Jessie spent much of the return drive to St Andrews texting Robert or staring out the window.
‘You see anything interesting?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Just thinking.’
‘Has Robert written any new jokes lately?’ he tried.
Even that failed to bring a smile to her face. ‘None that would interest you.’
Well, there he had it – leave her alone.
It was almost seven o’clock by the time they passed the Old Course Hotel. ‘I’m going to check the in-tray,’ he said, ‘then have a pint. Interested?’
‘I’m taking Robert to the movies, remember?’ she said, and offered a wry smile. ‘If you’re happy to give me the time off, that is.’
They were involved in one of the biggest murder cases in Fife’s history, and all hands were needed. But his staff were only human, and time away from the investigation could be just as important as cranking up the gears. Relaxation helped clear minds, focus concentration. The occasional pint helped, too.
He turned right at the City Road roundabout and drove straight to Canongate.
He pulled up outside Jessie’s house. ‘Enjoy the movies. I’ll be in touch,’ he said, his reminder not to switch off her mobile.
Jessie opened the door.
‘Before you go?’
She stopped, half in, half out. ‘Yeah?’
‘I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is.’
She held his gaze for two, maybe three, seconds then slipped from the car. Before closing the door, she said, ‘Later, Andy. Okay?’
Gilchrist watched her walk up the driveway, past her Fiat – a car Jabba had helped her buy – and waited until she had the house key in her hand before he drove off.
In Bridge Street, he took out his mobile.
His call was answered on the third ring with, ‘Small speaking.’
‘Dainty. Andy Gilchrist here. Got a minute?’
‘If it’s quick.’
Gilchrist smiled. Some things never changed. And DCI Peter ‘Dainty’ Small of Strathclyde Police was one of them. Straight to the point. No messing.
‘What can you tell me about Chief Superintendent Lachlan McKellar?’ Gilchrist asked.
A hissed, ‘Fuck sake.’ Then, ‘What’s he been up to now?’
‘He’s giving Jessie Janes a hard time.’
‘Be careful with him, Andy. I mean it. He’s not someone you want to mess with. I know all about Jessie’s reasons for transferring from Strathclyde. And I don’t blame her. But walking on eggshells around Chief Super McKellar doesn’t cut it. You burn your bridges with him, there’s no coming back.’
Gilchrist noted the use of Jabba’s formal title. Not like Dainty to show uncalled-for deference. ‘If it was only personal harassment,’ Gilchrist said, ‘I wouldn’t trouble you at all. I’ve been working with Jessie long enough to know she could handle that. But he’s threatening to resurrect some . . . for want of a better term . . . past mistakes, if she doesn’t come across with the goods.’
‘Fuck sake,’ Dainty repeated. ‘Jessie’s a good cop. But with the baggage she’s got with that fucking family of hers, the last thing she needs is to be hounded by some borderline-psycho cop.’
Gilchrist felt his eyebrows lift. Borderline psycho?
‘So, what’s he threatening?’ Dainty asked, his voice all business once more.
‘Remember the resetting charge that reared up last Christmas?’
‘We took care of that,’ Dainty said.
‘McKellar’s threatening to resurrect it.’
‘How?’
‘I think the question is: why?’
‘I know why. I want to know how he’s going to do it. Has he got anything new on her? I buried the reports, remember? There are no witnesses. McKellar would need to find some, or come up with some new charges, and I don’t see either of them happening.’
‘Could he fabricate something?’
‘He could fabricate what the fuck he likes, but with no witnesses, or no one to come forward and talk against Jessie, he’s on a loser.’
An image of Jessie facing McKellar on Market Street lurched into Gilchrist’s mind, and he wondered if he had overestimated the fat man’s confidence. ‘Let me get back to you,’ he said, and ended the call.
Back in the Office, Gilchrist’s mobile rang – a number he did not recognise.
He made the connection.
‘DI Smith here, sir. Sorry to trouble you again, but I thought you should know that they’re dropping like flies.’
Gilchrist understood immediately. ‘Who is it this time?’
‘Abbott, Warren and Williamson. All by phone again.’
‘Reasons?’
‘More or less the same. Jenna Abbott said she didn’t want to go to court, or even give her testimony anonymously.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘Change of heart.’
‘So she’s not saying the incident never happened?’
‘But it’s the same result.’
‘Go on.’
‘Kristie Warren withdrew her complaint citing personal reasons. When challenged, she denied ever knowing Magner or being in his company.’
Gilchrist exhaled. Someone was getting to them. ‘Has anyone spoken to them face to face?’
‘We’re doing that right now, sir.’
‘You gave me three names.’
‘Meredith Williamson. She called about an hour ago, in tears, to say she couldn’t go through with it. Said she made a mistake.’
‘In her statement?’
‘Said she made it all up. When she was advised that she could be charged with wasting police time, she said we should go ahead and charge her, then hung up.’
‘Christ,’ Gilchrist said. ‘So that’s five now. How about the others?’
‘Chief Super Whyte has already dispatched uniforms to interview them.’
‘Three live in England.’
‘They do, sir, yes. The Chief has contacted the local stations for assistance.’
Gilchrist gritted his teeth. Whyte’s case against Magner was crumbling. How long would it take for the others to fold? He thought back to Vicky Kelvin’s flat – the domestic disarray, the poverty, the hardship, life in general just grinding her down. It would not take much to persuade her to drop her complaint – a thousand pounds would go a long way to clearing up the mess in her life. Gilchrist thanked Smith and ended the call.
Sitting at his desk, he fired up the computer and checked his emails. Only when he read the last of them did he realise he had not heard back from Cooper. He checked his phone for missed calls – none – then dialled her mobile number.
After five rings he was expecting voicemail to kick in when a man’s voice said, ‘You need to stop calling my wife.’
‘You need to stop answering her phone.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of a multiple murder investigation,’ Gilchrist snapped. ‘And if you don’t put me through to Dr Rebecca Cooper immediately, I will have you charged with obstructing the course of justice.’
The connection died.
Gilchrist dialled the number again. This time the phone was answered on the first ring.
‘Andy, this is not a good time—’
‘I haven’t received any toxicology results yet,’ he said.
‘I thought we . . . oh,’ Cooper said. ‘Okay. Let me get them over to you.’
‘What can I expect?’ he said. ‘In terms of the results, I mean.’
But Cooper was in no mood for jokes, and answered with, ‘Brian McCulloch had high levels of alcohol and benzodiazepine in his blood.’
‘Sufficient to kill him?’
‘No, but enough to induce a state of unconsciousness.’
‘So he was not expected to drive home.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Any other way?’
‘Suicide?’
Gilchrist grimaced. An image of the bloodied bathroom, the stripped meat that had once been Amy McCulloch, contradicted his image of her killer – McCulloch’s pristine shirt collar, laundered suit, trim fingernails, neat haircut. He would have needed steamcleaning before taking his life. And the SOCOs had found no towels or body parts in the Jag’s boot. If McCulloch had not murdered his family, why would he have committed suicide?
Which brought Gilchrist full circle.
‘Get those reports to me as soon as you can,’ he said, and ended the call.
Forcing Cooper from his mind, he returned his attention to the computer screen and opened the first email from Jackie. It contained several pdf attachments. He clicked on one to reveal a copy of a Prudential life insurance policy for £250,000, with the beneficiary named as Thomas Magner in the event of the death of his wife, Sheila. Next a copy of a cheque for £250,000 made out to Thomas Magner and dated 26 April 1986 – ample start-up capital to launch Stratheden Enterprises, and to entice Brian McCulloch to join the company.
The next attachment was an RBS bank statement in the name of Anne Magner. Gilchrist frowned as his gaze rested on the £250,000 deposit for 26 April 1986, highlighted by Jackie. Magner must have transferred his first wife’s insurance payout into his second wife’s bank account the instant he received it. A quick flip through the following pages confirmed that a total of £265,433.47 was then withdrawn from Anne Magner’s account over two weeks, to pay various vendors. A closer study revealed £47,405.83 paid to the Clydesdale Bank, and £125,000 – the largest debit – to Property Management Ltd, a well-known mortgage broker in Fife at the time. One other debit stood out – £50,000 – not only because it was such a round sum, but because it was a cash withdrawal.
The statements showed Magner to be not only a wealthy businessman but a shifter of money, a facilitator of funds, someone who paid by cash, robbing his left hand to pay his right – including laundering dirty money? That thought conjured up an image of Jerry McGovern, and it struck him that he never asked Stan the value of Amy McCulloch’s stolen jewellery.
He emailed Jackie, instructing her to find out what she could about the payments to Clydesdale Bank and Property Management. Then he opened her next email, and felt a frisson of excitement. Magner’s second wife, Anne, was still alive, and living in Greenock on the south bank of the Clyde, west of Glasgow. He took a note of the address and slipped it into his pocket as his mobile rang. He looked at the screen – Greaves.
‘Yes, sir,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the Office.’
‘Stay there. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’
Gilchrist disconnected as his mind powered into overdrive.
He had seen Greaves on the hunt before, as mad as a bull.
Maybe Maxwell Cooper had a greater reach than Gilchrist had given him credit for.