‘Already tried, boss. But she has to wait for the bank to open tomorrow.’
Gilchrist almost cursed. ‘Get them first thing, Stan,’ he said, and ended the call.
He wondered what sort of depravity Anne Mills’s photographs would reveal, although he suspected they would be of more use to Billy Whyte’s case than his own. But even so, he now felt that he had turned a corner. He had a connection.
In fact, he had a whole series of connections.
Magner’s late partner’s wife, Amy McCulloch, née Charlotte Renwick, had filed a rape allegation against him, albeit anonymously. Of the other accusers, five had since withdrawn their complaints. And Amy herself had since been murdered.
Magner’s bit on the side – his late partner’s sister-in-law, Janice Meechan – had been killed in a hit-and-run that bore uncanny similarities to another car accident fifteen years earlier in which Nichola Kelly had died. And Nichola’s ex-lover might well have pulled the strings in the award of a major local-government contract to Magner’s company.
Magner’s first wife, Sheila Ramsay, had died after just four years of marriage, and left a hefty life insurance payout that Magner used as start-up funding for Stratheden Enterprises. His second wife, Anne Mills – who left him after only two years – possessed a series of sexually explicit photographs with which she had kept him at arm’s length for almost two decades.
The answer to his investigation had to lie somewhere in the midst of all this sexual, political and familial entanglement. Gilchrist was sure of it. His thoughts crackled through the possibilities, and he removed the printout from Jessie’s grip and eyed the photograph again.
The man on the court steps – Jason Purvis.
He pulled the image closer. The resemblance between Purvis and Magner could be coincidence. But if you did not believe in coincidences…?
He slapped the photograph.
‘Get on to Jackie for an address,’ he said. ‘We need to talk to Purvis.’
CHAPTER 22
Back in the Office, by 10 a.m. Gilchrist could not shift the feeling that his investigation was almost stalling again. McVicar had been on the phone to Greaves, who in turn called Gilchrist for an update. But after bringing Greaves up to speed, he received only a snort of derision. He and Greaves had once enjoyed a strong professional relationship, but ever since Greaves missed out on promotion about a year ago, he seemed to take out his disappointment on Gilchrist at every opportunity. When Greaves ended the call with a curse, Gilchrist was hard pressed not to call him straight back and tell him where to shove it.
Then Stan phoned with the disappointing news that both Anne Mills and Vicky Kelvin had just confirmed they had never met. They could both be lying, of course, but why would they?
The prospect of a break came when Jessie’s mobile beeped receipt of an email.
‘It’s from Jackie,’ she said.
On account of her disability, Jackie was the only civilian researcher permitted to work mostly from home, as long as she put in a couple of appearances at the Office each week. And no one could ever accuse her of slacking, especially on a Sunday morning.
‘Anything?’ Gilchrist asked, accessing his own email account.
‘Give me a minute.’ Jessie scanned down the tiny screen as fast as she could, then said, ‘Listen to this. Purvis has form. In 1980, he was sentenced to twelve years after being found guilty of rape and attempted murder. Spent time in Peterhead, and was released after serving six years-’
‘So that would be 1986?’
‘Where’s a calculator when you need one?’
Gilchrist felt a thrill of excitement. Stratheden Enterprises was launched in 1986.
Jackie’s email opened up on his screen and he scrolled down the page. ‘After his release, Purvis moved to England. First to Newcastle for five years, then York for two, then London for four. In each of these cities he was questioned over the disappearance of three women – in 1990, ’92 and ’94. But he wasn’t charged for any of the incidents due to lack of evidence.’
‘He must have returned to Scotland at some point,’ Jessie said, ‘if he was involved in Nichola Kelly’s fatal accident.’ She read on. ‘Born in Aberdeen in 1954. Mother and father both unidentified. Raised in an orphanage. Seems not to have had a normal family life. Worked on the rigs from ’74 to ’79-’
Gilchrist shot a look at Jessie. ‘The same time period as Magner. Did they work for the same company?’
‘It doesn’t say. But I’ll get that checked out.’
‘Here’s the address,’ he said. ‘We’re in luck. Cauldwood Cottage, Ceres.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A few miles outside Cupar,’ said Gilchrist, clicking the mouse. He was already halfway to the printer as it whirred into action. ‘Jackie’s provided a location map for the cottage,’ he said, grabbing the sheet and folding it in half.
‘She’s also provided a mobile phone number.’
‘Don’t call it,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Let’s pay Purvis a surprise visit.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that I’d like to talk to him. Does that work?’
‘That works.’
They both took the stairs two at a time.
Despite the map, Gilchrist took a couple of wrong turns and had to perform a tyre-spinning three-sixty before they arrived at Jason Purvis’s cottage about six miles south-east of Cupar. The building sat no more than eight feet from the edge of the road. A parcel of land bordering the side of the cottage appeared to double as waste ground.
Gilchrist slowed to a crawl at a wooden sign fixed to the stone wall – ‘Cauldwood Cottage’ – then drove past, noting that the gravel driveway by the gable end was clear of parked cars, although damp tracks where tyres had splashed through puddles suggested that a vehicle had only recently driven away.
He pulled off the road and on to the grass verge beyond, and eyed the place.
‘Looks like it could use a coat or three of paint,’ Jessie said.
The cottage looked solid enough, its old stone walls darkened by grit and dirt thrown up by passing vehicles. A hawthorn hedgerow in need of a cut tried to define the front boundary. The property seemed to comprise about fifty yards roadside frontage, and an open area to the back that had to be at least two hundred yards deep.
‘Let’s see if anyone’s in,’ Jessie said, and opened the car door.
The wind seemed to tumble across the open fields, buffeting hedges and bushes as if trying to shake them down. A row of mature pine trees that bordered one side of the property swayed as if the land itself were rocking. The back garden was nothing more than brown grass flattened by rain and wind, a desolate patch that stretched all the way to the distant back border, where a wooden barn sat in dire need of painting. Even from where he stood, Gilchrist could see that a chain-link fence surrounded the building. He might not have paid the barn any attention, except that he caught movement in the grass in front of it. The hairs on the nape of his neck rose as first one Rottweiler, then another, rose to their feet and stared at them with silent malevolence.
He turned away from the dogs and watched Jessie place her hand to the kitchen window and peer inside. ‘Looks neat and tidy,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think anyone’s in.’
Gilchrist walked to the door, tried the handle – locked – pressed the doorbell. He heard nothing. He rang the bell again, then rapped his knuckles against the wood. He took a couple of paces back, glanced up at a slate roof devoid of skylights, which told him they could search the house in its entirety simply by looking through each of the windows.
He peered through the nearest one. Wooden flooring stretched from the rear to the front of the cottage, as if two original rooms had been knocked into one. Rugs that could have come from an Egyptian bazaar coloured the floor in stripes of yellows, blues, reds. Abstract paintings littered the walls, their indeterminate subject matter reminding Gilchrist of his son Jack’s work. Purvis seemed to have a taste for colour.