Gilchrist found Cooper sitting on a sofa in the rear of the coffeeshop.
She looked pale, her eyes tired, as if she had not slept, or perhaps been crying – which would be a first. He smiled as he sat opposite, and had to stifle a stab of hurt as she withdrew her hands from the table and placed them on her lap, as if defining a new boundary in their relationship, now that Mr Cooper had returned – to claim his conjugal rights, no less.
‘Have you ordered?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Would you like something?’
Another shake of the head. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun that accentuated the blue sharpness of her eyes, the sculpted lines of her cheekbones. In an artistic sense, the look suited her. But he preferred loose curls, if ever asked.
Silent, he waited.
‘I hate him,’ she said at length.
‘So leave him.’
‘I wish it were that simple.’
If only his own marriage had proved so difficult to terminate. An image of Gail in tears, storming from the marital home, tugging Maureen and Jack behind her, arced across his mind with a ferocity that caused him to blink. It took the recollection of the front door slamming before he managed to chase the picture away.
‘It’s as simple as you want it to be,’ he tried.
‘You don’t know anything about my relationship with Maxwell,’ she snapped, ‘so please don’t pretend that you do.’
Well, there he had it. Back only one day and already Mr Cooper elevated to Maxwell. Did that mean her marriage had entered a new phase? Or was she simply personalising her husband to distance herself from her forlorn lover? The ensuing silence had Gilchrist thinking that the short outburst had drained her.
‘Ending my own marriage was painful,’ he said at length. ‘But looking back, I only wonder why it took us so long to reach the point of no return.’
‘I’ll have that coffee now,’ she said. ‘Espresso. Hot milk on the side.’
At the counter, he contemplated texting Jessie to tell her he would meet her later. But the way Cooper was behaving, she could be on her way home to Maxwell before he even delivered her espresso. When he returned with the tray, the sofa was empty. For a moment he thought she had indeed left, but then he noticed her jacket and scarf draped over the arm. He laid the tray on the table, espresso and milk in its centre, and lifted his own latte. Better to share time over a coffee, he thought, than to have her thinking she was preventing him from returning to The Central to finish his pint. Which had him puzzling why she had not wanted to meet him there – they could even call it their local. Maybe she had seen him inside with Jessie, and felt a need to talk to him in private.
Movement at the back door caught his attention, and he was surprised to see Cooper pushing it open, mobile still in hand. Without a word, she reclaimed her seat and stared at her coffee. He thought of pouring the milk for her, then realised he didn’t know how she took espresso. Until then, she had always ordered latte with no sugar, the way he liked it.
Had she done that just to make it easy for him?
He reached for the milk jug. ‘Shall I play Mum?’
She said nothing as he poured and stirred. Then he sat back and lifted his latte to his lips. Cooper reached for her drink with both hands, her fingers squeezing the cup tight.
‘Maxwell’s going to talk to Greaves,’ she said, then took a sip.
‘About what?’
‘Come on, Andy, don’t play dumb.’
‘Is he going to confess that he has marital problems?’
‘You have this extremely irritating way of talking in questions.’
‘So what do you want me to ask?’
She glared at him, and for the first time since she had taken over from Bert Mackie as head of Forensic Pathology at Dundee University, he saw how formidable an opponent she could be. He had always believed that Mr Cooper – man of the world, philanderer about town and overseas – gave out more than he got in that marriage. Now he was not so sure.
‘Okay. Tell me why you’re worried about your husband talking to Chief Super Greaves.’
‘You don’t know Maxwell,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t do half-measures.’
Gilchrist was unsure what she meant by that, but found himself reluctant to ask. ‘I’m already in Greaves’s bad books,’ he said. ‘And I don’t see me getting out of them any time soon.’
‘No. But I could lose my job.’
‘Ah.’ Now they were getting down to it. Nothing to do with what Greaves might say to Gilchrist, but everything to do with how his affair with a married woman, Fife’s foremost forensic pathologist, might impact on her career. Rather than rising to the bait, he decided to be awkward. ‘I could lose mine, too.’
‘After what you’ve got away with in the past?’ Her lips creased into a wry smile and she took another sip of coffee.
He waited until she returned the cup to the table before saying, ‘What are you not telling me, Becky?’
She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Nothing.’
‘Now who’s acting dumb?’
Her eyes flared, making him think she was about to storm out. But she reached for her coffee again, clutching the cup with both hands as if seeking warmth. Well, it was chilly outside.
‘Would you like another one?’ he asked.
She shook her head, an act that looked strange without the benefit of long hair. He missed her curls, and fought off the oddest urge to reach out and undo her bun. ‘One’s enough,’ she replied. ‘I’ll be twitching all evening if I have two of these.’
He returned her smile, placed his hand palm upwards on the table, but she still refused to reciprocate. He said nothing as she sipped her coffee and avoided his eye. He was starting to wonder why she had asked to meet him at all. For all she had said, a text message would have done just as well. The stalemate was broken by a call to his mobile. He removed it from his pocket, glanced at the screen – Stan – and rose to his feet.
‘I’ll take this out the back,’ he told her, but Cooper seemed uninterested, or perhaps resigned to perpetual interference from others.
Outside, Gilchrist tugged up his collar to ward off a gust of bitter wind.
‘Does the name Jerry McGovern mean anything to you, boss?’
Gilchrist struggled to make a connection. ‘Any relation to Malky McGovern?’
‘They’re brothers.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Malky was killed in a car accident on the A85 ten days ago, just outside Crieff.’
Gilchrist pulled up a faint memory of something on the news – the TV camera zooming in on a mangled pile of metal that had once been a car. Then he realised Stan was waiting for him to say something. ‘Did they find anything in his car?’
‘Driving licence. Wallet in the centre console. Files in the boot.’
‘Files? What kind of files?’
‘Photographs,’ Stan said. ‘Lots of them. And we’re not talking happy families here.’
Electricity trickled the length of Gilchrist’s spine. ‘What are we talking, then?’
‘Young women having sex, giving blowjobs, getting licked—’
‘Any way to ID them?’
‘No chance, boss. Their faces have been blanked out.’
‘Inked out, you mean?’
‘Pixelated is the technical term.’
Gilchrist felt a surge of interest. He was beginning to understand why Stan had called. ‘So they’re printouts from a computer, is what you’re telling me.’
‘They are indeed. And this is where it gets interesting.’
Gilchrist glanced back into the coffee-shop and felt a flutter of confusion at Cooper’s empty sofa.
‘When the police contacted Jerry as Malky’s only next of kin, they thought he seemed nervous. Not how you would expect a seasoned criminal to behave.’
Gilchrist pushed through the door, eyes on the abandoned sofa – no jacket and scarf this time – then strode past it. He glanced at the counter, the main door, the seats at the window, through the glass to the street beyond.
No sign of Cooper.
‘With Jerry acting like he was hiding something, the SIO applied for a search warrant and yesterday they went over and confiscated his computers.’
Gilchrist had worked his way through the coffee-shop. He stepped into Market Street, but Cooper was nowhere in sight. ‘I’m listening,’ he said, scanning the thoroughfare, searching the pavements. But it seemed as if Cooper had just upped and left.
‘Well, in the process, they discovered some of Amy McCulloch’s jewellery.’
‘What?’ Gilchrist stopped in his tracks.
‘Matching necklaces and earrings, that sort of stuff.’
Gilchrist started walking again, faster now. He strode across College Street, heading back to The Central. ‘Had the McCullochs reported the items as stolen?’
‘No. McGovern just came clean. Eager to get it off his chest, by all accounts. He served four years in Barlinnie for serious assault, which could have been murder if the victim hadn’t survived. What do you think, boss? Think he might be involved in the massacre?’
‘Serious assault’s different from gutting, skinning and decapitating,’ Gilchrist said. ‘No, Jerry’s just shitting himself in case he gets mixed up in it.’ He gave it some thought, then said, ‘So how did he come by the jewellery?’
‘Said he’d been staking out the mansion for a couple of weeks, boss, and broke in on Thursday morning.’
‘Jesus, Stan,’ Gilchrist gasped. ‘Was this before the family was massacred?’
‘That’s what he’s saying. The house was empty.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Glenrothes Police Station.’
Gilchrist reached The Central, rapped his knuckles on the window, loud enough for several heads to turn his way, and the barman to frown at him.
Jessie heard, too, and jerked in surprise.
Let’s go, he mouthed to her, then turned away.
‘How long’s McGovern been there, Stan?’
‘Since last night.’
‘And when did they make the connection with the jewellery?’
‘This morning. When he was interviewed.’
Jessie interrupted with, ‘This must be serious. You’ve still got a pint to finish.’
Gilchrist nodded for her to follow, and they entered College Street. ‘Call Whyte,’ he said to Stan, ‘and tell him we’re on our way to talk to McGovern.’
‘I’ll do what I can, boss.’
‘I’m talking to McGovern with or without Whyte’s approval,’ Gilchrist said, and ended the call.
‘Something I need to know?’ Jessie said.
‘I’ll explain in the car.’
Jessie had her mobile out. ‘Here, listen to this from Jackie.’ She read from the screen. ‘Confirm Magner married twice. Still married, question mark. PO in office.’
Gilchrist stuffed his hands into his pockets to ward off the stiff wind. ‘PO?’
‘Printout, I think.’
‘So, she’s found another marriage certificate. Did she find any divorce papers?’
‘I guess not. Nor a death certificate. Hence the question mark.’
‘When did you receive that text?’
‘Just opened it.’
Gilchrist tried to recall their interrogation of Magner, but could not remember asking if he was married. ‘Let’s see what Jackie’s got,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll head to Glenrothes.’