JACK SAID, “THAT’S scary, man. What the hell does it mean?” Gilchrist had asked that same question a hundred times. And a hundred times he had come up with the same answer. I don’t know. On the drive back to St. Andrews, the word watchtower had prompted him to call Stan to initiate a search of the West Port, St. Rules Tower, St. Salvator’s, and any other tower-like structure in the St. Andrews area. But so far, no one had found a damn thing. Maureen no longer lived in Fife, so how many other towers were there in Glasgow, or Scotland, or the British Isles for that matter? A similar call to Dainty had resulted in a curt lack of manpower response, and a snide remark that left Gilchrist wondering if it was all just a hoax. Had Bully been teasing him, letting him think he was giving him clues, knowing they meant nothing? Now that would be Bully, devious and cruel to the point of mental sickness.
Bully’s voice came back to him.
I’m smarter than the whole fucking lot of you piled together.
And because Bully believed he was smarter, he had left clues. Gilchrist was certain of that. If Bully’s recitals had not been intended as clues, then what the hell did they mean?
Which brought him full circle.
He fingered the recorder. “Let’s go through it again.”
Jack seemed to have come to terms with Chloe’s murder, and had offered to help in Maureen’s disappearance. Trying to decipher Bully’s madness was a good start. He stared at the recorder, hand poised with pencil. Bully’s metallic voice whispered at them.
Jack hit the button, scribbled on his notepad.
“Wee, sleekit, cowerin, timorous beastie,” he said. “That’s the start of To a Mouse. Right?” He clicked the recorder on, then off again. “Which one’s that from?”
“To a Haggis.”
“Yeah, well, whatever. Maybe the clues are in the following lines, or something.”
Gilchrist had already thought of that, and more. Perhaps the clues were in the number of the verses within the poem, or in the date the poem was written, or in the number of words in the verse. Or in any other millions of different ways a nutcase like Bully could screw with your brain. But in the end he had come to see that Bully had wanted his body-part clues to be worked out, so that Gilchrist would come to him. So whatever clues he was giving needed to be tricky, not impossible—
“And this one?”
“Don’t know.”
Another click of the recorder. “This?”
“Tam O’Shanter.”
When Jack had all the verses down, he read them out, line after line.
Then he handed them over. “Any clearer?”
Gilchrist stared at the verses. No, God damn it. He was not any clearer. He was less clear. And what if the clues were in the next verses? That would be typical Bully. Plant the seed, and grow the wrong crop. But that would be too complicated. Whatever Bully was trying to tell him had to be in these verses.
His gaze returned to Oh princess, by thy watchtower be, the first verse Bully recited after Gilchrist asked where Maureen was. Was the secret to her disappearance hidden within that single line? He read it again. But he could think of nothing.
“I could search the Internet,” Jack said.
“Please do.”
“Just one thing.”
“You don’t have a computer.”
Gilchrist blinked. For Christ’s sake. He’d never had a computer at home because he used one at the Office. He reached for his mobile phone and got through in seconds.
“Nance,” he said. “Where are you?”
“At the other end of this line.”
“I need assistance.”
Serious now. “Shoot.”
“Can you get onto the Internet and download Robert Burns’ poems ‘To a Mouse,’ ‘To a Haggis,’ and ‘Tam O’Shanter’?”
“Can I ask why?”
“It’s important.”
“I gathered that.”
“And also the poem that contains the verse Oh princess, by thy watchtower be. And another that contains the verse Inhuman man! Curse on thy barb’rous art.”
“ ‘The Wounded Hare’?”
“The what?”
“Inhuman man! It’s the opening line of ‘The Wounded Hare.’ ”
Was Bully trying to scare him into believing Maureen was in some way wounded? But if so, how wounded? Before he could stop himself, he said, “Does it die?”
“The hare? Not that I remember. More like it was about to die.”
Gilchrist felt his breath leave him. That was it. Bully was telling him Maureen was about to die and there was bugger all he could do to prevent it—
“Hang on. Let me look it up.”
“You on the Internet?”
“Yep,” she said. “Ah, here we are. The second verse is, Go live poor wand’rer of the wood and field!”
Go live? Hope swelled—
“The bitter little that of life remains.”
Something slumped deep in the pit of his stomach. Well, there he had it. The hare will die. So would Maureen. And he could do nothing to stop it.
“I’m sorry, Andy,” Nance said. “Is it to do with Maureen?”
“Afraid so.”
“We’ll find her, Andy. We have to.”
Gilchrist puzzled at how close he felt to Nance. She seemed to be able to reach him with barely a murmur. “Can you read out the whole poem, while I write it down?”
When he hung up he read it from start to finish, returning to Ah, helpless nurslings, who will now provide that life a mother only can bestow?
He felt his lips tighten, his eyes nip. Would Maureen ever become a mother? Would she survive to have children of her own? He read the poem again, but came up with nothing new. Did he have it all wrong? Were there really clues in the verses? Or was Bully setting him off on the wrong track?
But his sixth sense was stirring.
Bully had been expecting him. And he had turned up at Barlinnie. Which meant that Bully’s scheme was working to plan. The notes on Chloe’s body parts, sent to Gilchrist, and from which Bully knew Gilchrist would work out that Maureen was next. But were these lines now Bully’s clue for Gilchrist to save Maureen?
They had to be. Why else would Bully have recited them?
Then he realised that he could read these verses until he was blue in the face. He needed help. He dialled Nance’s number again.
“This is becoming a habit I could enjoy,” she said.
“Do you know if Hammie’s still around?” he asked her. “I need him to decipher some of this stuff.”
“I’m a detective. Not a psychic. Care to explain?”
Gilchrist gave her a rundown of his meeting with Bully, asked her to write down the lines Bully had recited, then said, “Maybe Hammie can make some sense of them. He was one of the best cryptologists I ever worked with.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“Tonight, Nance. I need it tonight.”
When he hung up, Jack said, “You look knackered, Andy. You need a break. I’m going to think about it over a pint. Like to join me?”
Gilchrist eyed the printouts. “I’d love to,” he said. “But I can’t.”
“Anything else I can do to help?”
He shook his head. “Have a pint for me.”
With Jack gone, he started sifting through the printouts. Some were printed emails, others copies of typed letters. He had no idea what he was looking for, then realised he had forgotten to collect the rest from Leighton. But even if he had them all in front of him there was nothing more he could do. He had only one pair of hands, one pair of eyes. He glanced at his watch—22:09. In less than two hours, Maureen would have been missing for one more day, and he was no further forward. He pressed on with reading her correspondence, but half an hour later took a break to call Nance.
“Any luck tracking down Hammie?” he asked her.
“Moved to the Borders. But I’ve got him working on it.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I recited the verses over the phone. That was what you wanted, right?”
It took a full two seconds for Gilchrist to realise the folly of his thinking. He’d had it in his mind that the verses needed to be hand-delivered. Maybe Jack was right. He really was knackered. Nance’s voice came at him as if from a distance. “What’s that?” he said.
“I was asking if you’ve eaten.” He hesitated long enough for her to say, “Why don’t I nip down to the chippie and bring you out your favourite?”
“I’m on my way.” The line went dead.
Gilchrist closed his mobile then removed a letter from the next pile.
A note to Tracy. Never heard of her. He eyed the date. Two years ago. Then the address. West end of Glasgow. He lifted others, reading, but not reading, scanning for key words. Ten minutes later, he wished he had gone to the pub with Jack. One pint would—
He frowned at an addressee’s name.
Kevin Topley. Chris Topley’s brother?
Then the address. Christ.
He grabbed his mobile, called Nance’s number. “Where are you?”
“PM’s.”
“Stay there. I’m on my way.”
It was a long shot, but a shot nevertheless. He dialled Dainty’s mobile.
“Small speaking.”
“Dainty. It’s Andy. Can you get a hostage team together at short notice?”
“Is this to do with Maureen?”
“It is.”
“You know where she is?”
He wanted to hold back, say he was not sure, but instead said, “Yes. I do.”
THE COLD HURT.
It bit through her skin, wormed deep into her core, dug into the marrow of her bones. She pulled her legs to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, tried to stop shivering. But the cold cut through her woollen skirt and top as if she was naked.
Her breath rasped in grunts that stung. The pain in her chest was greater than the pain in her torn wrists. Her efforts to cut through the duct tape had caused the skin to rub off from the inside of her forearms, leaving gashes of raw flesh. She had ignored the pain, just kept driving her arms up and down. But when she managed to rip the tape off, the sight of her bloodied skin almost made her faint.
With her arms freed, she ripped the tape from her mouth, then her legs. Only then did she realise the seriousness of her predicament. She thumped the wooden door, appalled by its strength. She scraped at the hinges, dark and rough with rust. She eyed the keyhole, but saw nothing in the darkness of her tomb. A small gap at the bottom allowed her to slip her fingers under. But she felt only the dustiness of cold concrete. She shouted and screamed until her throat ached. She battered the door until she could no longer stand the pain in her fists. She scraped at the stone around the hinges until her fingernails bled.
Then the cold hit her.
Her chamber felt as cold as a morgue. Which was what this stone tomb was about to become. She saw that now.
Her own personal sarcophagus.