‘How’s the arm?’
‘Still sore, but getting better.’
‘It’ll take time to heal,’ Greaves said. ‘Fortunately, that’s something you’ll have a lot of.’
‘Sir?’
‘Your maverick approach has caught up with you at last, Andy. Big Archie wants a word.’ Greaves’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, or victory – it was difficult to tell. ‘Nine o’clock. His office,’ he added.
Gilchrist pursed his lips. Assistant Chief Constable Archie McVicar, a fair man, but a tough man to deal with if you ever crossed him. Not that Gilchrist had, or so he thought, but he could not shift the worry that McVicar’s urgent call would result in his being suspended. No matter how he tried to cut it, the facts were that Stan had been killed, and Gilchrist had been the Senior Investigating Officer. The more he thought about it, the more he came to see that suspension was the least of his troubles. Greaves’s grimace for a smile almost confirmed it for him.
‘I’ll give ACC McVicar a call, sir,’ Gilchrist said.
‘He’s expecting you in his office within the hour.’
‘Sir?’
‘I told him you would be there.’
Well, there he had it. Ordered about like a dumb puppy. He let several seconds of silence pass before he nodded to Jessie, then turned and walked back to the cottage.
He thought of trying to postpone the meeting with McVicar by pretending he had another hospital appointment. But Greaves would revel in the prospect of drilling him a new arsehole if he tried that. Still, he had too many unanswered questions in his investigation just to be pushed to the side, and in the end he decided to tackle the devil head on.
He wangled a lift to Glenrothes HQ with Nora Wells, a young WPC from the Anstruther Office. On the drive there, he was struck by her resemblance to his daughter – dark hair, brown eyes, smooth skin, slim to the point of skinny.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Sorry? Yeah. I’m fine. Why?’
‘You keep looking at me.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said. ‘It’s just… you remind me of someone.’
They continued the journey in silence, with Gilchrist sinking ever deeper into gloom. He did what he could to shift the spectre of suspension from his mind, but it refused to budge, so he tried to look on the bright side. It would give him time to help Maureen do up her flat – papering, painting, tiling, even tackling the new kitchen flooring he’d promised to lay for her. He shifted in his seat from a stab of pain, as if his body were reminding him he had only one arm in working order, and handyman jobs required two.
He sank back into misery.
WPC Wells pulled up in the car park at Glenrothes, then sped off before he had time to thank her, leaving him with the feeling that he was upsetting everyone that day. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets, and walked towards the meeting with McVicar.
He could always strike first, he supposed, and just hand in his notice.
CHAPTER 43
McVicar remained seated as Gilchrist entered his office.
‘Take a seat, Andy,’ he ordered.
Silent, Gilchrist obliged, pulling out one of two chairs set in front of a polished desk devoid of clutter. Just like the man’s thinking, he thought – clear, concise.
McVicar pressed himself into the back of his chair, as if trying to distance himself from something unhealthy. Then he eyed the hospital sling, giving Gilchrist the impression that he was trying to work out if it would heal before or after his suspension was over. When he shifted his gaze to one of his fry-you-in-your-seat stares, the answer was before.
Gilchrist found himself struggling to return the look.
‘Fiasco,’ McVicar said, his voice booming in the small room. ‘Unmitigated disaster.’ He shook his head, causing his jowls to shudder. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard these words from Chief Superintendent Greaves this morning.’
Gilchrist chose silence.
‘You have an unhealthy habit of alienating those above you, Andy. And this… this… maverick attitude of yours – another phrase I’ve heard far too often today – lands you in trouble time and time again.’ He growled, cleared his throat. ‘But you know all that, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Agreeing seemed as good a response as any.
McVicar lowered his head, as if to study Gilchrist over a pair of imaginary specs. ‘And we lost a good man last night,’ he said.
Gilchrist felt his lips tighten, his eyes nip. He blinked once, twice, then let out a heavy breath. ‘Yes, sir. We did. Stan was unarmed when he was shot in cold blood by Thomas Magner, more or less at point-blank range.’
‘You were there?’
‘Yes, sir. DS Janes, too.’ He worried all of a sudden that Jessie might not recite the same story – that Stan had done nothing to instigate his death – and made a mental note to brief her as soon as he could.
McVicar’s eyes seemed to have lost their ability to blink. He stared at Gilchrist, as if trying to will his thoughts to his lips. ‘Detective Sergeant Jessica Harriet Janes,’ he said, as if reading from a script. ‘She said you saved her life.’
Gnashing teeth and snarling growls flared into Gilchrist’s mind with a flashback that shook him. It took the memory of Purvis dropping his mobile phone to the barn floor and raising his shotgun to force the image away. ‘I think she has that the wrong way round, sir.’
‘And you saved WPC McBride’s life, I hear.’
Gilchrist returned a blank stare while he worked out that Jessie must have mentioned all of this to Greaves, who had passed it on to McVicar. But that didn’t seem right. Why would Greaves put in a good word for him? He was missing something. Nine o’clock on a Monday morning and his head was already spinning.
‘We were fortunate,’ Gilchrist said.
‘She phoned me.’
‘Mhairi?’
‘DS Janes. Just got off the phone with her about ten minutes ago.’ McVicar leaned forward, rested his arms on the desk, as if no longer afraid of contamination. ‘She said Chief Super Greaves informed you that I wanted to talk to you. So she thought she should give me, as she put it, the correct version of events.’
Gilchrist mouthed an Ah.
‘Ah, indeed.’ McVicar said. ‘You’re long enough in the tooth, Andy, to know that I’m going to have to take you off the case until a full investigation into Stan’s murder is carried out.’
Gilchrist gave a defeated nod. ‘Define off the case, sir.’
‘Well, if Greaves had his way, you’d be asked to hand in your notice. The least he wants is to demote you to tea-boy.’ McVicar shook his head. ‘I sometimes wonder if the job is all too much for us any more.’
Gilchrist felt a stirring of hope. Greaves had done himself no favours by coming down so heavily. McVicar had seen through his complaints, and taken them for what they were – a personal vendetta. But before he dared breathe a sigh of relief, Gilchrist thought it best to say nothing.
‘I don’t see any benefit in forcing one of our top detectives to sit on the sidelines. We’re short-staffed as it is, for crying out loud.’
Gilchrist risked a thoughtful nod.
‘However, given the overlap between your investigation and Chief Superintendent Whyte’s, I’m arranging for him to take over. I want you to debrief him personally, Andy, bring him fully up to speed. Give him everything you’ve got. Hold nothing back. Then step away. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And let me take care of Greaves for you,’ McVicar said. ‘I’ll point out the error in his thinking… in a manner of speaking.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Then McVicar’s look darkened – a reminder to Gilchrist that he was still walking on thin ice that could crack at any moment, and that McVicar was still the man in charge. ‘I understand we have some video evidence that could turn out to be rather embarrassing.’