GILCHRIST PASSED THE Links Road and noted the spot where the Vauxhall Astra had parked, a dry patch on the road, darkening by the second from a steady drizzle moving in from the sea.
He played out the scene in his mind’s eye.
Car parked at the corner, its occupants peering through the windows to make sure their grisly package was found. Then releasing the handbrake and cruising downhill, into gear and the clutch out.
That was the sound he had heard, the Astra bump-starting.
He powered through the mini-roundabout and raced out of town. The clock on the dashboard read 5:43. Ahead, the Roadster’s twin beams pierced the darkness. The rain had almost stopped, and the road glimmered with beads of water as bright as ice.
He roared past the Old Course Hotel to his right, its tan façade alight from an array of spotlights, then on to open countryside, all zipping past unseen in the pre-dawn dark, like nighttime memories.
He glanced at the dashboard—5:46. When had he heard the bump-starting? Fifteen minutes? Ten? Less? At sixty miles an hour, fifteen minutes would put the Vauxhall fifteen miles away. Through Cupar. And he would be too late.
Ten would be too late, too.
He grabbed his phone, poked in Nance’s mobile number from his list of contacts.
She answered with a snappy, “Hold your horses, big boy. I’m on my way.”
“Get onto the PNC and do a search for Vauxhall Astras,” he said. “Dark-blue or black. I want names and addresses of all owners living in Glasgow.”
“Care to tell me what’s going on?”
“We have another body part down by the Golf Museum.”
“The Office already called,” she said. “The left leg.”
“Surprise, surprise,” he hissed. He felt his teeth grind. “When Watt shows up, make sure you nail his feet to the ground until I get back.”
“Got it.”
Another glance at the dashboard. Almost ninety. If the Astra was doing sixty, he was making up a mile every two minutes. If it had a ten-minute start on him, it would take twenty minutes to catch up. By which time he could have reached Cupar and had a cup of tea and a sandwich. That thought settled him down. No need to kill himself hounding the rabbit into the snare.
He eased his foot from the pedal and called the Office. As soon as he was connected, he said, “Has Cupar Division been called?”
“One minute, sir.”
“Don’t put me on.…” Shit. He pulled out to overtake a van, caught a glimpse of an angry face as he shot past. What were these people doing up at this time? Back into the inside lane, dabbed the brake for the left-hand bend, through it and foot to the floor again.
Seventy-plus. Still too fast.
He eased back.
“I have Cupar Division on the phone for you, sir.”
“That’s not what—”
“DC Grant Neville. How can I help?”
Gilchrist felt his jaw clench. Nothing had been done about setting up the road block. Not a damn bloody thing. He should have called himself. Shit. And damn it. He felt his foot pressing to the floor again. “This is DCI Gilchrist of St. Andrews Division,” he said, struggling to keep his tone level. “I asked for a road block to be set up on—”
“Yes, sir. We’re taking care of that.”
Gilchrist felt a surge of regret at his misplaced assumption. Maybe he needed a refresher course on anger management. “That’s good,” was all he could think to say.
“The occupants are armed and dangerous,” continued DC Neville. “What are we looking at here?”
All of a sudden, Gilchrist felt like the boy who cried wolf. What could he say? That it was a spur of the moment thing? That it was only a hunch? Greaves’ voice came back at him, ingratiating as ever. I need more than just a hunch. I need results. Why the hell could he not keep his thoughts to himself?
“Sir?”
Gilchrist cleared his throat. “I’m SIO on the body part investigation in St. Andrews. A limb turned up half an hour ago. We believe the occupants of the Vauxhall can help in our investigation. We need to apprehend them for questioning.”
“Do you have the registration number?”
“No.”
“How many occupants?”
“Don’t know.”
“Male or female?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do you know if they’re armed?”
Bloody hell. This was as bad as being cross-examined. “We don’t know for certain,” he said, “but he, she, or they should be approached with caution. Is that clear enough?”
“Very good, sir. Anything else I need to know?”
Gilchrist’s mind turned up a blank. “I’ll be with you in five minutes. Don’t let any cars through until I get there.”
“Very good, sir.”
Gilchrist offered curt thanks and hung up.
He neared the Guardbridge roundabout, shot through it at sixty-plus, and up the hill towards Dairsie. He tried to rationalise his thought process, but that niggling gut feeling of his was telling him to keep going, keep chasing, you’ve got them trapped.
At 5:54 he reached the roadblock, no more than twenty cars end to end in a line that stopped at a police car with blue twirling lights. He pulled his Merc onto the pavement, and switched off the engine. The ground felt dry, the air fresh and crisp. The rain had somehow missed Cupar. He walked past the end car, a yellow Fiat, then on past a white Lexus, then a tired-silver Jaguar XJ-12 with an unfinished repair to the boot lid. Under the streetlights the red-oxide patch looked like blood, which had him thinking what Chloe’s last thoughts had been as she watched her lifeblood leave her.
Jesus, he was torturing himself. But images of Chloe’s body lying in a pool of blood kept stirring in his mind. He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and kept walking, past a decrepit pick-up with a ladder strapped to its roof, onto a Ford, past a Transit van, another Ford, and a—
The black Astra sat four cars from the front.
He forced himself to keep walking.
Exhaust fumes rose from idling engines like steam from panting horses. He felt his pulse quicken as he neared the Vauxhall. Almost on it. For one moment he toyed with the idea of just opening the driver’s door and dragging whoever was inside onto the ground.
He drew level, threw a glance inside. The windows were misted.
But through the steamed glass he saw two passengers. Both male.
Then he was past it, fighting the urge to glance back.
He kept walking until he reached the police car, its lights rotating in the night air. Two uniformed constables stood with their backs to their car. He stepped up to the taller of the two, a smooth-faced hulk of a man, about an inch or so taller than himself. He flashed his warrant card and introduced himself.
The tall constable was Mark Graham. The other, Vic MacKay.
“Where’s DC Neville?” Gilchrist asked.
“On his way, sir,” Graham replied.
“Did he tell you what we’re looking for?”
“Vauxhall Astra. Dark blue or black.” Graham nodded over Gilchrist’s shoulder and, with all the stiff-lipped subtlety of a trainee ventriloquist, added, “Like the Vauxhall four from the front, sir?”
“We’ve checked with PNC,” MacKay said. “It’s registered to a James Fletcher.”
“Address?”
“Ardmore Street, Glasgow.”
Glasgow. Was his hunch right? Was his sixth sense doing the impossible? He told Constables Graham and MacKay how he wanted to handle it. They nodded in understanding.
“Right,” Gilchrist said. “Let’s get on with it.”
He turned to the first car, a glistening black BMW 531, and stepped onto the road. He waited until the driver opened his window, then said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. You can drive on now.”
The driver frowned, as if undecided whether to be annoyed at the delay or relieved it was over, then spurted through the gap between the police cars with a squeal from the tyres.
Gilchrist did the same with the next vehicle, an ageing Ford Capri and a carefree farmer, then the next, a Landrover and a platinum blonde in her seventies, two dogs in her lap. She had to be violating some traffic law, but he waved her on.
The Astra pulled level and drew to a halt as he held up his hand.
Graham and MacKay stepped onto the road in front of it.
Gilchrist tapped the window, leaned forward as it opened.
The driver tried a smile. “Any problems?”
Even from those two words, Gilchrist detected the hard Glasgow accent, the street-wise manner. Not your upper-class citizen. He eyed the passenger who sat with his face to the front, as if he could not look the law in the eye. “Pull off to the side of the road, sir.”
The driver grimaced, swarthy features gaunt and rough from a couple of days’ growth. “What’s this in aid of?”
“Pull in over there, sir.” Harder that time.
The driver bumped the Astra onto the pavement with a squeal of rubber that had MacKay reaching for his truncheon.
Gilchrist waved the remaining cars through while Graham stood next to the Astra and MacKay returned to his vehicle to carry out preliminary checks. When the traffic cleared, Gilchrist walked over to MacKay and pushed his head through the open window.
MacKay was seated, the driver’s licence in one hand, his radio in the other.
“Does it check out?” Gilchrist asked.
“It checks. James Fletcher. The Vauxhall’s registered in his name.”
“And the other guy?”
MacKay shook his head. “Says his name is Joe Smith. I was thinking nothing out of ten for originality, then he hands me a passport.” He held the burgundy-coloured passport up and gave a wry smile. “Joseph Smith.”
Gilchrist frowned, doubts already niggling at him. Who carried their passport around with them? “Right,” he said, and walked over to the Astra. He nodded to Graham. Like a choreographed act, he and Graham gripped opposite door handles and opened the passenger and driver doors in unison.
“Could you please step out, sir,” Graham said.
Gilchrist smiled down at the upturned face, then stepped back as Fletcher slid out.
“Will someone tell me what the fuck’s going on?”
“No need to use foul language, Mr. Fletcher.” Gilchrist watched a mixture of anger and surprise shift behind the man’s dark eyes. “Where are you driving to?”
“From?”
“St. Andrews.”
“Both of you?”
“Yeah. Me and my mate, Joe.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? Because I like him. That’s why.”
“I meant, why are you driving to Glasgow Airport? Do you have a plane to catch?”
“Yeah,” growled Fletcher. “We were going on our holidays until you lot stopped us.”
Hence the passport. “Spain, is it?”
“Cyprus. Like to see the tickets?”
Gilchrist gave a short smile, doubt swelling in his mind. “Not at the moment,” he said, then added, “Your car was spotted this morning parked adjacent to the Old Course.”
“So?”
“What was it doing there?”
“That’s where I park it.”
“Overnight?”
“Yeah.”
And at that instant, Gilchrist saw his error. The dry patch on the road surface. The storm had lasted the best part of an hour. The Vauxhall must have been parked longer than that, and he felt the beginnings of a flush warm his neck and work its way to his cheeks.
“Your licence has your address in Glasgow,” he tried.
“We’ve just moved up here.”
“To do what?”
“Look for work.”
“As what?”
“Caddies.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At a friend’s flat.”
“Yeah.”
“Address?”
“A dump in Howard Place.”
The Links was no more than a couple of hundred yards from Howard Place. “Why park in The Links?” Gilchrist asked.
“Starter motor’s shot. Park at the top of the hill, so I can get a good run.”
“For a bump-start?”
“Is that against the law?”
“Not yet,” said Gilchrist, and tried another smile. Shit. How could he have been so blinkered? He had it wrong. Or was he missing something? He was about to buy Fletcher’s story, when he frowned. “How long are you staying in Cyprus?”
“Nine days.”
“Nicosia?”
“Limassol.”
“Where are your suitcases?”
“In the boot. Where’d you think?”
If Fletcher was telling the truth, then either Gilchrist or Lambert should have heard the boot being closed. “This morning, did you?”
“Huh?”
“Put your suitcases in the boot this morning?”
“Last night. So we’d get a quick start.” Fletcher must have seen the despair in Gilchrist’s face, for he said, “Look, pal, we really do have a plane to catch. Do you mind?”
Gilchrist tried one final question. “When you fly back from Cyprus,” he said, “how are you going to start your car at the airport?”
“Jump leads.” Fletcher looked at his watch. “Why don’t you look in the boot?” He held up his keys. “Here,” he said. “Let me show you.”
He raised the boot lid, pulled one of the cases out, and thudded it to the ground. Then he slipped his hands down the side of the other. “Look,” he said, holding up a pair of jump leads. “Believe me now?” He threw them back into the boot with a whispered curse, and said, “Joe’s got the tickets.”
“Thank you for helping us with our enquiries, Mr. Fletcher.” He tried a smile. What a fuck up. “Have a good holiday.”
“Is that it?”
“It is.”
Fletcher grunted and heaved the suitcase into the boot.
Gilchrist gave Graham a quick shake of his head, and heard the boot lid close with a force that made him think Fletcher imagined decapitating him.
Before the Astra drove off, Gilchrist called Nance. “Forget the PNC,” he said. “It’s the wrong car.”
“There is a God after all.”
“Praying for a break, were you?”
“Something like that.”
“If you’re going to pray for anything, Nance, pray that we find this guy. I think we’re in for a rough ride.”
He hung up and watched the Astra pull to a halt at the traffic lights. Maybe it was something in the heat of the moment, some surge of adrenaline in the anticipation of making an arrest that triggered his thought process. Or maybe not. Whatever it was, he had learned over the years to trust it.
Murder.
Massacre.
Now Bludgeon.
He whispered the words, rolled them around his mouth, not liking the feel of them, liking even less the dread surging through him like a wave of despair. Three. That was the magic number, the minimum needed to create a sequence. And he thought he saw the start of some sequence, some reason for the order in which the words were being fed to him.
But he could be wrong.
He dabbed his forehead. It felt sweaty and cold.
Which told him he was worried. He was worried sick.
His hunch with the Astra had been wrong. So wrong.
And he prayed to God that the thoughts stirring in his mind to reach their numbing conclusion were wrong, too.
But he could not rid himself of the fear that this time he was right.
“NEXT TIME I tell you to fill it up with petrol, you fill it up with petrol. You got that?”
“Yeah, big man.”
Jimmy clipped the side of Wee Kenny’s head.
“I hear you, big man, I hear you.”
He clipped Wee Kenny’s head again, once, twice, then balled his hand into a fist and thudded it into Wee Kenny’s head with two quick hits.
Wee Kenny howled. Tears filled his eyes. But Jimmy knew Wee Kenny would not retaliate. That would make it worse. Wee Kenny had fucked up.
Jimmy punched him again, this time caught him on the ear.
Wee Kenny squealed. “Sorry, big man. Sorry. It’ll no happen again.”
“You’re fucking right it’ll no happen again.”
His next punch glanced off the back of Wee Kenny’s head. “Stupid wee fucker,” he growled. “That could have been us back there. Done and fucking dusted. D’you fucking understand?”
Wee Kenny looked up with a silent plea, and Jimmy timed a punch to his mouth that cracked his lips and cut short any thoughts he might have had of trying to explain. “And how often have I told you to get the boot painted?” Jimmy roared.
“A lot of times, big man.”
“That’s right. A fucking lot of times.” Jimmy leaned across and punched Wee Kenny in the mouth again, pleased to see that he had drawn blood at last. Then he pressed himself into his seat and gripped the steering wheel. The first thing he would do when he got back to Glasgow was organise a respray. Maybe change the colour. But he liked silver. The paint might look a bit dull. But it gave the Jaguar some class.
Except that dent on the boot still needed doing.
And after the respray he would take care of Kenny.
The wee man was becoming a fucking liability. Thicker than two short planks, so he was. He would talk to his brother, convince him that Wee Kenny was no longer fit for the job. Bully would understand, then give the thumbs-up. Or was it thumbs-down? He bet the wee man would bleed like a pig. Squeal like one, too. He smiled at that thought and reached over to Wee Kenny’s shoulder.
“You all right, wee man?”
“I’m fine, Jimmy. I’m fine.”
“Sit up, then. I’m not going to hit you.”
“You sure?”
“Anyone can make a mistake.” Jimmy smiled. “Don’t worry about a thing, wee man. I’m going to look after you.”