Mhairi was driven to Memorial Hospital in St Andrews, while Gilchrist was flown by helicopter to Ninewells Hospital in Dundee for treatment to his arm. Despite the makeshift tourniquet, his wounds continued to bleed, and he was given a local anaesthetic so the surgeons could repair a torn vein. All in all, his forearm required thirty-six stitches and three pints of blood were transfused into him. The largest of several lumps on his head – where Purvis had clubbed him with the shotgun stock – required four stitches, but he declined to have a CT scan. The consultant advised that he remain in hospital for observation, but Gilchrist signed himself out and took a taxi straight back to Cauldwood Cottage, his left arm strapped in a sling.
He thought of calling Cooper, but instead sent her a text: call me. By the time he arrived, Cooper had not contacted him, and dawn had broken to a blue sky and stiff winds.
The roads were closed, and the taxi could approach no closer than two hundred yards. Gilchrist had to show his warrant card to a young WPC before she would permit him to proceed by foot. He paid the taxi fare, asked for a receipt – mainly to irritate Greaves – and stepped into the fresh morning chill.
When he reached the cottage, it seemed as if an army had invaded. Purvis’s Ford Focus had been towed away for forensic examination, and rows of vehicles – marked and unmarked police cars, SOCO vans, private cars – were parked in the long grass to the rear. Gilchrist had to step aside to let a tow-truck ease down the driveway. A car covered by a tarpaulin was on the back, which he presumed was Purvis’s Beemer.
The cottage was taped off, and dragonlights lit up its rear wall like a stage. SOCOs busied themselves in silence, flitting through the scene like ghosts. Gilchrist decided to return to the barn, see it in daylight, maybe even go a few steps farther and risk a look in the basement warren – the Meating Room – provided Stan’s body was no longer there.
To his surprise, Jessie caught up with him.
‘I was inside filling out a report,’ she said. ‘Thought I should join you.’
‘Been up all night?’
‘Went home for a couple of hours’ kip,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t sleep, though. Too much going on up here.’ She tapped the side of her head.
‘How’s Robert?’ he asked.
‘Asleep in his grow-bag.’ She shook her head. ‘I sometimes wonder if he remembers he’s got a mum.’
‘You should go home,’ he said. ‘Spend some time with him. You look knackered.’
‘Thanks a bundle. You’re looking not too bad yourself.’ She sniffed, turned her face into the wind as if to shift her irritation, then returned with, ‘You’re standing there like a one-armed bandit. How’s the arm?’
‘Getting better,’ he said.
‘And the mess on your head?’
‘That, too,’ he said, then lowered his voice. ‘What about the Beretta?’
‘I handed it over. Told them I found it.’
‘They’ll check the registration.’
‘It’s stolen.’
He mouthed an Ah, and said, ‘Right.’
They continued in silence towards the barn. The compound gate was open, and they stepped through.
A SOCO Transit was parked to the side, its engine running, doors open, as if it had been abandoned on arrival. Ahead, the barn doors were open, too, revealing a tidy interior. All sorts of tools glistened on metal peg-hole racks. Stacked shelves lined the walls, holding plastic containers, boxes, tins, filters, even books.
Jessie stopped at the entrance, as if reluctant to step inside. She nodded to a bloodied spot on the floor. ‘They took the dogs away,’ she said. ‘These things shouldn’t be allowed. They should be drowned at birth.’
Drowning sounded good, but he nodded, and said, ‘What about Stan?’
In the blink of an eye, Jessie’s anger vanished, and she stared off to some point over his shoulder. Her eyes glistened from the cold, or from memories of Stan, Gilchrist could not be sure. ‘That’s why I couldn’t sleep,’ she said. ‘Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that bastard shoot him.’
Silent, Gilchrist waited for her gaze to return to him, then said, ‘You should make an appointment and talk to—’
‘I’m not talking to any psychiatrists,’ she said, then ran a hand under her nose. ‘Did that once before. Spilled out my heart to some prick who never uttered a word. He just sat there like a doo-wally and listened to me rattle it off. All he did in the end was offer me sleeping pills. I was so pissed off, I nearly took them.’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t trust myself. Thought I might take the lot. Lights out, and all that.’
Gilchrist frowned. ‘When was this?’
‘Years ago. Before your time. Before Robert’s, too.’ She stared at him. ‘Does Mhairi know about Stan?’
He nodded.
Jessie’s breath clouded in the morning chill. ‘I really thought they were going somewhere, you know? Stan seemed happy. Mhairi too. It’s so bloody sad.’
Gilchrist could think of nothing to add, and said, ‘What about Magner and Purvis?’
‘What about them? Cooper and her lot have already been here and done their stuff. Photographed the bodies ad nauseam then transported them to Bell Street. Cooper’ll be doing her best to cut them up. I hope she slices their balls off. That might cheer her up.’
He caught the emphasis, and said, ‘Cheer her up?’
‘She didn’t seem her usual self, you know? Miss Woman-of-the-World looking down in the dumps. Didn’t suit her.’ She shot a smile at him. ‘Think I might even have seen a hair out of place.’
He tried to cover his emotions with a smile of his own. ‘Well it would have been early on a Monday morning,’ he offered.
He thought Jessie returned his gaze for a moment too long, as if searching for something behind his eyes – the truth about his relationship with Cooper, perhaps, or some explanation as to why she might not have been herself. But what could he tell her? That Cooper was suffering from morning sickness? Or depressed over the imminent end of her marriage? Or – and this was even more troubling – that she had already decided to have a termination? Which he knew would be heartbreaking for her.
‘What happened across the road?’ Jessie said.
The non-sequitur confused him. ‘When?’
‘When I called Purvis on Magner’s phone.’
‘That was you?’
‘The IT guys were only trying to get a trace on his location, not set off a shooting match.’
The memory of the change in Purvis’s expression sent a chill down Gilchrist’s spine. If not for that chance call, he would not be standing there now. ‘You saved my life,’ he said. ‘Your call distracted Purvis and I took a chance. His shot still nearly took my head off, though.’
‘It nearly blew my ear out,’ she said, and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Uh-oh. Here’s trouble.’
Greaves was approaching them with his eyes fixed on Gilchrist. Not quite as bad as a Rottweiler eyeing his throat, but close enough for Gilchrist to brace himself for the onslaught. But Greaves surprised him by shaking his hand, and almost cracking a smile.
‘How’s the arm?’
‘Still sore, but getting better.’
‘It’ll take time to heal,’ Greaves said. ‘Fortunately, that’s something you’ll have a lot of.’
‘Sir?’
‘Your maverick approach has caught up with you at last, Andy. Big Archie wants a word.’ Greaves’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, or victory – it was difficult to tell. ‘Nine o’clock. His office,’ he added.
Gilchrist pursed his lips. Assistant Chief Constable Archie McVicar, a fair man, but a tough man to deal with if you ever crossed him. Not that Gilchrist had, or so he thought, but he could not shift the worry that McVicar’s urgent call would result in his being suspended. No matter how he tried to cut it, the facts were that Stan had been killed, and Gilchrist had been the Senior Investigating Officer. The more he thought about it, the more he came to see that suspension was the least of his troubles. Greaves’s grimace for a smile almost confirmed it for him.
‘I’ll give ACC McVicar a call, sir,’ Gilchrist said.
‘He’s expecting you in his office within the hour.’
‘Sir?’
‘I told him you would be there.’
Well, there he had it. Ordered about like a dumb puppy. He let several seconds of silence pass before he nodded to Jessie, then turned and walked back to the cottage.
He thought of trying to postpone the meeting with McVicar by pretending he had another hospital appointment. But Greaves would revel in the prospect of drilling him a new arsehole if he tried that. Still, he had too many unanswered questions in his investigation just to be pushed to the side, and in the end he decided to tackle the devil head on.
He wangled a lift to Glenrothes HQ with Nora Wells, a young WPC from the Anstruther Office. On the drive there, he was struck by her resemblance to his daughter – dark hair, brown eyes, smooth skin, slim to the point of skinny.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Sorry? Yeah. I’m fine. Why?’
‘You keep looking at me.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . . you remind me of someone.’
They continued the journey in silence, with Gilchrist sinking ever deeper into gloom. He did what he could to shift the spectre of suspension from his mind, but it refused to budge, so he tried to look on the bright side. It would give him time to help Maureen do up her flat – papering, painting, tiling, even tackling the new kitchen flooring he’d promised to lay for her. He shifted in his seat from a stab of pain, as if his body were reminding him he had only one arm in working order, and handyman jobs required two.
He sank back into misery.
WPC Wells pulled up in the car park at Glenrothes, then sped off before he had time to thank her, leaving him with the feeling that he was upsetting everyone that day. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets, and walked towards the meeting with McVicar.
He could always strike first, he supposed, and just hand in his notice.