GILCHRIST RETURNED TO the scene of the crime. Yellow tape stretched the width of Golf Place, and traffic cones diverted beach-bound traffic onto The Scores. The SOCO tent was erected, the van parked in the centre of the road, doors open. The wind had died, and dawn was peeling back a cloudless sky, as if the early morning storm had been only a dream.
He parked his Mercedes next to Mackie’s Volvo Estate. He walked towards the tent where DC Alan Bowers, the Crime Scene Manager, was talking to Lambert. He saw no sign of Watt. He caught up with Nance scribbling in her notebook.
“Have you seen Watt?” he asked her.
“Been and gone.”
“Did you tell him I wanted to talk to him?”
“Of course.”
Gilchrist tightened his lips. Watt’s insubordination stiffened his resolve to have it out with Greaves. But he needed to get moving with his investigation.
He nodded to the row of hotels and guest houses that ran along The Scores. “Before anyone has a chance to check out,” he said to Nance, “I want you and Lambert to go to every door along The Scores. Find out which guests occupy the seafront rooms. Maybe one of them saw something.” He glanced at his watch. “You don’t have much time, so split up. You start with the Scores Hotel. Have Lambert take the one next to it. Then alternate after that. Get back to me by mid-morning.”
Nance walked away as Mackie emerged from the SOCO tent peeling his coveralls from his head. “Getting too old for this,” he said to Gilchrist, unzipping his coveralls. He stepped out of them, ran a liver-spotted hand over a balding pate. “Bludgeon?” He eyed Gilchrist, his sandy eyes creasing against a brightening sky. “Any idea what it means?”
Yes, Gilchrist wanted to say. And it frightens me to death. “Not yet.”
“Murder, massacre, bludgeon?” Mackie scratched his head. “What’s this sick bastard trying to tell us? Tell you?” His gaze fixed on Gilchrist with a directness that could unsettle judge-hardened prosecutors, and for one moment, Gilchrist felt certain Mackie could see through his lie.
“The leg’s a mess,” Mackie continued. “The branding’s uneven, probably as a result of not being consistently hot or applied with even pressure. You know what I’m saying?”
“A DIY job?”
Mackie almost smiled, a quick tug of the lips. “Starts off with the letters being over-branded,” he went on. “Too deep. Too long. Running into each other. By the end, it seems as if he has it about right.”
“Practice makes perfect?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“And another way?”
“Anger.”
Gilchrist waited for Mackie to continue. But the old man stared over his shoulder. Gilchrist had come to understand Mackie’s periods of silence, when he gave the impression of being inattentive, but in reality was deep in thought.
“It’s as if he was angry to start with,” Mackie went on. “Then calmed down as he progressed.”
“Worked his anger out?”
“Precisely.”
“A sadist?”
“Definitely.” Mackie raised an eyebrow. “Among other things.”
Mackie exhaled a long puff of air, and Gilchrist was almost wishing he had not asked the question. “I’m not a psychologist, of course. It’s just a feeling.” Mackie’s jowls jiggled as he shook his head. “It takes a certain kind of mental dysfunction to cope with cutting up a human body,” he said. “And an even greater insanity to brand words onto it. I would say whoever did this had to be more than cruel. He had to be devoid of feeling. No sense of compassion, no sense of ethics, moral or otherwise, an abject failure to consider the difference between right and wrong.”
“Psychopath?” Gilchrist tried.
Mackie nodded. “At a minimum.”
Gilchrist took a deep breath. He had dealt with a number of psychopaths in his day, had seen enough MRI scans on the brains of an assortment of criminals to know the neural activity in the pre-frontal lobe, that part of the brain that controlled impulsiveness, was lower in the brains of psychopaths than in normal humans. And without that ability to stop and think, to give consideration to the consequence of their actions, some psychopaths turned to murder.
Mackie cleared his throat. “This someone needs to be in control. The notes to you. The delay in the leg turning up. He’s keeping you guessing, letting you know he’s in control, or put another way, that you’re not in control. And if I had to guess, I would say he’s sexually deviant.”
“Why do you say that?”
Mackie shrugged. “Another feeling.”
Gilchrist thought he detected a hint of regret. “And?”
“This case is personal to you.”
“Let’s have it, Bert.”
Mackie frowned. “Whoever is doing this gains little or no pleasure from normal sexual activity. At a guess I’d say he’s into necrophilia.”
Necrophilia? Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. For God’s sake. What could he say to Jack? He closed his eyes and in his mind’s eye saw Chloe naked, her eyes staring blind-sighted to the ceiling, her small breasts shuddering from rhythmic thudding.…
Dear Jesus. He opened his eyes, gulped some air.
“Live bodies. Dead bodies.” Mackie’s jowls shivered. “I don’t think it matters which to this demented creep.”
Gilchrist stared off to the horizon. The sun was shooting pink streaks across the sky. How could the beauty of nature be spoiled by the rotten-to-the-core creature known as homo sapiens, who killed its own species for … for.…
For what?
Pleasure? Sexual satisfaction? Dead or otherwise?
He knew of no other species that killed for sexual pleasure. But maybe they were out there, hidden deep in some undiscovered tropical forest. Or at the microscopic level, where the struggle of life and death took on a—
“I’m sorry, Andy. I shouldn’t have.…”
Gilchrist shook his head. “I need to know your thoughts, Bert.”
Mackie reached for Gilchrist’s shoulder, and squeezed. “How’s Jack?”
Gilchrist thought back to last night, at Jack’s show of bravado, at eyes that lay dead behind a forced smile. “Having a tough time.”
“And you?” Mackie asked. “You look as though you’ve been out on the binge.”
Gilchrist could use a pint right there and then, but was not sure he could keep it down. “Tired,” he said.
Mackie gave Gilchrist one of his direct stares. “Any suspects? Any ideas?”
Gilchrist shrugged. “Working on it.”
“I think the answer’s in your past, Andy. Maybe someone you put away, someone vindictive enough to get even with you. Maybe someone recently released from prison.”
Gilchrist’s own thoughts had already paralleled Mackie’s. Whoever was doing this wanted to get even for some reason, likely because Gilchrist’s investigation had put him behind bars. He already knew that.
He had just not wanted to believe it.
“And cut back on the booze,” said Mackie.
Gilchrist walked towards the seafront, the breeze refreshing on his face. He inhaled, tried to clear his thoughts, chase his fears away. Cut back on the booze. What was the point of that? So he could be stone-cold sober when he next witnessed the sickest depravities of mankind? He reached the seafront. Several joggers were already running along the West Sands. A woman slipped onto the beach from between dunes and marched across the sand with arm-swinging strides. He followed her progress, felt his mind pull him back to the cryptic notes.
Murder. Massacre. Bludgeon.
He saw a sequence. But it was too vague. He could be wrong. Dear God. Tell me I’m wrong.
He inhaled the sea breeze, reached for his phone. He was wrong. He had to be.
He needed to hear her voice, needed to know she was all right. He dialled her number and eyed the black silhouette of a ship sliding over the horizon.
“Hello?”
Maureen’s voice sounded tired and heavy, and he pulled up an old image of a sleepy-headed toddler. He used to waken her with, Wakey wakey let’s get shaky, and bounce her bed with a roughness that always pulled a smile to her face. Then she would reach up to him with tired little arms, and he would lift her from bed and carry her downstairs, the smell of sleep in her hair like her personal morning fragrance.
“Wakey wakey let’s get shaky,” he whispered.
“Dad?”
“The one and only.”
A rustling of covers, then a tired chuckle. “It’s been years since I’ve heard that.”
“I love you, Mo.”
A pause, then, “Where are you?”
“Looking out over the West Sands. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Cold. But beautiful. A lovely day for a walk along the beach. Care to join me?”
Another chuckle. “Mum never said you were a romantic.”
Something turned over in his stomach at that comment. He used to send flowers to Gail, leave silly little love notes on her bedside table or pinned to the fridge when he was out on a case. And it struck him that he could not recall when he had stopped doing that. And Gail, too. When had she changed? When was the exact moment she stopped loving him? And why did he still struggle with her not being in his life? Was it because she had taken Jack and Maureen with her? Or was jealousy still smothering his emotions? And as a dark shadow worked its way through his mind he wondered how much longer Gail had to live.
“How’s Mum?” he asked.
“I saw her last night.”
Gilchrist stared off across the water of the Eden Estuary, not trusting his voice.
“She’s not well,” Maureen said. “I mean, she’s, she’s desperately ill.…”
“She’s not in any.…”
“She’s on a morphine drip, Dad. It’s only a matter of time.”
Only a matter of time. Dear Jesus. When he and Gail married he would never have predicted this was how it would end. He had imagined they would grow old together, walk the beach with their grandchildren together. Not like this. Bitter and apart.
“Is there anything, I mean, can I do anything.…”
“I don’t think so, Dad. I’m sorry.”
He felt his head nod.
“Have you heard from Jack?” Maureen asked.
“He’s here at the moment. Staying at the cottage.”
A pause, then, “Is it true about Chloe?”
“It’s looking that way.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “That’s awful.”
It’s worse than awful, he almost said. Necrophilia? Surely Mackie was wrong. “Did you know Chloe?” he asked.
“Met her a few times.”
“Recently?” he tried.
“A couple of months back.”
“Before Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“At Jack’s?”
“In town. How’s Jack taking it?”
“You know Jack. Doesn’t say much,” he said. “Keeps it to himself.” He felt a sudden need to change the subject. “Will you be seeing Mum again?”
“I see Mum every day now. But with the drugs and stuff she’s mostly out of it.”
He hated asking, but the words were out before he could stop himself. “Do you think she might … she might want to see me?”
“Oh, Dad.”
“Well then, if you can,” he said. “If you get a chance, Mo, will you tell her I love her?” Maureen’s silence only cut him deeper, made him feel the need to say more. “Will you tell her I’ve always loved her?”
“Oh, Dad.”
The words were whispered, and in her whisper he heard the echo of his own pain. He watched a pair of labradors splash into the sea and wondered why he had been against buying a puppy for Jack. “Listen, Mo,” he said, fighting to liven up. “Why don’t you come up to St. Andrews this weekend? I could maybe wangle an early night, take you out for an Indian—”
“I’d love to, Dad. But I’ve got stuff to do. You know. With Mum. And work and stuff.”
Her answer did not surprise him, but hearing her say she had work to do somehow settled his mind. “Sure, Mo. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
He wanted to tell her his fears about the case. But how could he? He could be wrong, so wrong, and doing so would only frighten her. “Take care now,” he said.
“Don’t I always?”
“And call me.”
“Sure.”
“No. I mean it, Mo. Call me.”
“Dad?”
“More often, I mean. We should talk to each other more often.”
“Okay, Dad. But I’ve got to go. Love you,” and hung up before he could respond.
He held onto the phone, listened to the echo of her voice in his mind, and worried that he should have been more direct with her. He felt that familiar need to fight off the dark feelings, heard his mind whisper, Focus on work. It’s how you’ve coped over the years. Cut everything else out and focus. On work. So he called Stan and asked him to track down anyone recently released from prison, who had been put away by Gilchrist years ago. But only those who had killed before, on the theory that revenge by itself was not reason enough to kill for the first time.
Or was it? Well, it was as good a place as any to start.
He walked from the seafront, back to DC Bowers. “Who’s checked in at the scene?”
Bowers opened his book. “Right here.”
Gilchrist scanned the signatures. His own was not there because he had arrived before Bowers, although a note had been added by Lambert that DCI Gilchrist arrived at the scene at 5:27 and thereafter identified the body part as a left leg. Gilchrist calculated that by the time he had donned his coveralls and carried out a preliminary inspection it had probably been close to 5:35, 5:40, when he left the scene. Nance’s signature was first after Lambert’s at 5:44, then Watt’s at 5:48.
Gilchrist thanked Bowers and walked past the R&A Clubhouse.
He reached his Mercedes and called the Office. “When was DS Ronnie Watt informed of the body part at the Golf Museum?” he asked.
“That would be, ah, here it is. 5:46, sir. You asked that we didn’t inform him before 5:45.”
Not quite, he wanted to say, but chose not to get into it. “Did you make the call?”
“I did.”
“How did he respond?”
“He just said he would be on his way, sir.”
Gilchrist snapped his phone shut.
Watt had arrived at the scene two minutes after the Office called, which meant he must have been on his way when they rang. Why would he be out and about at that time in the morning? He had guessed the correct body part. Had he also known when and where? It seemed that Watt knew more about the body parts than he should. Had someone called him before the Office had? If so, who? And why was Greaves hell-bent on having Watt on Gilchrist’s team when he knew about their past?
Too many questions. Too few answers.
Gilchrist promised himself he would change that.