They took separate cars – Gilchrist in his Mercedes SLK Roadster, and Cooper in her Range Rover. Gilchrist reached Tentsmuir Forest first, arriving just after eight, and pulled the Merc into an open clearing. He parked alongside Jessie’s Fiat and removed a packed set of coveralls from the boot.
Off to the side, the dark blue Jaguar stood surrounded by yellow police tape, its paintwork gleaming like a showroom model no one was permitted to touch. Three SOCOs in white coveralls were scouring the adjacent area on their knees, prodding through the pine needles, cones and roots with latex-gloved hands. Two more stood by the side of their Transit van, mobiles to their ears, their breath a vivid white in the cold air.
Gilchrist caught the eye of one of them, who nodded to the beach.
He spotted Jessie beyond the tree-line of the forest, alone on the dunes, staring across the North Sea, on the phone. Standing there in coveralls, the early morning haar as a backdrop, she looked as pale as a ghost. The wind picked up, lifting sand off the dunes like spindrift, stinging his face as he strode towards her.
She turned as he clambered up the slope to stand beside her, ended the call with an angry grunt, and slid the mobile into her jacket pocket. She zipped up her coveralls. ‘Why is it always so fucking freezing on the east coast?’
‘You’re exposed out here,’ he said. ‘It’s not so cold in the woods.’
‘No, there it’s just freezing. Here, it’s fucking freezing.’
‘Bad day?’
‘Don’t ask.’ She glared at him for a frosty moment, then said, ‘Follow me.’
In the three months since DS Jessica Janes had transferred to Fife Constabulary from Strathclyde Police, Gilchrist had come to understand that her considerable bark was worse than her bite. But the remnants of last night’s alcohol, on top of not enough sleep, was pushing him to the wrong side of a hangover, and he was in no mood to put up with either today. Besides, it was indeed verging on the fucking freezing.
‘Any further forward with the ID?’ he asked.
‘Brian McCulloch.’
‘Positive?’
‘I didn’t have all day to wait, so I checked his wallet.’
Investigation of a dead body usually did not begin until the police pathologist had first confirmed life was extinct. But the PF – the Procurator Fiscal – ran the show, particularly where death was suspicious. And where a body was clearly dead, the investigation often began with the arrival of the first on the scene.
‘Anything else I should know?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen so much cash in a wallet. Stuffed it was. All brand-new hundreds. I didn’t count it, but it had to be well over five thou.’
‘What about his mobile?’
‘Can’t find it.’
Unusual, thought Gilchrist, but there could be a hundred reasons why McCulloch’s mobile was not on his person or in the car. ‘Let’s pull his records. See what we can find.’ A pause, then, ‘So why don’t you think it was suicide?’
‘Come and see for yourself.’
They reached the yellow tape as Cooper’s Range Rover pulled to a halt alongside Gilchrist’s Merc. The SOCOs seemed busier all of a sudden. Gilchrist unfolded his coveralls as Cooper’s door opened.
‘Christ on a stick. Does she never have a hair out of place?’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist thought silence his best response. Cooper lifted the hatchback of the Range Rover and removed a set of coveralls. He found it oddly erotic watching her slide in one leg, then the other, and slip the coveralls over her hips while he was doing likewise. Eight hours earlier, they had gone through a similar process in reverse.
Cooper zipped up and walked towards them. She nodded to Jessie, then to Gilchrist, who lifted the yellow tape for her to stoop under.
‘After you,’ he said to Jessie.
‘So you can compare backsides? I think not.’
They followed Cooper side by side.
Cooper reached the Jaguar and opened the driver’s door, taking care not to pull the rubber hose from the window. Then she leaned inside.
Silent, Gilchrist waited and glanced across to Jessie. The tip of her fine nose was red and her eyes were glinting from the chill. Early March in Fife could be bitter, but this winter felt as if it had been with them forever, and the wind seemed to be gathering ice from the North Sea and firing it into their faces. Overhead, branches shifted and swayed, like evergreen brushes sweeping the air. All around them the forest rustled and stirred, groaning, as if almost alive.
‘Rigor’s not fully come yet,’ Cooper said, ‘so I’m guessing time of death would be—’
‘Guessing?’
‘. . . around midnight,’ Cooper said, ignoring Jessie. ‘Maybe earlier.’
Jessie hissed under her breath.
‘Body temperature’s low,’ Cooper continued. ‘But I’m thinking not as low as it should be for time of death.’
‘Why’s that?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘From the settings on the controls, the seat’s heater’s on. And if the engine was running, with the heating set as it is, it would have been warm—’
‘Expert in cars, too, are you?’ Jessie said.
‘Cars, no. But Mr Cooper only ever drives Jaguars. He has one just like this.’
‘Other than Mrs Ferguson,’ Gilchrist interrupted, ‘who was first on the scene?’
Jessie said, ‘Mhairi,’ as Cooper returned her attention to McCulloch’s body.
WPC Mhairi McBride. Recently applied to become a detective, beginning to make a name for herself, and a significant asset to any team. ‘Did she get here before the ambulance arrived?’
‘Apparently.’
‘You speak to her?’
‘She switched off the engine, if that’s what you’re asking.’
Gilchrist nodded. It would probably be the first thing anyone would do. And, knowing Mhairi, once she had checked for a pulse, she would have taken control of the scene and told the ambulance crew they weren’t needed. But he had a few questions for her. ‘Where is she?’
‘Sent her off to fetch some coffees. I think she’s planting the beans, the time she’s taking.’
Gilchrist turned back to Cooper. ‘How’s it looking?’ he asked.
‘Nothing so far that would suggest it’s anything other than suicide.’
Jessie smirked.
‘Any bruises around the neck?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘Signs of a struggle?’
‘Nothing.’
Gilchrist waited until Cooper pulled herself upright, then he leaned into the car to inspect the body. Jessie had obviously seen something Cooper had missed, and he did not want their ongoing antagonism to turn into something nastier.
The first thing that struck him was how trim and well dressed McCulloch was – short back and sides, black hair greying at the temples, white twill open-necked shirt, gold cufflinks, dark blue suit, black leather belt, trousers neatly pressed, black polished shoes. The second was the empty bottle of Grey Goose vodka in the passenger footwell. But as he tilted McCulloch’s head from one side to the other, parted his lips, peered into his mouth, checked his hands, fingernails and wrists, he found nothing out of the ordinary. He eyed the settings on the car’s controls, confirming what Cooper had said. Then the sliver of an idea came to him.
He pulled back from the car’s interior and turned his attention to the door lock.
‘How did Mhairi get in to switch off the engine?’ he asked.
Jessie glanced at Cooper, then smiled at Gilchrist. ‘It was unlocked. Odd, don’t you think?’
Gilchrist gave it some thought. ‘You attach the hose, you take your seat, you switch on the engine, then you wait to pass out from carbon-monoxide poisoning, knowing there will be no coming back,’ he said. ‘But you don’t necessarily lock the door . . . because . . .’
‘Because someone put you there.’
Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Because you have doubts. Maybe McCulloch didn’t really want to go through with it. Maybe he was hoping someone would find him—’
‘Except that he was unconscious when they closed the door on him,’ Jessie said.
‘They?’ Cooper asked.
‘Figure of speech.’
‘We’ll check for fingerprints on the bottle.’ Gilchrist glanced at Cooper. ‘And alcohol in his system. And any narcotics, of course.’ Then he turned to Jessie. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’
‘Check the window.’
Gilchrist stepped back and swung the door shut. It felt solid, smooth, and closed with an easy click. The rubber tube still led to the exhaust pipe, the window still open a crack at the top, the gap stuffed with a black scarf. A quick look confirmed that McCulloch was not wearing a tie, so the scarf could have been his. Forensics would confirm that, or not.
What was he missing?
He pressed the door handle, pulled the door open again, studied the window, but still found nothing. He was about to give up when his eye was drawn back to the scarf. It was stuffed into a gap that was no more than an inch wide, narrow enough to nip the rubber hose and prevent it from slipping, but wide enough to leave someone thinking it needed to be sealed.
He glanced at Jessie and she raised her eyebrows. ‘Agree now?’ she asked.
He almost did.
‘The scarf’s been stuffed into the gap from the outside,’ she said. ‘See the way it’s folded? Someone’s pushed it in with their fingers. It would be impossible for it to lie that way if you pushed it in from the inside.’
‘That would indeed be impossible,’ he said. ‘I have to agree.’
Jessie’s smile hung for a moment, then faltered. ‘But . . .?’
‘But McCulloch could have set the hose in place by snecking it with the window, then stuffed the gap with his scarf from the outside, then got in the car and closed the door behind him. In fact, that’s how I would have done it.’ Although he would have chosen the passenger window, or one of the two rear windows – not the driver’s.
He thought it odd the way Jessie’s lips tightened, how she glanced at Cooper before lowering her zip, retrieving her mobile, and striding off into the fucking freezing cold, presumably to continue the conversation he had interrupted on his arrival.
Cooper said, ‘Not a good loser, is she?’
Gilchrist gave a quick smile. ‘She’s a good detective.’
‘I’m sure she is.’ Cooper pulled the coverall’s hood off her head, raked her fingers through her dark blonde hair, and tossed it in that way of hers that always teased him. Then she nodded at McCulloch’s body. ‘Is this a rush job?’
He shook his head. ‘After the weekend’ll be fine.’
‘If I find anything untoward, I’ll let you know.’ She strode away, then stopped and turned to face him. ‘Are we still on for this evening?’
It seemed such an odd thing for her to ask. Of course they were on for this evening. They had been on for every Friday evening since Christmas. ‘Like me to pick you up?’ he said.
She grimaced. ‘It might be better if I come to yours instead.’
He frowned, cocked his head, asked the silent question.
‘Mr Cooper’s come back,’ she said. ‘No doubt to demand his conjugal rights.’
It took Gilchrist a full two seconds before he could reply, ‘Ah. Right.’
‘I am still married,’ she said.
‘You are indeed.’
Another toss of her mane, then she turned and strode off to the Range Rover. He tried not to watch her, but they were still in the exploratory phase, and he found himself leering after her before he managed to turn away.
He had no right to be jealous. He knew that.
But it surprised him to feel how much it hurt.