AT STRATHCLYDE POLICE Headquarters in Pitt Street, Gilchrist pulled in an old favour by having Dainty put out another appeal on national television. Dainty was all hard handshakes and curt commands, with nothing being too much for the search for an associate’s daughter, not even a follow up call with Chris Topley, which he seemed pleased to offer.
“It’ll keep the cheeky bastard on his toes, let him know we’ve got our eyes on him.”
“Getting too big for his boots?” Gilchrist asked.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
The appeal was set for the evening news, targeted for Glasgow and the surrounding areas. Gilchrist watched it with Nance in a bar off Charing Cross, and found himself holding his breath when Maureen’s face filled the screen. But no one seemed to take notice—Any person knowing the whereabouts of Maureen Gillian Gilchrist, twenty-three, slim-built, five ten, shoulder-length dark hair, last seen having a drink in Babbity Bowster in Merchant City several nights ago, should contact Strathclyde Police. A number was given for callers to use with anonymity.
Gilchrist pushed his unfinished pint across the bar and stomped out, Nance close behind him.
On the drive back to St. Andrews, he called Jack. Although Jack had not heard from Maureen, he sounded upbeat. Gilchrist took advantage of his cavalier mood and asked if he would call Mum, find out when she last spoke to Maureen.
Ten minutes later Jack called back.
“Mum was asleep, but Harry says he hasn’t spoken to Maureen since last week.”
“Did he mention the news? We put out an appeal.”
“He never said a word, Andy.”
Gilchrist felt his lips tighten. This was his and Gail’s daughter, Jack’s sister, Harry’s step-daughter, for crying out loud, and no one seemed to—
“I tried Jenny again, on the off-chance. But she hasn’t heard from her either.”
“Jenny?”
“Jenny Colvin. A friend of Chloe’s.”
At the mention of Chloe’s name, Gilchrist felt his lips purse. He had not told Jack about the left arm. Now was not the time to bring it up.
“Jenny saw Chloe last year. Way before Christmas. We would sometimes go out with her.”
“You and Chloe?”
“Sometimes Maureen, too.”
“I didn’t know you and Maureen went out together.”
“Not often. Maureen’s got her own circle of friends.”
“How about boyfriends? Did you meet any of them?”
“That’s how I met Chloe.” Things always seemed confused with Jack. “Jenny’s boyfriend knew Kevin.”
Kevin. Chloe’s boyfriend before Jack. Out of nothing comes something. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Jenny used to go out with Roddy. Roddy knew Kevin. We went to a party in the south side. I was with Sheila. Chloe was with Kevin. That’s where we met. Me and Chloe.…”
Gilchrist caught the saddening in Jack’s tone, thought he should end the call before the conversation turned to his investigation. But he still had a couple of questions left. “Whose house was the party in?” he asked.
“Kevin’s.”
“You wouldn’t know where Glenorra is?”
“Who?”
“I thought not. Did Maureen ever mention Glenorra?”
“Not that I remember.”
Gilchrist felt powerless to lift Jack’s spirits and now regretted having called. “Listen, Jack, I’ve got to go. Call you later.”
“Yeah.” And with that, Jack hung up.
Gilchrist sat his mobile phone in the centre console. What the hell was he doing? Have a chat with Dad and ruin your day? When was the last time he had spoken to Jack without picking his brain?
“Do you ever feel you’re losing control?” he said to Nance.
Nance placed her hand on his thigh and squeezed. “You give the impression of always being in control.”
He eyed the road ahead. Always in control? Of what? His family? His career? His life? That was a laugh. He felt as if he was hanging on by his fingernails while the stallion of life galloped off like some untamed beast. And Nance’s hand on his thigh had his thoughts reverting to other problems. If Greaves found out, he would—
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Gilchrist gave a defeated shrug.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “No one’ll find out about last night.”
Gilchrist eased the Merc through a sweeping corner. “And here was me thinking I was the one with the sixth sense.”
“I can read you like a book, Andy.”
“What am I thinking right now?”
“About how much you enjoyed last night, but don’t know how to tell me you don’t want it to continue.” Her hand gave a quick squeeze. He glanced at her, but she was staring out the side, into the darkness of the passing fields.
“It’s not that I don’t want it to continue,” he said. “It’s … I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship.”
“A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“That I would want us to have a relationship.”
“Isn’t that what this is about?”
“This?”
Gilchrist twisted his hands on the steering wheel. Why do women have the ability to flip the simplest of comments? “Well, isn’t it?” It was all he could think to say.
Nance eyed the road ahead.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “for being presumptuous.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said, “for making you sweat.”
“Who’s sweating?”
She laughed, a long chuckle that let him know the air was cleared. “I think that’s what I’ve always liked about you,” she said. “Your honesty.”
“It’s nice to know someone thinks I’m telling the truth.”
“Aren’t you?”
It seemed as if their convoluted conversation was some form of verbal foreplay. And he found himself wanting to move on. “So, tell me. What are you looking for?”
“In a man?”
“In a relationship.”
Nance turned her head to the side window again. Beyond, the countryside passed by unseen, like grey shadows shifting through the night. She stared out the window for what seemed like a minute, and Gilchrist was thinking he had offended her, when she said, “Affection,” then added, “and kindness.”
“Anything else?”
“And sex.”
“That sounds undemanding enough.”
“Especially the sex?”
“The affection.”
Nance slapped his thigh. “You smarmy bugger.”
“What about trust?” he asked.
“Kindness covers trust. If you’re kind to someone, you wouldn’t want to do anything to upset them. Therefore you can be trusted.”
“Touché.”
“Is it a deal?”
A deal? Gilchrist was on the verge of reiterating the bit about presumption, when he heard her chuckle. With women, he could never be unkind, which he supposed satisfied one of the criteria. “Let me think about it,” he tried.
Nance shook her head. “Men and commitment. Never the twain shall meet.”
“That sounds like a quote.”
“It is.”
“Who said it?”
“Detective Constable Nancy Wilson.”
Gilchrist gave a chuckle of his own. “I thought you didn’t want commitment.”
“Only to affection, kindness, and sex. The rest will follow.”
“The rest of what?”
“You’ll have to be affectionate and kind to find out.”
“What about the sex?”
“You’ve already passed that test.”
Gilchrist stared at the road ahead as an odd tranquillity settled over him. Nance was under his skin. She was under his skin from the moment she entered his bedroom last night. She had known he would not say no. And he had known that, too. But he could also see she had the ability to control him sans sex, twiddle him around her tongue with barely a flicker.
As they drove towards St. Andrews, he wondered if that was how he had behaved with Gail. Back then had he been as malleable? Was that why his marriage had failed? How was it possible to be so wrapped up in a career that more important issues slipped by? Was that the reason Maureen had drifted away from him? Had he spent too much time concentrating on issues of lesser import?
Family mattered. Family had always mattered.
Jack mattered. Maureen mattered. He just had not paid enough attention to that basic tenet. God, he prayed he was not too late to change that.
Maureen meant so much to him, he would die for her.
And he realised that without his children in his life he was dead anyway.