the weekend.’
‘That’s tomorrow.’
‘Clever you.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘The agent’s taken the property off the market to give him time to come up with the deposit. So he says.’
‘And if you don’t agree, you’ll be charged with resetting?’
‘Again, it’s not as simple as that. Lachie can be right sneaky.’
Gilchrist read the helplessness in her eyes and could tell she was close to tears; maybe even close to giving up altogether. The echo of her words on Tentsmuir Beach the previous morning came back to him – I sometimes struggle with it all – and he thought he understood her dilemma. She had applied for a transfer from Strathclyde to Fife – Glasgow to St Andrews – to escape the criminality of her own family and to end whatever relationship Lachie imagined he had with her. She had told him repeatedly that she wanted nothing more to do with him, but still he had come after her. If only they could pursue criminals with such vigour, he thought.
‘So, what’s he threatening to do?’ he asked.
Jessie’s eyes filled with tears, but she took a deep breath and wiped them away.
Then his phone rang. Cooper again. This time he scowled at the screen.
‘Answer it,’ Jessie said. ‘I’m going nowhere. Not yet, anyway.’
He made the connection. ‘Becky?’
‘I’m in Market Street.’
He looked out the window, his gaze scanning the passers-by, but he failed to see her.
‘I’m about to step into Costa Coffee. We need to talk.’
‘I’m in the-’
The connection died.
Gilchrist rose to his feet.
‘Problems?’ Jessie asked.
He tried to make light of it by answering, ‘More than likely,’ but he knew it took a lot to ruffle Cooper’s feathers, and from the tone of her voice she sounded plucked and ready for the stuffing.
He shuffled past patrons at the bar, stepped into the bitter chill of Market Street, and prepared himself for the worst.
CHAPTER 14
Gilchrist found Cooper sitting on a sofa in the rear of the coffeeshop.
She looked pale, her eyes tired, as if she had not slept, or perhaps been crying – which would be a first. He smiled as he sat opposite, and had to stifle a stab of hurt as she withdrew her hands from the table and placed them on her lap, as if defining a new boundary in their relationship, now that Mr Cooper had returned – to claim his conjugal rights, no less.
‘Have you ordered?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Would you like something?’
Another shake of the head. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun that accentuated the blue sharpness of her eyes, the sculpted lines of her cheekbones. In an artistic sense, the look suited her. But he preferred loose curls, if ever asked.
Silent, he waited.
‘I hate him,’ she said at length.
‘So leave him.’
‘I wish it were that simple.’
If only his own marriage had proved so difficult to terminate. An image of Gail in tears, storming from the marital home, tugging Maureen and Jack behind her, arced across his mind with a ferocity that caused him to blink. It took the recollection of the front door slamming before he managed to chase the picture away.
‘It’s as simple as you want it to be,’ he tried.
‘You don’t know anything about my relationship with Maxwell,’ she snapped, ‘so please don’t pretend that you do.’
Well, there he had it. Back only one day and already Mr Cooper elevated to Maxwell. Did that mean her marriage had entered a new phase? Or was she simply personalising her husband to distance herself from her forlorn lover? The ensuing silence had Gilchrist thinking that the short outburst had drained her.
‘Ending my own marriage was painful,’ he said at length. ‘But looking back, I only wonder why it took us so long to reach the point of no return.’
‘I’ll have that coffee now,’ she said. ‘Espresso. Hot milk on the side.’
At the counter, he contemplated texting Jessie to tell her he would meet her later. But the way Cooper was behaving, she could be on her way home to Maxwell before he even delivered her espresso. When he returned with the tray, the sofa was empty. For a moment he thought she had indeed left, but then he noticed her jacket and scarf draped over the arm. He laid the tray on the table, espresso and milk in its centre, and lifted his own latte. Better to share time over a coffee, he thought, than to have her thinking she was preventing him from returning to The Central to finish his pint. Which had him puzzling why she had not wanted to meet him there – they could even call it their local. Maybe she had seen him inside with Jessie, and felt a need to talk to him in private.
Movement at the back door caught his attention, and he was surprised to see Cooper pushing it open, mobile still in hand. Without a word, she reclaimed her seat and stared at her coffee. He thought of pouring the milk for her, then realised he didn’t know how she took espresso. Until then, she had always ordered latte with no sugar, the way he liked it.
Had she done that just to make it easy for him?
He reached for the milk jug. ‘Shall I play Mum?’
She said nothing as he poured and stirred. Then he sat back and lifted his latte to his lips. Cooper reached for her drink with both hands, her fingers squeezing the cup tight.
‘Maxwell’s going to talk to Greaves,’ she said, then took a sip.
‘About what?’
‘Come on, Andy, don’t play dumb.’
‘Is he going to confess that he has marital problems?’
‘You have this extremely irritating way of talking in questions.’
‘So what do you want me to ask?’
She glared at him, and for the first time since she had taken over from Bert Mackie as head of Forensic Pathology at Dundee University, he saw how formidable an opponent she could be. He had always believed that Mr Cooper – man of the world, philanderer about town and overseas – gave out more than he got in that marriage. Now he was not so sure.
‘Okay. Tell me why you’re worried about your husband talking to Chief Super Greaves.’
‘You don’t know Maxwell,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t do half-measures.’
Gilchrist was unsure what she meant by that, but found himself reluctant to ask. ‘I’m already in Greaves’s bad books,’ he said. ‘And I don’t see me getting out of them any time soon.’
‘No. But I could lose my job.’
‘Ah.’ Now they were getting down to it. Nothing to do with what Greaves might say to Gilchrist, but everything to do with how his affair with a married woman, Fife’s foremost forensic pathologist, might impact on her career. Rather than rising to the bait, he decided to be awkward. ‘I could lose mine, too.’
‘After what you’ve got away with in the past?’ Her lips creased into a wry smile and she took another sip of coffee.
He waited until she returned the cup to the table before saying, ‘What are you not telling me, Becky?’
She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Nothing.’
‘Now who’s acting dumb?’
Her eyes flared, making him think she was about to storm out. But she reached for her coffee again, clutching the cup with both hands as if seeking warmth. Well, it was chilly outside.
‘Would you like another one?’ he asked.
She shook her head, an act that looked strange without the benefit of long hair. He missed her curls, and fought off the oddest urge to reach out and undo her bun. ‘One’s enough,’ she replied. ‘I’ll be twitching all evening if I have two of these.’