Gilchrist waited several seconds, then said, ‘You’ve never told me, Tom, how you heard about Rebecca and me.’
‘Maxwell phoned.’
‘So you know each other?’
‘That’s really none of your business, Andy. But since you ask, yes, we golf together from time to time.’
‘Well, it seems to me that the simplest way to keep this out of the papers is for you to tell your golfing buddy to keep his mouth shut.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘It’s as simple as you want to make it.’
Greaves returned Gilchrist’s stare with a look that could chill blood, then he slapped a hand on his desk. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, just get out of here and get on with it.’
Gilchrist pushed his chair back and stood.
‘And stay away from Cooper’s wife,’ Greaves ordered.
‘You’re forgetting she’s the forensic pathologist on my investigation.’
‘You’re doing it again. Twisting my words. End it, Andy.’
‘Got it,’ Gilchrist snapped.
Greaves smiled up at him, as if at last seeing the funny side of an awkward situation. ‘You always seem to walk on thin ice, Andy. McVicar’s on the phone to me four times a day, and I keep telling him you’re on top of it.’ He shook his head, as if at the absurdity of the conversation. ‘As far as I can make out, the only thing you’ve been on top of is Cooper’s wife.’
‘Cooper’s wife has a name,’ Gilchrist said, struggling to quell a surge of anger that fired with a ferocity that troubled him. ‘And Rebecca doesn’t need to see her private life spread across the pages of any newspaper. You tell your friend, Maxwell fucking Cooper, that if he ever mistreats her again, I’ll come to his front door and arrest him personally.’
‘I’ll pretend I never heard that, Andy.’
‘Pretend all you like, Tom.’
‘Get out.’
Gilchrist closed the door gently behind him.
CHAPTER 18
Night had fallen by the time Gilchrist left the Office. Black clouds dulled a leaden sky. A bitter wind chased him along College Street, compelling him to enter The Central by the side door.
The place was heaving. Bodies swarmed around the bar. Students dressed in lookalike hand-me-downs that probably cost as much as Gilchrist’s leather jacket threw scarves and gloves to the side, as if preparing to get torn in. Tables and booths overflowed with spillage and bodies. He searched for a seat, but ended up squeezing into a standing-room-only spot next to the bar with his back to the windows on Market Street.
He nodded to Phil, who was already pulling him a pint of Deuchars. ‘You’re growing your ponytail back in?’ Gilchrist said.
Phil nodded. ‘It’s too cold without it.’
Gilchrist’s pint arrived creamy-headed. He passed over some change and waited while the IPA settled. He was about to lift it to his lips when a hand tapped his shoulder.
‘Thought I’d find you here, man.’
Pint in hand, he turned to face Jack, his son. ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘Do you only come out when you know your old da’s buying a round?’
‘This one’s on me.’
‘Too late. Already got it.’
Jack laughed and said, ‘Perfect timing, then.’
‘So, what’s with the offer of a drink? You won the Lottery?’
‘Sold one of my sculptures today. I’m feeling flush, man.’
‘For the time being.’
‘There you go again. Mr Negativity. You need to lighten up, Andy. Enjoy yourself. Let your hair down-’
‘Have a pint?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, get me another then,’ Gilchrist said, and took a swig that almost drained it in one. He wiped his lips. ‘You here by yourself?’
‘No.’ Jack nodded to a table in the corner that was stuffed with young women – more girls than women, Gilchrist thought. ‘Want to join us?’
‘If I did, I’d probably have to lift that lot for underage drinking.’
Jack raised both hands in mock-surrender. ‘No way, man. I can vouch for every one of them.’
‘Right,’ Gilchrist said, finishing his pint.
‘Thirsty?’
‘Long day.’
‘You should be cutting back the hours at your age.’
‘Try telling the bad guys that.’
Jack handed Gilchrist a fresh pint of Deuchars. ‘This way.’
Gilchrist followed his son, pleased that he seemed to have put on a bit of weight. Not that Jack was fat by the wildest stretch of the imagination, but he looked less skeletal. His jeans, too, were less worn-in than usual. Maybe he was beginning to make some kind of a living from his painting and sculpting after all.
‘Right, guys,’ Jack announced to the table. ‘I’d like you to meet Andy, the old man. He’s joining us for a beer or two, but don’t let him buy you any drinks, because tonight’s on me.’
The five girls, each with dyed blonde hair and grunge mascara, dressed in black jeans and tops that could have come from the same wardrobe – and probably did – nodded a half-interested hello. Gilchrist had the distinct impression that he was spoiling their fun.
Jack seemed not to notice, and proceeded to introduce each of them by name – too many to take in. Gilchrist responded to each with a nod and a smile. He managed to squeeze in behind the table on a seat next to Jack, who lifted his pint and said, ‘Up yours,’ then tried his best to down it in one.
A barmaid materialised by Gilchrist’s side and handed over a tray of drinks. Jack passed shots and tumblers filled with clear liquid – double Stollie on the rocks caught his attention – into eager hands. ‘Same again,’ said Jack before the barmaid had a chance to leave, and flashed over a fifty.
‘You in a hurry?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘It’ll take her half an hour to get another round,’ Jack assured him, ‘by which time we’ll be gasping.’
Gilchrist watched each of the girls throw back her shot, followed by a grimace and a swipe across the lips. ‘Expensive night,’ he suggested.
‘It’s worth it, though.’
Gilchrist thought it best to hide behind his beer.
Jack lifted his shot and threw it back. ‘Whooee,’ he said, squinting. ‘That had a bite. Would you like one?’
‘I’ll give it a miss,’ Gilchrist said.
The next round came up in less than half an hour – more like ten minutes, by Gilchrist’s reckoning. Jack paid for it and ordered another. As Gilchrist watched the girls knock back their drinks, he tried to recall if he had ever been as foolish with drink. With a surge of regret, he realised he had, and probably far worse.
Jack was speaking to him, but Gilchrist was barely listening – something about his most recent sculpture being sold for a cool five figures, with the likelihood of another three being picked up.
‘What do you think about that, man?’
Gilchrist chinked his pint against Jack’s and said, ‘Well done,’ while trying to catch the essence of a story one of the girls was telling. But he lost track of it in the ambient din of the busy bar.
Much more clear was the impression of how utterly vulnerable women can become once they’ve had a few too many. An ancient memory of a drunken Friday night in the days before he was of legal drinking age came back to him – an ex-friend, John somebody-or-other, who had long since left St Andrews, round the back of the pub, trying to slide his hand inside his girlfriend’s knickers. Gilchrist could not remember the girl’s name, only his own hot flush of panic as he realised she was trying to fight off her boyfriend. Before he knew it, he was rushing in, pulling John back. Then came the shock and disbelief as they both turned on him. His parting memory had been one of muddled confusion.
‘I said you’re falling behind, man. Would you like another?’
Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Too much to do,’ he said.
‘You need to change jobs, man. Find something that doesn’t take so much out of you. I mean, at your age, you should be slowing down.’