JACK STOOD OUTSIDE his tenement building.
His breath evaporated in drizzle as fine as haar. To his side, water dripped from a broken drainpipe, as steady as a metronome. Runoff trickled along granite curbs that edged North Gardner Street. He blew into his hands, tried to take the chill from his body, would have called for a taxi if he could afford it. But he had spent the last of his dole check on a tab of speed to keep him awake for his latest work, a life-sized figure sculpted from concrete and reinforcing steel rods finagled from a building site in Partick.
He could blame the sculpture for setting Chloe off. But if he was being honest, it was not the sculpture at all but the drugs that upset her. He saw that now. But he had taken her comments as a personal slight, and they had argued.
How could they have? Chloe loved his sculptures. And he loved her paintings. Together, they were a creative team. Apart, they were.…
He took a deep breath.
He missed Chloe so much. He never should have gone back on speed, and he never should have spent his dole money. What the hell had he been thinking? But now he was off the drugs. By God, was he off them. When Chloe came back he would tell her he was off them for good. He pulled his combat jacket collar tight to his neck, skipped down the worn steps, and started walking.
Chloe had been gone for four days now. Four days.
Amphetamines were great to keep you awake, but when you came off them, watch out. He had not missed her the first two days, been asleep most of the time. But it had now been four days since she told him to sort himself out or she was through with him.
You’re losing it, Jack. You can do better than this. I’ve seen you do better.
They argued. Man, did they argue. And the following morning she rose from bed and left. Just like that. But she never took her paintings. Which was her way of telling him she would be back. On the third day, he called her mobile phone ten times, and each time got the recorded message, It has not been possible to connect your call. Please try again later. He even tried her parents’ home then hung up when her mother said she was now living in Glasgow, and who is this speaking please?
He turned into Hyndland Road, and the wind stiffened, hard and cold against him. He tucked his head and braced himself as he waded into it.
Chloe wasn’t dead. The hand wasn’t hers. She was staying with Jenny. That’s where she was. With Jenny. Not that he had spoken to Jenny, just that he knew Chloe and Jenny were close. Not as close as they had been when Chloe had been dating Kevin. But close nonetheless.
Kevin’s death had hurt Chloe, hurt her relationship with Jack, often came between them. Or it might be more accurate to say Kevin’s life came between them. For Jack had always thought there was more to Kevin than met the eye. He had seen Chloe about town with Kevin, first caught her eye three years ago at some party on the South side, fancied her even then. It was not Kevin that concerned Jack, but the company he kept. Jack was off drugs back then, and trouble was how he would have described Kevin’s friends.
By the time he reached Jenny’s flat, his feet were soaked through. As he scanned the list of names on the doorframe, he realised he could not remember Jenny’s surname. But her boyfriend’s name was Roddy, an Englishman with an English name and Scottish accent who worked in the city centre. They had dated for years. Chloe told him they split up.
He stopped at J. Colvin & R. Braithwaite.
That was it. Jenny Colvin and Roddy Braithwaite.
He rang the bell, turned his back to the door and blew into his hands. He felt chilled to the bone, gave out a cough.
A tinny voice crackled from the speaker. “Who’s this?”
“Jenny?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Jack Gilchrist.” He thought he heard a low curse. “I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
“D’you know what time it is?”
“It’s about Chloe.”
“Chloe?”
He wanted to ask if Chloe was there, tell her he needed to talk to her. But he thought Jenny might lie for her, keep her hidden. “It’s freezing out here,” he said.
The speaker buzzed, and Jenny said, “Come on up.”
He pushed open the heavy entrance door and fought off the feeling that Chloe was not there. On the top landing, the door to Jenny’s flat lay ajar. He stepped into a narrow hallway that smelled of burned toast. Jenny’s voice came at him from a doorway on the far right.
“In the kitchen.”
Jenny was dressed in a white baggy bathrobe that hung loose at the front and did little to hide the swell of her boobs. Her face looked tanned, as if she had returned from a winter holiday. She scowled when she saw him.
“Jeezo, Jack. What happened to you?”
“Chloe,” he said.
“So you keep saying.”
“Is she here?”
“I haven’t seen Chloe in months.”
“Not since before Christmas. Why? What’s happened?”
Jack felt the power go out of his legs. He stumbled to the kitchen table and sat. He fought back the tears, but could not stop himself.
He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.
BERT MACKIE CALLED Gilchrist shortly before 9:00 and confirmed he had found traces of oil paint under the nails of both hands and was waiting for results of a spectrographic analysis to determine the paint’s chemical composition. Gilchrist then ordered Nance and Watt to continue their investigation of all things artsy.
Brenda McAllister from the Procurator Fiscal’s Office instructed the examination of the second hand to be done under the supervision of two pathologists. Alec Simpson, from Ninewells Hospital in Dundee, was contracted to assist Bert Mackie.
Gilchrist assigned DS Stan Davidson to oversee a fresh search of the Old Course and environs and to interview the greenkeeping staff. Then he sent a trainee out shopping with instructions not to return until she had a map of the Old Course that detailed all features. Next, he called the Town Council and ordered the West Sands closed, including cancelling the beach-cleaning tractor, in case the killer had not taken the pathway route, but come in over the dunes.
Unlikely, he thought, but it kept the scene quiet.
He called Martin Coyle on his mobile not long after 9:00 with the intention of driving into Cupar to meet him. But Coyle was in St. Andrews checking out golf club sales, so they agreed to meet later in the Jigger Inn.
By lunchtime, the investigation was no further forward. Gilchrist’s hangover had returned with a vengeance, and after popping a couple of Paracetemol he decided a hair of the dog was just what the doctor ordered. He arrived at the Jigger ten minutes early and ordered a pint of Guinness. Coyle walked into the lounge before he had a chance to take a sip.
They shook hands like long lost friends.
“Pint?” Gilchrist asked.
Coyle had one of those faces that always seemed to want to smile. When he spoke, his eyes creased and his lips parted in a gap-toothed grin. “Just a tonic and lemon.”
“On a diet?” Gilchrist asked.
“Afraid not.”
“The wagon?”
Coyle smiled. “Alkey.”
Gilchrist thought he managed to keep his surprise hidden. He and Coyle used to run cross-country marathons together when Gilchrist joined the force and Coyle the Post Office as a telecommunications engineer. They would meet in the Whey Pat Tavern on a Saturday night at 5:00, and stagger home this side of midnight after sampling the wares of most of the bars in town. Coyle in a bar without a beer was like a golfer on the course without his clubs.
Gilchrist sipped his beer. “When did this happen?”
“Nine months ago. I woke up one morning with eyes like I had yellow fever. Doctor told me to give up the drink, or get measured for my coffin.” Coyle smiled. “Well, I’ve got the grandkid to think of now. Not to mention Linda.”
At the mention of Coyle’s wife, Gilchrist knew where the conversation was heading. But he was helpless to stop it.
“Do you still hear from Gail?”
Gilchrist grimaced. “Indirectly.”
“How is she?”
Gilchrist took another sip of Guinness, then, defeated, said, “She’s got cancer.”
“Christ, Andy, I’m really sorry to hear that.” He paused, then ventured, “Is it …?”
“It is.”
Coyle smiled. “That’s dreadful.”
Gilchrist dreaded Coyle asking after Jack and Maureen and the conversation turning towards Chloe, so he said, “Listen, Martin. I need a favour. Got a mobile phone number here. I’d like to see records from the start of the year. Including calls made today.”
Coyle whistled. “That’s a toughie,” he said. “Might need to wait a few days before today’s calls log on.”
Gilchrist nodded. A few days would be fine. As long as the wheels were turning. He handed the number over, and Coyle said, “I take it no one is to know about this.”
Gilchrist put on his poker face. “Know about what?”
It took a full two seconds for Coyle to catch on. He gave out a quick laugh, and said, “I get it. I get it.”
“Get what?”
Coyle slapped his thigh and chuckled some more.
Gilchrist bought lunch, two chicken sandwiches and chips, and managed to keep the conversation off Gail and his children. By 2:00 they were all talked out, having caught up mostly on Coyle’s life, his mid-life crisis with his wife, and the pregnancy of their fifteen-year-old daughter who had given them a surprise grandchild. Coyle left with assurances that he would call in a few days.
Gilchrist tried Maureen again, and this time she answered on the fourth ring with a curt, “Hello?” He choked a laugh, felt a dead weight lift off his heart and soar skyward.
“Have you stopped returning calls?” he grumped.
“Oh, hi, Dad. I got your message.”
“All ten of them?”
“I’ve been meaning to call. Sorry.” She made a noise like a sponge being squidged. “But you know I love you.”
And you’ve no idea how much I love you.
“I’ll make a point of calling more often,” she added.
“Well, that’s a start,” he said, then found himself asking the same question he always asked. “Any chance of you making it up this way?” and expecting the same answer.
“I think that might be possible.”
What? He pressed the phone to his ear. “Did I hear you right?” Maureen laughed, a soft rumble that cast up an image of dark eyes and white teeth and asked him how long it had been since they last met. Just after New Year? Had it been that long? “That’s wonderful, Mo,” he said, and meant it. “Any idea when this great event might take place?”
“Well, Chris and I are thinking—”
“What happened to Larry?”
“That plonker?”
“I thought you and he were … you know.”
“Were what?”
“I thought you, eh, loved each other.”
“Correct, Dad. Past tense.”
Gilchrist felt his face flush. He and Maureen never talked about her personal life, and his embarrassment reminded him how far he had drifted from her life. He made a mental note to try to sort things out when she came up.
“So, what’s this Chris like?” he asked.
“You can find out for yourself next month.”
“So soon?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Dad, before you cut me off with the Larry crap.”
“You’re both welcome to stay at my place,” he said. “Thanks, Dad. But Chris has friends up that way.”
“Of course. Right.”
As if sensing his disappointment, she added, “But I’ll run it past him. Okay?”
“Sure,” he said. “I spoke to Jack.”
“Who?”
He struggled not to rise to the bait. If he had spent more time with his family instead of the case of the day, then maybe Gail would not have had an affair, and they would still be together as a family. He thought of telling her why he called Jack, of his fears for Chloe, his concern for her own safety. But it was early days and he could be wrong. Rather than scare her, he said, “Jack told me about Mum.”
“Mum’s not doing well,” she said.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, Dad. She’s got Harry,” then added, “I’m sorry. I know how you feel about him.”
Gilchrist eyed his pint. When he first met Gail, they would get drunk together, as if it was some rite of passage Scottish couples had to negotiate. Back then, Gail drank wine and the odd beer, but after nineteen years of a bitter marriage no longer drank. And she hated that Gilchrist continued. Dark beer especially riled her. He had never understood her rationale.
“By all accounts,” he said, “Harry is a nice guy.” He took a sip, waited for Maureen to speak, but his phone beeped. “Hang on, Mo. I’ve got another call.”
“That’s okay, Dad. I’ve got to go. I’ll tell Mum we spoke. Talk to you later.”
“Listen, Mo. Will you be careful?” But she had hung up. He switched lines, and said, “Gilchrist.”
“Andy, it’s me.”
“Jack?”
“I’m at Leuchars station. Can you pick me up?”
Confused, Gilchrist felt his hopes rise, then stall. “You have Chloe?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Gilchrist said, although he thought he did.
“I need to look at the hand.”