The Central reeked of alcohol and thrummed with the camaraderie of a busy town pub on a late Saturday afternoon. They found a table in the corner and ordered their drinks: the usual for Gilchrist; a cup of coffee for Jessie. They faced each other in silence as the barman placed the glass and the mug on the table, then asked if they would like to see the menu.
‘No need,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Steak pie, chips and beans.’
‘And for you, ma’am?’
‘What the hell,’ Jessie said. ‘Make that two. But peas instead of beans.’
Gilchrist sipped his Deuchars and watched Jessie stir her coffee. ‘Still trying to sober up?’ he asked.
‘Driving.’
‘Somewhere warm, I hope.’
‘Taking Robert to the pictures in Dundee tonight,’ she said. ‘I know, I know, Robert’s deaf, but he likes to study the facial expressions of the actors.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t ask. It’s all to do with his comedy writing. And besides, if he gives the film the nod of approval, then I can buy it when it comes out on DVD and he can watch it with closed captions.’
Gilchrist had met Robert four times over the three months Jessie had been with Fife Constabulary. She had fought hard to raise her only child as a single mother, and he knew she would do anything for him. But as she fiddled with her mug of coffee, he sensed she had other reasons for taking him to the cinema that night.
‘Jabba joining you?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Does he know that yet?’
Jessie lifted the coffee to her lips and rolled her eyes.
‘If I could make a suggestion—’
‘No, Andy, you cannot make a suggestion. It’s my problem, and I’ll deal with it.’
At that moment Gilchrist caught movement at the swing doors that opened on to Market Street. An oversized man as wide as he was tall forced himself inside. ‘Well, you’d better deal with it quick, because he’s just walked in.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Has he seen me?’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘I tell you, I’m going to have him for this.’
Gilchrist had met Chief Super Lachlan McKellar several times before, and on each occasion he had been struck by how well dressed the man was. Marriage to a biscuit-manufacturing heiress must have helped to cover the cost of bespoke tailoring, of course, but even so, for a fat man he wore his clothes with remarkable swagger and style.
He had some difficulty squeezing past patrons ordering drinks at the bar, but he broke through and reached Gilchrist, skin glistening as if he had just stepped out of a piping-hot sauna. He placed a fat hand on Jessie’s shoulder, and Gilchrist was surprised that she did not slap it off.
‘Jessica,’ he said, ‘it’s nice to see you again.’
She tilted her head. ‘Give me a few minutes, Lachie, will you?’
He removed his hand. ‘I’ll be outside,’ he said, then gave Gilchrist a half-smile and the tiniest of nods.
Gilchrist waited until McKellar worked his way back along the bar before saying, ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’
Jessie took a quick sip of coffee and returned the mug to the table. Gilchrist could not fail to catch a tremor that gripped her hand and seemed to be working its way up to her face. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said, rising to her feet and following McKellar outside.
From his seat, Gilchrist watched the two of them face each other on the pavement, a couple of feet apart. Lachie lifted his hand to Jessie’s cheek, as if to caress it, but she turned away. Gilchrist thought it odd that the fire in her seemed to have been dowsed, as if McKellar’s sheer physical presence had suffocated—
His mobile rang. It was Cooper.
He made the connection. ‘Good afternoon, Becky.’
‘Where are you?’
‘One guess.’
‘Are you free?’
‘I can make myself available.’
‘I’ll be with you shortly. I’ll call when I’m closer.’
‘Any problems?’ But the line was already dead. He thought of calling back and asking what was so urgent that she could not talk over the phone. Then he decided against it, and returned the mobile to his pocket.
Outside, the conversation between Jessie and McKellar seemed more animated, with Jessie back to her spirited self, face flushed with anger, arms flailing. Something in the way McKellar stood – impassive, not rising to the heated bait of Jessie’s vitriol – told Gilchrist that whatever they were talking about, the big man had the upper hand. And he knew it.
Then, like a switch being clicked, Jessie turned on her heels and left him standing there.
McKellar seemed unfazed as he watched her return inside. A quick glance in Gilchrist’s direction had their eyes meeting for an instant. Then he turned and strode across the cobbles, light grey overcoat flapping in the wind but not a crease in sight, black polished shoes reflecting a flicker of rare sunlight. Maybe the day was going to clear up after all.
Jessie eased back into her seat as their food arrived. She seemed unable to meet Gilchrist’s gaze. Instead, she unwrapped the cutlery from the paper napkin, then wiped the knife clean with slow deliberation.
Gilchrist waited a respectful couple of mouthfuls before saying, ‘Cooper called. She’s on her way.’
‘That should cheer you up.’
‘I was hoping she might throw some light on how Brian McCulloch died.’
Jessie flashed him a look that he had difficulty deciphering, then stabbed her fork into the pie. The meat could have been as tough as gristle from the way she chewed it. Or maybe she was thinking it was McKellar’s heart.
Gilchrist placed his own cutlery across his plate.
Two mouthfuls later, Jessie said, ‘You not eating that?’
‘I’d like you to tell me what’s going on.’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘If it interferes with an ongoing murder investigation, then it’s very much my business.’
‘What’s interfering? I’m here, you’re here, Lachie’s there, and Veronica Lake’s going to join us in a few minutes, whoopity-do.’ She skewered another mouthful, then turned the full force of her glare on to the plate.
Gilchrist gave her another minute, then said, ‘I didn’t like the way Chief Super McKellar talked to you.’
Maybe it was the use of the formal title, or the tone of his voice, but Gilchrist detected a softening in her attitude. Even so, she was not giving in lightly.
‘Didn’t know you had bat ears.’
He smiled. ‘I don’t lip-read, either. But Lachie seemed a bit . . . self-assured for my liking.’
Jessie seemed to make a conscious effort to relax. She forked the next mouthful with care, then took a sip of water. ‘He’s giving me a hard time.’
Gilchrist held on to his beer. ‘In what way?’
She placed her fork and knife on her plate with resignation, then sat back and stared out the window. Maybe she was replaying the conversation with McKellar, trying to work out how she could have handled it better. Gilchrist didn’t push.
After a long minute, she pulled her gaze back and said, ‘I suppose you’ll find out eventually.’
He scooped up a forkful of meat.
‘You remember the resetting allegations against me?’
Gilchrist nodded. He had batted away allegations that Jessie had received goods she had known were stolen – not long after she joined Fife Constabulary. He had later learned that the allegations were true. But with the help of DCI Peter ‘Dainty’ Small of Strathclyde HQ, they had managed to finagle Jessie out of a career-destroying situation.
‘I do indeed,’ he said, ‘but we dealt with them.’
‘Well, Jabba’s threatening to resurrect them.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause he can.’
‘If you don’t do what?’
‘Stop ignoring him.’
‘Well, that’s easy enough. Answer his calls. Send him texts. Keep him sweet. He lives in Glasgow. You live in St Andrews. The pressure of work doesn’t give you time to—’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘His wife?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘He’s left her? And now he wants a shoulder to cry on?’
‘And the rest,’ she said.
Gilchrist took a mouthful of beer to encourage her to continue.
‘He wants to set me up in a wee flat, he says. Well, me and Robert. So he can come up and stay over at the weekends. He’s even got somewhere picked out for us, for crying out loud.’
‘Doesn’t he know you’ve just moved?’
‘It’s not about moving. It’s about control.’
Gilchrist took a mouthful of chips and scooped up some beans, more to prevent himself from cursing than for epicurean pleasure.
‘I told him I’d think about it.’
‘Sounds like he’s given you an ultimatum.’
Jessie nodded. ‘He says he needs to know by the end of the weekend.’
‘That’s tomorrow.’
‘Clever you.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘The agent’s taken the property off the market to give him time to come up with the deposit. So he says.’
‘And if you don’t agree, you’ll be charged with resetting?’
‘Again, it’s not as simple as that. Lachie can be right sneaky.’
Gilchrist read the helplessness in her eyes and could tell she was close to tears; maybe even close to giving up altogether. The echo of her words on Tentsmuir Beach the previous morning came back to him – I sometimes struggle with it all – and he thought he understood her dilemma. She had applied for a transfer from Strathclyde to Fife – Glasgow to St Andrews – to escape the criminality of her own family and to end whatever relationship Lachie imagined he had with her. She had told him repeatedly that she wanted nothing more to do with him, but still he had come after her. If only they could pursue criminals with such vigour, he thought.
‘So, what’s he threatening to do?’ he asked.
Jessie’s eyes filled with tears, but she took a deep breath and wiped them away.
Then his phone rang. Cooper again. This time he scowled at the screen.
‘Answer it,’ Jessie said. ‘I’m going nowhere. Not yet, anyway.’
He made the connection. ‘Becky?’
‘I’m in Market Street.’
He looked out the window, his gaze scanning the passers-by, but he failed to see her.
‘I’m about to step into Costa Coffee. We need to talk.’
‘I’m in the—’
The connection died.
Gilchrist rose to his feet.
‘Problems?’ Jessie asked.
He tried to make light of it by answering, ‘More than likely,’ but he knew it took a lot to ruffle Cooper’s feathers, and from the tone of her voice she sounded plucked and ready for the stuffing.
He shuffled past patrons at the bar, stepped into the bitter chill of Market Street, and prepared himself for the worst.