Morning hit Gilchrist with the sickening pain of a thudding headache. He lay still for several seconds, struggling to pull his mind from the dark cobwebs of sleep, before daring to open his eyes. The familiar twin skylights assured him he was at home in his own bed. He flapped an arm to the side, felt only cold emptiness. He rolled over and stared at the pillow.
No Cooper.
Memories of last night came back to him in fluttering moments of clarity intertwined with clouds of emptiness as dark as space. He remembered the others departing – Jackie with her crutches; Jessie leaving with her, and helping her to the door; Stan and Mhairi not long after, trying not to look like a couple, but failing comically.
Then it had been just the two of them, daughter and father.
He closed his eyes and counted two more pints of Deuchars, followed by two – or was it three? – Glenfiddichs, while a carefree Maureen kept easy pace alongside, downing four large glasses of wine, maybe five. So much for having only the one. He cursed himself for being too lenient. Just like her mother, once Maureen started, she did not want to stop until the bottle was finished. Gilchrist tried to convince himself that she was just a young woman with a tortured memory who liked the mental release that a hefty dose of alcohol gave every now and again. She did not do drugs – or so she told him, and he chose to believe her – so he reckoned the occasional heavy session was not all that bad.
As his memory peeled back the previous night’s events layer by misted layer, he remembered dropping Maureen off at her flat – he escorted her upstairs, made sure she got inside safe and sound – then driving back to Crail rather than abandoning the Merc and taking a taxi.
But it had not ended there.
Once home, he tried to make sense of what they had achieved so far and made a list for the following days. But like the fool alcohol often made of him, he opened a bottle of The Balvenie and poured himself a double Doublewood, or maybe a treble, and maybe even more than one.
Then came the recollection of calling Cooper, which had him groaning at the memory.
‘I said I would call you back.’
‘I know, but I thought you might like to—’
She hung up, and that should have been that. But, on impulse, he dialled her number again, only for it to be answered by a man’s voice telling him it was late and to stop calling his wife. Gilchrist did not hang up. Instead, he held on to the call in silence. The stalemate lasted all of ten seconds, after which Gilchrist took drunken pleasure from the fact that Mr Cooper ended the call first.
Christ, just the memory of it brought a hot flush to his face.
He dragged himself from bed and just about managed to make it to the bathroom without throwing up. A scalding shave and a shower long enough to flood the bath did little to ease the headache, but he was able to keep down a mug of tea and a half-slice of unbuttered toast, followed by four Panadols that dulled the edge of the pain.
On the stroll to the Merc, it felt more like mid-winter than early March. An icy wind cold enough to bite the fingers off you, blasted in from the sea as if in advance of a hurricane. Or, as the Scottish meteorologists tended to say, gusty winds and scattered showers. They could be broadcasting hurricane alerts around the globe with winds as strong as these, but in Scotland it was business as usual.
He waited until he drove through Kingsbarns before calling Jessie.
She answered with, ‘Are you never late?’
‘We’ve a meeting in Glenrothes this morning, remember?’
‘I know, Andy. You reminded me fifty million times last night. Talking of which, how’s your head? When I left, you looked as if you’d settled in for the night.’
‘My head’s fine,’ he lied. ‘But I’d feel a lot better if Jackie had been able to find an MO that at least bore some resemblance to the . . . the . . .’ He let the words die.
‘Do you ever think’, she said, ‘that we might have got it wrong? That it doesn’t necessarily have to be a serial killer?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Or that we don’t know we’re dealing with a serial killer until the MO shows up at least another two times.’
‘So you’re saying this might be a first?’
‘Serial killers have to start somewhere,’ she said. ‘If there was an identical MO out there, Jackie would have found it. So, if we don’t have anything similar from any other case in the country, then, yes, it probably is a first.’
The first of a serial killer’s victims? It was a plausible theory, but why did he not believe it? This killer had killed before. He was sure of it. But with nothing more than gut instinct, he knew he had little chance of convincing others.
He stared at the road ahead. In all his thirty-odd years with Fife Constabulary, he had never witnessed such a brutal crime scene. He had seen some horrific deaths in his time, but an image of the bloodied bathroom floor hit him with such clarity that he almost had to pull over. He tugged the steering wheel as a gust of wind buffeted the car. Away to his right, windswept surf painted strips of white on a blackened sea. The horizon flickered grey and blue, dangling the promise of a calmer day before his hurting eyes. For all anyone knew in Scotland, it could be warm enough to barbecue that evening.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘It’s too . . .’ He struggled for the words, then found them. ‘It’s too thorough. Too targeted. Too precise.’
‘The girls, you mean?’
‘Yes. Not a hair out of place. All tucked up like he’s put them to bed.’
‘They were in bed.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he said, irritated by the speed of Jessie’s tongue. ‘He’s telling us that we’re looking for a man with a hatred of’ – he was going to say women, but that was wrong – ‘one particular woman. Amy McCulloch.’
‘So it’s a revenge killing. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Could be.’
‘But revenge for what?’
‘Therein lies the problem,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Listen, you’re keeping me back. I need to put my face on.’
‘I’ll be with you in ten—’
‘Make it fifteen, unless you want a scare.’
‘Could you go a Starbucks?’
‘Now you’re talking.’
‘Latte in fifteen?’
‘And no sugar.’
With that, she hung up.
It was closer to twenty-five minutes by the time Gilchrist pulled into the kerb outside Jessie’s semi-detached in Canongate. Her little Fiat, brand new and hardly used, sat parked by the back door. For the first two months after joining Fife Constabulary and moving to St Andrews from Glasgow, Jessie and her son Robert had lodged with a friend of hers, Angie, in Forgan Place. Their move to a home of their own three weeks ago seemed to have done wonders for Jessie’s spirits. Or maybe it was Robert’s imminent cochlear implant operation, and the promise that her boy would finally hear, after being deaf from birth, that had pulled her out of the doldrums. Confirmation that the operation would be covered by the NHS had been the icing on the top.
No sooner had Gilchrist shifted into neutral than the back door opened and Jessie scarpered down the drive, hand at her neck, head tucked into her chest, hiding from the wind.
The door opened, followed by a rush of ice-cold air and Jessie saying, ‘Fuck.’
‘Good morning to you, too.’ He slipped into gear. ‘Coffee’s in the holder.’
She removed it, peeled back the lid, and said, ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘A morning kiss?’
‘Just drive, will you?’
He waited until he turned left at the West Port roundabout and was accelerating along Argyle Street before asking, ‘How’s the coffee?’
‘Wet and hot. How’s the head? You look like shite.’
‘Surprised you noticed.’
‘With dog’s balls for eyes? Who wouldn’t?’
‘I’m getting too old for it all now.’
‘Men never learn.’
Gilchrist could not fail to catch the venom in the word men. He kept his speed at a steady thirty as he eased on to Strathkinness Low Road. He thought he knew the reason for Jessie’s change of mood and edged into it with, ‘So, Lachie called?’
‘Fat prick.’
‘Maybe he should go on a diet.’
‘Maybe he should jump in the Clyde.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘How about we talk about Veronica Lake instead?’
‘I don’t think Rebecca looks remotely like Veronica Lake—’
‘No, Veronica Lake’s dead. With Jabba on the hunt, I could be so lucky.’
Gilchrist thought silence was the best option, so he took a sip of latte. It was still warm, and did wonders for the turmoil in his stomach. His hangover was diminishing, and pangs of hunger nibbled at his innards. Beyond the junction to Strathkinness, he depressed the pedal and nudged the speed to sixty, then seventy, and held it there.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ he said.
‘You can have them for free if you promise to take Jabba for the day.’
‘Ah,’ Gilchrist said. ‘So he’s going to spend the day in sunny St Andrews?’
‘Not just the day. The whole bloody weekend, so he tells me. Jesus, Andy, what the hell is it with men?’
Once again, he chose silence. Chief Superintendent Lachlan McKellar of Strathclyde Police – or Jabba the Hutt, as Jessie preferred to call him – had a thing for Jessie. As far as Gilchrist knew, they’d had a brief fling, which Jessie immediately regretted, ending their affair before it started. But Lachie did not know the meaning of the word no and pestered Jessie until she finally transferred to Fife, which did little to dampen Lachie’s ardour. His recent threats to leave his wife had finished it for Jessie, and now she wanted nothing more to do with the man. End of.
Five minutes later, Gilchrist tried again. ‘Has he left his wife, then?’
‘She flung him out, more like.’
‘So, he’s up for grabs?’
‘Grab-hooks, I hope. Then over the side with the fat blob.’
‘What does Robert think about all of this?’
‘What is it with you this morning? Robert’s off limits. You know that. I don’t go asking about your family, so don’t go asking about mine. Why don’t you just stick to driving the car and getting over your hangover?’
‘I’m feeling better, I have to tell you.’
‘Well, it must be contagious. I feel like shite now.’
‘You’ll perk up once you get your teeth into Chief Super Whyte.’
She chuckled and shook her head, which had Gilchrist frowning at her, wondering what the joke was. Chief Superintendent Billy Whyte was the SIO in the Thomas Magner rape investigation. He worked out of Glenrothes HQ, and was scheduled to meet Gilchrist and Jessie at 10 a.m.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ she said. ‘Well, actually, I remembered last night, but I didn’t want to spoil your evening.’ She tried to tease him with silence for five long seconds, but he refused to bite. ‘Chief Super Whyte asked me if the meeting was really necessary.’
‘Why would he say that?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘Billy and I go back years.’
‘That’s what he said.’
Maybe he was still hung over, his brain too befuddled from its recent dose of alcohol to work out the obvious, but he could not think of any reason why Billy Whyte would not want to meet him. ‘You’ve lost me,’ he said.
‘Does the name Logan mean anything to you?’
Gilchrist shot a glance at Jessie.
‘Well, that brought the colour back to your cheeks,’ she said.
‘Don’t tell me . . .’
‘Afraid so.’
Gilchrist gritted his teeth as he waited for Jessie to confirm his fears.
‘DI Carol Logan’, she said, ‘is assisting Chief Super William Whyte in the Thomas Magner case.’
‘Ah, shit,’ Gilchrist said, tightening his grip on the wheel.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Jessie said. ‘A fucked-up weekend for both of us.’