As GILCHRIST NEARED the Old Course Hotel, all thoughts of choking the truth from Watt were put on hold. Two SOCOs were erecting an Incitent on the other side of the stone wall that bounded the hotel grounds. Had they found another body part? But no one had called him. As he reached for his mobile phone it rang. He expected it to be the Office, but it was Mackie.
“They said they couldn’t find you.”
“I’m almost with you, Bert. What’ve you got?”
“The other leg.”
“And a note?”
“Cut into the flesh. Gouged out more like.”
Gilchrist slowed down. Up ahead, the Incitent shivered in the breeze. Would this note confirm his theory? If the order was wrong, the cryptic message might not make sense.
“What word this time?”
“Matricide.”
Gilchrist took a few seconds to go through the letters, then felt something heavy slap over in his gut. Murder. Massacre. Bludgeon. And now Matricide.
He hung up, stared off to the horizon, pressed his mobile to his lips.
He had his message.
He had known. He had known as soon as he had the third word.
And he had failed to act.
Two hands. Two legs. Four body parts. Four notes.
And he saw how the order could not be mistaken.
Left hand, right hand. Left leg, right leg.
The notes were being delivered in a specific order so the message was clear, with the simplest of codes so that he could not fail to work it out. He now knew he would be given three more body parts, all the killer would need to send his entire message. But it was worse than that. Much worse. If the killer planned on Gilchrist solving the puzzle, then he reasoned that it would be too late for him to be able to do anything about it when he did.
He parked on the expanse of grass that separated the Old Course Hotel from the main road, tried Maureen again, and cursed when it rang out. He should have been shunted into voice mail. He tried her mobile, but again could not get through.
Christ, it was happening. It was really happening.
He punched in the number for Strathclyde Police Headquarters and asked for Dainty.
“DCI Small speaking.” The voice sounded thin, just like the man.
“Pete, it’s Andy Gilchrist. I need your help.”
“If I can, Andy.”
“It’s Maureen.” He tried to sound calm, but could not control a quiver that seemed to catch the back of his throat. “Did you assign someone to watch her?”
“PC Tom Russell. He’s a good guy.”
“Can you have him bring her in?”
A moment’s pause, then, “Care to explain?”
Gilchrist did, and Dainty reassured him that Maureen must be all right, or he would have already heard from PC Russell. But when he hung up, Gilchrist could not rid himself of the gutsinking feeling that he was too late. It was her answering machine being switched off that worried him. Whenever Maureen was out, her answering machine was always on. It seemed to be how they communicated.
Now he was too late. And seventy miles too far north.
But Dainty was a good detective, and a good man, and Gilchrist took comfort from the thought that he would treat Gilchrist’s request as if Maureen were his own daughter. And maybe, just maybe, Gilchrist could do something at this end.
Mackie greeted him with a hardened face and a spare set of coveralls and gloves.
Gilchrist pulled them on and entered the SOCO tent.
A faint yellow light spread over the scene, making the leg look as if it was made of plastic. Gilchrist kneeled. MATRICIDE was cut along the length of the inner thigh and calf. Although the curves of the R, C and D looked irregular, he thought the word had been formed with some care. The leg had been amputated at the top of the thigh, with a clean cut. But the cut had been made too high, and a thin strip of pubic hair trimmed the edge like the beginnings of a weak moustache.
Gilchrist felt his throat constrict. This was the leg of a young woman he had spoken to, laughed with, had a drink with, someone who shared a life with his son with all the youthful aspirations of the future.
What could he tell Jack?
“Same method of amputation,” Mackie mumbled. “Some sort of saw. See here?” He pointed at the cut through the bone. “You can see the curved marks on the femur. See? And where it cuts into the skin. Here.” He ran a pointed finger along the edge.
Gilchrist nodded.
“I would say circular saw. We may be looking for a workshop of sorts.”
“Like a home workshop?”
“Could be.”
Gilchrist frowned. He was looking at too wide a target. Anyone could install a workshop in their attic, garden shed, or God only knew where. He needed to refine it. “How about the saw marks?” he said. “Can we tell the size of the blade from the curve?”
“Might do,” said Mackie. “But I wouldn’t want to bank on a high level of accuracy.”
“You might be able to define some diametrical limits.”
“Possible.”
Gilchrist eyed the leg, resisted touching the skin. “Why the different techniques?” he asked. “The first two notes were printed. The next two by mutilation.”
“To make us think there’s worse to come?” Mackie offered.
Gilchrist grimaced. Mackie had a point. If each body part was presented with a hand-printed note, where were the scare tactics? The purpose was to frighten him, let him solve the cryptic clues, so he would know revenge was being sought. He swallowed the lump in his throat, dabbed at the cold sweat on his brow. The tactics were working. He knew what the killer had planned, and now he needed a break in his investigation before, before.…
Jesus. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Think. Damn it. Think.
But his mind refused to work.
“This guy’s one sick bastard,” he said, and pushed past Mackie, out into the open.
He freed his hair from the coveralls and peeled off the gloves. The cold air carried the tangy taste of kelp. He breathed it in, almost revelled in the light-headedness of the moment. He unzipped the coveralls, removed his phone to try Maureen again, and was about to punch in the number when Mackie said, “Andy?”
Gilchrist snapped his phone shut and faced Mackie. Deep intelligence hewn from a lifetime of pathology shifted like a shadow behind the old man’s eyes.
“You know,” Mackie said. “You know what the killer is saying.”
Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. Did he know? Did he really know? He could be wrong. He hoped to God he was wrong. But every nerve in his body told him he was not. He shook his head. “I’m not sure, Bert,” he said. “It’s just a thought.”
Gilchrist stared off past the hotel, across the fairways to the grass-covered mounds of the dunes where they had sat on the windswept sands drinking ice-cold champagne.
First Chloe. And now.…
“I think Maureen’s next.”
Silent, Mackie returned his stare.
“I think that’s what the notes are trying to tell me.”
“Why do you think that?” Mackie’s voice resonated deep and calm. He placed his hand on Gilchrist’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Run it past me.”
“First note, Murder. First letter, M.
“Second note, Massacre. Second letter, A.
“Third note, Bludgeon. Third letter, U.
“Fourth note, Matricide. Fourth letter, R.”
Gilchrist watched the meaning of his words work through the old man’s mind.
“M, A, U, R,” Mackie said.
“E, E, N,” added Gilchrist. “Three more body parts.” He watched Mackie’s head turn to the side and his eyes stare at the tent, as if trying to imagine how he would feel if that leg belonged to his own daughter.
“I don’t want anyone to know, Bert.”
Mackie turned back to him, eyes creased against the sunlight. “Can I ask why?”
“I want whoever’s doing this to think we don’t know what’s going on.”
“Playing for time?”
Playing for time. What a way to put it. It sounded like a game. But it was no game. And Gilchrist saw then how he had run out of time. He should have had a couple of minders watch her round the clock earlier. But maybe he had it wrong. He stepped away from Mackie and opened his mobile. But he could still not get through.
He tried his cottage.
Three rings and he was through. He could not mention the latest leg to Jack. “I need to get hold of Maureen.” He struggled to sound calm. “Do you know where she is?”
“Probably with Chris.”
Gilchrist’s hopes soared. “You have a number for him?”
“Sorry.”
“Home number?”
“No.”
“Address?”
“Never met the guy.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know his surname, would you?”
“Sorry.”
“Thanks, Jack. You’re a great help.”
“Why don’t you try Mo on her mobile?”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” he said, and hung up.
He stared at his phone. When he had been Jack’s age, had he been as uninterested in family? He saw, as if for the first time, how like Gail Jack was. And Maureen, too. Had he contributed nothing to the gene banks of his children?
He struggled to refocus.
Despite the obvious, he tried Maureen’s mobile again, once, twice, then her home, counting twenty-two rings before hanging up. He glanced at his watch. Even if he jumped into his Merc at that moment, it would take him the best part of an hour and a half to drive to Maureen’s. But what would that achieve? And that thought made him realise that he had to place his trust in Dainty. Dainty would call as soon as he found Maureen. In the meantime, Gilchrist would do what he could to move his investigation forward, and pray that he had it all wrong.
But if his worst fears were realised, even God could not help him.
SHE CAME TO, her face pressed against carpet pile as short and rough as sandpaper.
She opened her eyes, but in the darkness she could have been blind. She moved her arms, and realised with a spurt of panic that she was bound, her hands tied behind her back. She gasped, but a gag as tight as binding tape pressed her lips shut. She breathed in through her nostrils, hard, struggling to stay calm as other senses stirred awake.
The smell of dirt and petrol.…
The thrum of speeding tires.…
Her stomach lurched at that moment, from movement that told her she was in the boot of some car. And again, as they crested a hill at speed and another fear hit her in a cold wave as she fought off the dizzying sensation of motion sickness.
She could not throw up. Her lips were sealed.
If she vomited, she would choke to death.
No. Not this, not this. Concentrate.…
Her throat constricted as her stomach spasmed.
Dear God, no.…