‘Andy, he’s back.’
Gilchrist jumped to his feet, closed the wooden door that concealed the washer, and stepped towards Jessie as the back door opened.
‘Find anything of interest?’ Purvis asked.
Jessie said, ‘Tea’s up.’
Purvis eyed the mugs on the countertop, the plate of biscuits, the kitchen cabinets one by one, his eyes missing nothing as they shifted from one cabinet to the other. Then his gaze found Jessie and hung on her for a moment, before drifting over her shoulder to settle on Gilchrist.
‘Do you own a gun?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘No.’
‘I can apply for a search warrant and come back later, if you’d prefer.’
Purvis said nothing for a long moment, then walked into the living room. He opened a drawer in a corner-table and removed a key, which he handed to Gilchrist.
‘What’s this?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘It’s Jimmy’s.’ Purvis nodded to a small door on the wall next to the fireplace, which Gilchrist had assumed contained the fuse box. ‘Look in there,’ he said.
Gilchrist inserted the key and the lock clicked. He pulled the door open to reveal two twelve-bore shotguns and a rifle.
‘Any of these yours?’ he asked Purvis.
‘I told you. They’re Jimmy’s.’
‘You got proof of that?’
Purvis walked to an ornate wooden chest in the middle of the room, which doubled as a coffee table. He released the clip-lock and lifted the lid, then retrieved a folder from deep inside.
Silent, Gilchrist waited.
Purvis handed him several slips of paper, and a quick scan confirmed that the rifle and both shotguns were registered to Mr James Watson of Cauldwood Cottage.
‘Satisfied?’ Purvis asked, holding out a hand for the key and gun licences.
‘I’d like to see the paperwork for the BMW, too.’
‘Why?’
‘A similar car was involved in a fatal hit-and-run accident last night.’
‘I was in Edinburgh last night.’
‘I never said where the accident occurred.’
‘You’re with Fife Constabulary,’ Purvis replied without missing a beat. ‘Edinburgh’s Lothian, not Fife, so you wouldn’t be involved if the accident happened there.’
The speed of Purvis’s response told Gilchrist he was dealing with someone with a quick mind who was not afraid to challenge police authority. More troubling was that Purvis had a violent criminal record and ready access to a cache of weapons, even though they were purportedly licensed to the mysterious Jimmy Watson, whose presence so far was nothing short of ghost-like.
‘Do you have proof you were in Edinburgh?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘What sort of proof?’
‘Restaurant bills, hotel receipts-’
‘I do cash. Not credit cards.’
‘Earn a lot, do you?’
‘Enough to get by, yeah.’
‘Where were you this afternoon?’
Purvis narrowed his eyes, as if a seed of doubt had entered his mind. Or perhaps he had just worked out that Gilchrist must have visited the cottage earlier in the day.
‘In Cupar,’ he said. ‘Shopping.’
‘Go there often?’
‘Only when I need to buy food.’
‘What did you buy?’
‘Look in the fridge. You’ll see. Milk, yogurt, cheese, butter, bread.’
‘Show me,’ Gilchrist said, and followed Purvis back into the kitchen.
Jessie asked, ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Don’t push it,’ Purvis replied, and leaned down to open the fridge.
Gilchrist glanced inside and noted the contents – exactly as described. ‘What about laundry?’
Purvis closed the fridge door. ‘What about it?’
‘Do any at home?’
Purvis looked at Jessie and said, ‘Does he always do this? Act the fool?’ He turned to Gilchrist. ‘Washing machine’s behind you. You’ve already had a look. But go ahead and have another.’
Gilchrist glanced at the cabinets and, sure enough, the door that hid the washing machine had sprung open just a touch. ‘What are you washing?’ he asked.
‘I usually wash clothes in my washing machine. What do you wash? Your dick?’
The question lay between them like foul-smelling smog.
‘Do you have a number for Jimmy Watson?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Off the top of my head, no.’
‘So how do you get hold of him?’
‘He gets hold of me.’
‘You don’t worry that he’ll run off with your Beemer?’
Purvis narrowed his eyes, as if seeing the danger in Gilchrist for the first time. His lips pressed tight together, and anger worked across his face. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’
Gilchrist decided to press harder. ‘What do you keep in the barn?’ he asked.
‘My private collection of classic cars. What d’you think?’
Purvis’s answer was intended as a lie, and Gilchrist said, ‘Not good enough.’
‘Too true, mate, it’s not good enough.’ Purvis slipped a mobile out of his back pocket and said, ‘Chat’s over. I’m calling my solicitor. You want to talk to me again, book me with something, then we can have a formal talk down at the station.’ He turned his back on Gilchrist and walked into the living room.
Jessie caught Gilchrist’s eye and shook her head. He could tell she was still nervous from the dogs. And Purvis’s bully-boy manner had not helped. But that aside, Gilchrist had found nothing to suggest that Purvis had anything to do with the murder of Linda James. The irritating fact – or irritating lie – was that the BMW had been lent to a friend. If it was not on the premises – as a reflex, Gilchrist turned his head in the direction of the barn – then it really could be anywhere, and impossible to find.
His mobile rang – Stan. He took the call, aware of Purvis talking to someone – presumably his solicitor – in the other room.
‘I’ve got the photographs, boss.’ A pause, then, ‘I think you need to see them.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Heading to the Office. Should be there in about ten minutes.’
‘We’ll meet you there,’ Gilchrist said, and ended the call.
He walked through to the living room.
Purvis was still on his mobile, his voice little more than a whisper, as if not wanting to be overheard. At the sight of Gilchrist, he stopped and pressed his hand to the mouthpiece. ‘Why don’t you come right on in?’ he said.
Gilchrist handed him one of his business cards. ‘We can’t stay. Thanks for the tea. Have Jimmy Watson call me the moment you hear from him.’
Purvis stared at the card, as if deciding whether to rip it up now or later.
He chose later, and Gilchrist retreated back to the kitchen.
Outside, neither he nor Jessie uttered a word until they were inside the car.
‘He scares me,’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist slipped into reverse and eased out of the driveway. ‘It’s the dogs that are scaring you,’ he said. ‘Not Purvis. Without the dogs, Purvis is just another cocky bastard trying to act hard.’ He knew it was a lie even as he said the words.
Purvis was more than just a nasty piece of work. He was a narcissistic psychopath with obsessive compulsive disorder. The neatness of his home, the assured confidence when under interrogation, the arrogant belief that he was above the law and better than those who served it, all told Gilchrist that. But he had not failed to catch the one question that triggered the end of the interview – What do you keep in the barn?
‘Can you take me home first?’ Jessie asked.
‘Problems?’
‘I need to change my knickers.’
Gilchrist glanced at her, but she was looking out the window. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Back there, when you said… you know… I thought you were joking.’
‘No joke,’ she said. ‘And it’ll be no joke either if Jabba’s waiting for me.’
‘He hasn’t called today, has he?’