‘It doesn’t matter what my gut feelings are, sir. We can second guess ourselves until we’re blue in the face. What matters is that we have four dead people, three of whom have been murdered. I believe we need to speak to Thomas Magner as a matter of urgency.’
‘Quite,’ said McVicar.
‘I wouldn’t trust that man as far as I could throw him,’ Greaves added. ‘God knows how he manages to look himself in the mirror every day. Where is he anyway, for God’s sake? Why is it taking so long to find him?’
‘DS Janes has located him in Stirling,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I believe he’s on his way to St Andrews as we speak.’
‘What’s he doing in Stirling?’
Gilchrist ignored the question. It was time to leave. He caught McVicar’s eye again. ‘I think we need to play this close to our chests for the time being, sir.’ He glanced at the window, saw the mob at the main entrance, which seemed to have swelled since he last looked. ‘We shouldn’t disclose any details relating to Mrs McCulloch’s death. Nor the girls.’
‘Agreed.’
‘And I would also suggest we delay the media conference until we talk to Magner.’
McVicar nodded. ‘I’ll put them off for the rest of the afternoon; tell them we’ll hold a press conference at Glenrothes HQ later today. That work for you?’
‘That should at least help quieten this place down, sir.’ He tilted his head at the window to make his point.
‘What time, Andy?’
‘I’ll arrange for daily debriefings at five. So… no later than six, sir?’
McVicar nodded.
‘And it’s early days,’ Gilchrist pressed on. ‘Until we have something more definite, if any of us can’t get past the media with a No comment, we should stick with the story that we’re looking into why Brian McCulloch committed suicide.’
‘Is that wise?’ Greaves asked.
‘Don’t know if I’d call it wise. More like playing it safe.’ He addressed McVicar. ‘If you have no more questions, sir, I’d like to get on with it.’
‘Of course.’ McVicar turned to Greaves. ‘Tom?’
‘I want to be personally debriefed at close of play today, Andy. And I mean today.’
Gilchrist barely acknowledged the order and strode out of the lounge.
Stan slipped from the rear of the gathering and caught up with him as he reached the front door. ‘What’s eating Greaves, boss?’
‘I’ve stepped on his toes once too often, I think.’ Gilchrist already had his mobile out by the time they reached the forecourt. Together they walked towards the fountain, where Gilchrist made a point of turning his back to the media scrum at the entrance gate. He did not want some over-eager journalist trying to lip-read his call.
‘Any luck, Jessie?’
‘I’m almost at North Street. Magner and his solicitor should already be there. How soon can you get here?’
‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said, then glanced at the reporters. It might take him all of fifteen minutes just to work his way past that lot. ‘Don’t start until I get there.’
‘Spoilsport.’
Gilchrist ended the call, then turned to Stan. ‘We have the ACC’s approval to use all resources available. That won’t last for ever, so jump on it. Coordinate the investigation with the Anstruther Office. Visit Stratheden Enterprises, find out if the company’s in trouble, what their financial status is, who owes who what, any bad debts, big bills, threatened legal action, failed contracts. Maybe it’s all about money. And talk to the staff. Find out what kind of a guy McCulloch really was.’
‘You think he’s two shades of grey, boss?’
‘Maybe a dozen shades. He seemed too good to be true. An upstanding member of the community. Went to church with his family every Sunday. Never missed a day’s work. Gave regularly to charities. Two daughters top in their classes at school. I mean, if you wanted the perfect family, you wouldn’t have to look any further.’
‘I’ll have someone check out the school, too, boss.’
‘And find out what’s on the girls’ computers, who their friends are on Facebook, who they’re twittering-’
‘Tweeting.’
‘What?’
‘It’s tweeting, boss.’
‘Oh, right. Who they’re tweeting, messaging, emailing, calling. Do the same with the landline, and Mrs McCulloch’s mobile. And if we can’t locate McCulloch’s mobile, pull the records from the network. Use the Anstruther lads to talk to the locals, find out who McCulloch hung about with, who he last had a pint with, who he last had round to dinner. You know the drill.’ He grimaced and shook his head. ‘We need to find out why this thing happened.’
‘Could be something to do with the ongoing Magner investigation, boss.’
Gilchrist stared into the distance. He’d been thinking exactly the same thing. Fife Constabulary were currently investigating Thomas Magner over allegations of a series of rapes. As best he knew, eleven women had come forward since the beginning of the year, with each claiming that Magner had sexually abused her back in the late seventies or early eighties. The accusations themselves raised some serious questions, such as why now? And why all at once?
It was hard to see a link between that investigation and the massacre of the McCullochs, aside from the fact that Brian McCulloch and Thomas Magner had been business partners. McCulloch was clearly the prime suspect in the slaughter of his family. But Gilchrist just couldn’t see it. Why would he commit such a brutal murder, kill his daughters, and then get dressed up to the nines before taking his own life? Gilchrist had seen more dead bodies than could be considered good for his health, as well as a fair number of suicides. But one thing did strike him. Of all the suicides he had seen, McCulloch was certainly the best dressed.
He faced Stan. ‘The ongoing investigation might be the what,’ he said, ‘but we need to work out the why.’
‘Boss?’
‘Magner’s the answer, Stan. I’m sure of it.’
He turned and walked to his Merc.
Gilchrist entered the interview room and took the seat next to Jessie. He introduced himself as DCI Andy Gilchrist of St Andrews CID, then noted the time for the record. Across the table, Thomas Magner faced them with arms folded. His black suit looked freshly dry-cleaned, his shirt white and straight from the packet. A red silk tie matched the tip of a handkerchief peeping from his chest pocket. He looked heavier than he seemed in media photographs, and harder, too – face lightly cratered with the faded remnants of acne, short hair more white than the blond it used to be, and more crewcut than styled.
He could be the poster boy for a hardman’s agency.
Seated next to him was a younger man in a dark blue pinstriped suit, hair and skin as slick as any male model’s. He slid a business card across the table.
Gilchrist glanced at it – Thornton Pettigrew, of Jesper Pettigrew Jones Solicitors, with an address in Edinburgh. He said to Jessie, ‘Has Mr Magner been advised that his attendance is voluntary, and that he can leave at any time?’
‘He has.’
‘I would remind you that my client has taken time away from his busy schedule to assist in any way he can,’ Pettigrew said.
‘Yes,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I can see how the murder of his business partner and his family could be a bit of an inconvenience.’
Magner raised his hand to silence Pettigrew’s objection, and said, ‘I’ve known Brian for most of my professional life, Mr Gilchrist. I knew his wife, Amy, a lovely woman, for many years, too. Their two daughters, Eilish and Siobhan, were like daughters to me, too.’