But it just seemed so improbable.
Magner had the perfect alibi for Janice’s hit-and-run – a date with a blonde bimbo – and the perfect alibi for the McCulloch murders – a conference in a hotel in Stirling. Given that Magner could not be in two places at one time, on two separate occasions, was it possible that he had an accomplice, someone who did as he was told?
Should all efforts now focus on trying to find that connection?
Or should they concentrate on Stratheden Enterprises, the business common to all five who had died, and the one irrefutable and direct link to Thomas Magner?
Gilchrist flipped the bacon over, added a couple of drops of vinegar into the simmering pot, and gave the water a stir. Then he cracked an egg and slipped it in, and did the same with the other. He peeled the rolls open, slapped some low-fat Lurpak on to them, then checked the time – 08.21.
He called Mhairi.
‘Did Jackie get back to you with details of Stratheden’s first major contract?’ he asked.
‘She did, sir, yes. I don’t have it in front of me, but if memory serves, it was a three-year maintenance contract with Fife Council’s Department of Housing. They really hit the motherlode in the first year, the winter of 1990/91. Three months of snow, high winds, heavy rain and sub-zero temperatures had them working double crews round the clock.’
‘Anything contentious about the contract award?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Jackie’s not come up with anything yet, sir. But if it was contentious, it’s hardly the sort of thing the council would broadcast.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we probably need to talk to someone.’
‘Anyone in mind?’
‘Let me get back to you, sir.’
‘Make it soon.’ He ended the call, and replayed the conversation in his head.
If they found any evidence of Magner handing over brown paper bags stuffed with cash to crooked council officials, at least they would have something – an indication that his business life was as dubious as his personal life. But if Magner and McCulloch had lucked out by landing their first council contract at the perfect time, then where did that take his investigation?
No closer to solving the case as standing on Mars, came the answer.
He was so far off target, he could have been shooting at the wrong bull’s-eye. He had absolutely nothing, and the odds of finding something were worsening with each passing hour. If the investigation was in the same sorry state a week from now, they might as well send the lot straight to cold storage.
His mobile rang – Mhairi again.
‘It doesn’t look good, sir,’ she said. ‘The guy who was director of the Department of Housing when the contract was awarded to Stratheden has since died.’
Gilchrist groaned.
‘But Jackie’s done her usual. Got copies of the minutes of every relevant meeting, highlighted the important sections. You were right, sir. The award was contentious. Stratheden was not the low bidder. Three others tendered lower bids, but all three subsequently withdrew.’
‘Did the Council pull their bid bonds?’
‘I’ll ask Jackie to check it out.’
‘Who was head of the council when Stratheden won the contract?’
‘Hang on, sir.’ Gilchrist caught the sound of paper rustling, then Mhairi’s voice came back with, ‘Jack Russell.’
‘Like the dog?’
‘Yes, sir. Woof, woof.’
You had to laugh, he supposed. But something in the shadows of his mind caused his smile to fade. He had come across that name years before, in a newspaper article about a crime somewhere. Not in Fife. In the Highlands and Islands, perhaps? No, not a crime. Allegations. Sexual allegations. Was that right?
‘Ask Jackie to look into him for me. He’s ringing a bell, but I can’t quite place him.’
‘Will do, sir. Anything else?’
‘Yes. Have her get back within a couple of hours,’ he said, and ended the call.
Next, he called Stan.
‘Bloody hell, boss. What time is it?’
‘Jack Russell, Stan. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Russell? Jack?’ A gush of breath, then, ‘Nothing’s coming to me, boss.’
‘When it does, give me a call.’
He thought of calling Jessie, but she was from Glasgow. Crime in the north of Scotland probably would not have made it on to her radar. Besides, she would have been no more than a teenager at the time. He heard a spark from under the grill, and cursed as he removed the bacon – more crispy than he liked – and placed two rashers on each roll. He drained the water from the eggs – hard-poached, not soft, damn it – and stuffed them into the rolls, too.
He bit into the first roll, heard the bacon crunch, then carried the plate through to the lounge and switched on the computer. Googling the name brought up a host of articles, and as he studied them, his memory cleared.
In the early nineties, Jack Russell had been a rising star in Scottish politics, holding a parliamentary seat in Aberdeen. But his life started to unravel when he began dating Nichola Kelly, an up-and-coming soap-opera actress from Inverness, and filed for divorce from his wife of twelve years. When Jack’s wife refused to go quietly, Jack retaliated with fearsome vengeance, accusing her of having a lover of her own.
The press latched on to him, and nicknamed him ‘The Terrier’.
He was photographed at all hours of the night in various states of drunken revelry, and always with the photogenic Ms Kelly on his arm. In spite – or because – of this, his political ratings soared. It looked as if Jack was still heading for the big-time, when rumours of drugs and swinger parties made the headlines, and his career took a nose-dive that proved terminal. No longer the handsome charmer with the aphrodisiac of political power, Nichola Kelly ditched him for a younger stud.
Gilchrist read on, remembering snippets of news from way back. He had paid little attention to the scandal at the time, but a shiver of horripilation rippled across his skin as the memory of Nichola Kelly’s fatal car accident came back to him.
Another search pulled up more articles on the young actress and her tragic death.
Gilchrist read on, intrigued by the similarities between Janice Meechan’s hit-and-run and Nichola Kelly’s. Except that Nichola’s accident had not been a hit-and-run per se; more of a hit-and-stop. Both Janice and Nichola had been the only occupant of the car, and both had pulled over in the quiet of the countryside. The driver of the vehicle that killed Nichola Kelly – Jason Purvis – was not convicted of causing death by careless or dangerous driving, as it turned out that Nichola was over the limit, and witnesses confirmed she had stumbled into the path of his car.
Nothing particularly striking in any of that, Gilchrist thought.
Except for a newspaper photograph of Purvis on the court steps.
Gilchrist noted the long darkish hair, the square face. But if he half-shut his eyes and imagined shorter hair dyed blond, the similarity to Magner opened up more troubling possibilities.
CHAPTER 21
When Jessie slid into the passenger seat, Gilchrist handed her the printout of the article, then shifted into gear.
‘Nichola Kelly?’ she said. ‘What’s this?’
‘Anything strike you?’
‘She’s a looker. I remember watching that programme – what’s it called? – and thinking I’d love to have hair like hers. And she used to wear these short skirts, and I’m thinking how much I would give to have her legs-’
‘Should I be worried about you?’
Jessie barked a laugh. ‘Try telling Jabba that.’
The mention of CS McKellar wrenched Gilchrist back to the present, reminding him that it was deadline day for Jessie. ‘Have you spoken to him?’ he asked.