“I’M SORRY, JACK, but Chloe’s body won’t be released until Bert’s done.”
Jack stared out the windscreen in silence, while Gilchrist brought him up to date with the rest of his investigation. But he mentioned nothing of Maureen’s note.
Deep in his own misery, Gilchrist drove through the back streets of St. Andrews. Jack confirmed that Bully’s bastardised line was the opening line of Robert Burns’ poem “Mary Morison.” Instead of, Oh Mary, at thy window be, Bully had changed it to, Oh princess, by thy watchtower be, which told Gilchrist that Bully was responsible for Maureen’s disappearance, and that somehow, somewhere, a tower had something to do with it. Or maybe not.
Gilchrist pulled the Roadster off the road, switched off the engine. He opened the door, turned to Jack. “You offered to help? Well, here we are.”
Leighton looked tired. His jowls shivered with irritation. “It’s taken me longer than I thought it would,” he grumbled. “Even with three printers. But I’ve finished it now.” He lumbered down the hallway and into the front room.
Gilchrist and Jack followed.
Five stacks of printed paper stood on the carpet.
Gilchrist picked up two, while Jack took the rest. As they walked back outside, Gilchrist said, “Send me the bill.”
That seemed to please Leighton, for he smiled and tugged at his belt.
Driving back to Crail he said to Jack, “I’d like you to go through Maureen’s stuff. Put a Post-it at anything that references Watt, Glenorra, Topley, and anyone or anything else you don’t understand, or that seems suspicious.”
“I was dreading you asking me to do that.”
“You did offer.”
“Yeah, I suppose I did.”
GILCHRIST DID NOT find Maureen by the end of that day.
Nor by the end of the next.
Strathclyde’s Forensic teams confirmed that the discarded clothes belonged to Maureen. Blood, bone and skin tissue recovered from the butcher’s bench confirmed that Chloe had been dismembered in the shed. Chris Topley, registered owner of Glenorra, was grilled in person by Dainty for four hours, but denied being within ten miles of the house. Alibis were presented and checked, and Topley walked away as clean as his laundered suit.
Gilchrist’s search of towers in towns along the east coast—Crail, Anstruther, Pittenweem to the south, and as far as Newport-on-Tay to the north—had offered him nothing more except late nights and less sleep. At his frantic persistence Dainty had finally relented and organised a small team to investigate towers in Glasgow, beginning in Easterhouse, where Bully last lived, then stretching farther in a widening circle. But nothing came of it.
Bully was interrogated in Barlinnie by Strathclyde’s top negotiators for ten straight hours. They even hinted at the possibility of a deal. Just tell us what you know, where you’ve instructed the body to be hidden, and we’ll look to get you a pardon.
But Bully said, “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bastard,” after which he refused to utter another word. And for ten straight hours, he sat and smiled at them.
By the morning of the following day Gilchrist had come to realise that no one would find Maureen. That was Bully’s revenge. It mattered not that he had murdered a family of six, including a five-year-old child. A typical psychopath, Bully had no conscience, moral or ethical, no sense of remorse or compassion, took no responsibility for his actions, and could therefore suffer no emotional consequences for his misdeeds.
It was now clear to Gilchrist that Bully had planned to frighten him into believing Maureen was about to be served up to him in bits, and if he solved the clues he could ride in on his white stallion and save his princess. But he had not reckoned on Bully’s trump card, that he had never planned to hack Maureen into pieces, but to have her kidnapped and killed, and her body buried where it would never be found. Gilchrist thought of interrogating Bully once more. But doing so would let Bully see his pain, give him another opportunity to taunt him with his secret knowledge.
So, he decided against it.
Hammie could offer nothing more than Gilchrist already knew. Bully’s reference to Burns’ words contained nothing mystical. The message was clear for all to see in Bully’s bastardised line, Oh princess, by thy watchtower be.
According to Hammie, Bully was telling Gilchrist he knew where Maureen was, and his lips would be sealed until the day he died. And the use of the poem “Mary Morison” was significant as it was generally understood that the Mary Morison in Burns’ poem was Alison Begbie, whom Burns dated when he was in his early twenties, but who refused to marry him. The psychological parallel being that where Burns had failed in his quest for a wife, so too would Gilchrist fail in his search for his daughter.
The other verses were nothing more than smokescreen.
Gilchrist had a different opinion, convinced that Bully had given him a clue, strong in his own twisted belief that he was smarter than everyone. But Gilchrist knew that Bully’s ego would be his downfall. That was the flaw in his miserable scheming.
So, he went to see Chris Topley again.
Nance came with him.
Topley entered the room in a suit that looked like silver shards of herring-bone. It glittered like foil when he walked by the window. He stood on the opposite side of his desk, and gave Gilchrist a gold-toothed smile. “Nice jacket,” he said. “Leather suits you.”
“Wish I could say the same about your suit,” Nance said.
Topley smiled at her. “Want me to throw you out now? Or fuck you later?”
“Try throwing me out now.”
Topley widened his gold smile. “Maybe we’ll just fuck later.”
“You wouldn’t get past Go.”
Topley lowered his eyes and stared at Nance’s crotch.
“Now we’ve got the foreplay out of the way,” Gilchrist said, “I’d like to ask a few more questions.”
Topley lifted his prurient gaze. “I don’t feel like answering any questions today.”
“Like us to arrest you instead?”
“I’d be interested to hear the charge.”
“Attempted rape.” Nance again.
“Do what?”
Nance stepped forward. She stood a couple of inches taller than Topley. “Believe me,” she said, “my story will stick. If DCI Gilchrist hadn’t arrived in the nick of time and pulled you off me, I do believe you might have scored.”
“You wouldn’t fucking dare.”
“You’d better fucking believe it. Now answer the nice man’s questions, or you’re going back to your cage in the Bar-L zoo.”
“Maybe I should call my solicitor.”
“That’s your prerogative,” Gilchrist said. “But we can be out of here in a few minutes, or we can take the long road. Your choice.”
“I’m clean,” Topley sneered. “Let’s have it. Anything to get rid of you lot.”
“You shared a cell with Bully Reid,” Gilchrist said. “For how long?”
“About a year.”
“If you know the answer, why ask the question?”
“To make sure you’re telling no lies.” Gilchrist caught a flush of anger wash across the hard face. “What did you and Bully talk about?”
“Are you joking, or what? How the fuck would I remember what we talked about?”
“Try.”
“It was a while ago.”
Gilchrist moved closer to the desk. “Did Bully ever mention my name?”
“Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”
“Did he ever mention my daughter’s name?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me. I don’t like it.”
Topley narrowed his eyes. “He never mentioned your daughter’s name.”
“Did he mention any woman’s name?”
“Sure he did. But I can’t remember them all.”
“But you remember he didn’t mention Maureen.”
“That’s right.”
“How did Maureen get a job with your company?”
“Replied to an ad. The same way every other bit of skirt gets a job here.”
“I thought some of them had a horizontal interview,” Nance chipped in.
Topley chuckled, his eyes flashing. “Want to apply?”
“Maureen’s a compulsive saver,” Gilchrist pressed on. “She’s kept every bit of paper she’s ever read, every letter she’s ever received, written, or just thought of. And that includes job advertisements.” He was lying now, just winging it, but sometimes you have to push. “We never found an ad for your firm in her papers. So, I’ll ask you for the last time. How did she get the job?”
“Word of mouth.”
“Now you really are pushing the boat out.”
“Do you know something?” Nance said. “I’m hoping you don’t answer the question, because I can’t wait to face you in court.”
Topley glared at Gilchrist. “Ronnie Watt,” he said.
The name stung like a slap to the face. Gilchrist struggled to keep his voice even. “What did Ronnie say exactly?”
Topley smirked. “Said he was going out with a tidy bit of stuff, right classy looking, tight tits with nipples out to here, the kind punters love to rub their cocks over. Nice legs, too. And a muff so fine you could floss your teeth with it.”
Gilchrist ignored the taunt. “And?”
“And she’d do anything to get a job.”
“So you hired her.”
“After the interview.” Topley flashed gold at Nance. “If you get my meaning.”
“When was this?”
“About a year ago.”
“By which time you’d been out of prison, what, a year, give or take a month or two?”
“Yeah.”
“Keep in contact with Bully, do you?”
“What for?”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“No.”
“Spoken to him since?”
“No.”
“Written to him?”
“No.”
“Contacted him in any way?”
“No.”
“Not even one visit, one letter, one call, to let Bully know you’d hired Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist’s daughter?” His voice had risen in ridicule, and he struggled to smother his emotions. But he was almost asking too much of his nervous system.
As if sensing this, Topley turned to the window, placed his hands behind his back, revealing a swallow tattooed on the inside of his left wrist. “You’re fucking fishing.”
“I take it that’s a Yes.”
Topley faced Gilchrist again. “N - O.” He etched the air with a pointed finger. “In huge big baby letters.”
Gilchrist forced himself to stay calm. “What about Bully’s brother?” he asked.
“What about him?”
“Talk to him?”
“Jimmy’s a nutter. Bad for business.” He hooked both thumbs under the lapel of his suit and hitched it up.
“So who’s your go-between?”
“Do what?”
“Your go-between,” Nance chipped in. “You know? The idiot who runs between you and Bully.”
“Like I said, you’re fishing.”
“How about Glenorra?” Nance asked.
Topley’s eyes narrowed. An arm searched for the back of his chair and rested against it in an air of casual indifference. But he would never pass an audition.
“We know you own it.” Gilchrist again. “So be careful how you answer the question.”
“What question?”
“Was it ever Kevin’s?” Gilchrist asked.
“We used to have a half-share each.”
“After your mother died?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what?”
“Kevin died.”
“And left Glenorra to you?”
“Yeah.”
“You deaf or what?”
“And the hut at the back?” Nance said.
“What about it?”
“You own that, too, do you?”
“Yeah.” A bit unsure.
“When were you last at Glenorra?”
“What the fuck’s going on? I’ve explained all of this to that tiny fucker—”
“Just answer the lady’s question, will you? There’s a good boy.”
A sniff. A tightening of his grip on the back of the chair. “About a year ago.”
“Never been back since?”
“No.”
“You still got a key to the hut?”
Topley shrugged. “Could do. It’s been a while.”
“Ever get another one cut?”
“What for?”
“Ever lend it to anyone?”
“Like I said, what for?”
“Why don’t you let us ask the questions?”
Topley shifted his shoulders. “I never got a key cut and I never lent one out. That fucking good enough for you?”
Gilchrist smiled. “Book him,” he said to Nance.
“Here. Hold on a fucking minute. Book me for what?”
“Accessory to murder.”
“Do what?”
“You heard.”
“You can’t just come in here and fucking—”
“Oh yes I can sonny Jim, oh yes I can.” Gilchrist leaned across the desk, glared hard into Topley’s tight eyes with a hatred that worried him. How much more of this could he take before he flipped? How many more lies could he listen to before he took the law into his own hands?
He pulled back. “Book him,” he said again.
Nance stepped forward.
“She warned me about you, she did,” Topley complained. “Said you were a right evil fucker.”
Gilchrist pushed Nance back on her heels, moved so close to Topley that he could see beads of sweat on the flattened nose. It would be so easy to wrap his fingers around his neck and press his thumbs into the windpipe. “Evil?” he growled. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re nothing but a crook pretending to be straight.”
Topley’s eyes blazed. A chair bumped against the table.
“Andy.”
Gilchrist blinked, once, twice, as Topley’s face twisted into an ugly grimace.
But Topley’s hatred could never light a flame next to his own.