Hand for a Hand (32 page)

“Fuck Bootsie. One wrong word from him and I’ll put him away for life.”

“Funny. That’s what Bootsie said about you.”

Watt’s jaw ruminated, and Gilchrist knew his words had hit home at last.

Then Watt picked up his pint, downed it, and turned from the bar.

Gilchrist grabbed his arm. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Bootsie’s safe and sound. Leave now and the next time you see him will be from behind bars. Not his.
Yours
.”

Watt tugged his arm free.

Gilchrist could almost see Watt’s mind trying to work out what he had over him. But in reality, Watt had little to fear. Gilchrist needed him to fill in the gaps. He could not let Watt leave. Not just yet.

He turned to the bartender. “Same again,” and waited until a glass was shoved under the tap before he said, “Talk to me, Ronnie. For Maureen’s sake, talk to me.”

Gilchrist thought he understood Watt’s dilemma. Watt had a soft spot for Maureen, maybe even loved her in his own way. But nothing could come of their relationship because of the past. And behind his back Watt had resurrected their affair by tricking Maureen into working for him. Now she was missing and might never be found, Watt could deny it, talk his way out of it, lie himself clear. But Gilchrist suspected that Watt was up to his neck in unofficial police work, straddling the fine line between working inside or outside the law.

It would probably not take much to put him away.

“If Maureen dies,” Gilchrist said to him, “I’ll make it my life’s mission to make sure you never see this side of a prison wall as long as you live. You got that?”

Watt’s eyes blazed for a long moment, then softened. He took another sip of beer, and said, “That body they found?”

“What about it?”

“Bootsie says it’s Wee Kenny.”

Gilchrist remembered Dainty mentioning Wee Kenny, but the name meant nothing to him, so he waited.

“Bootsie used to live in Glasgow,” Watt went on. “Left to start a new life. But some losers never change. With Bootsie gone, Jimmy Reid was looking for a new goffer.” Watt returned his pint to the bartop. “So what’s this about there being no drug shipment?”

The question threw Gilchrist, but he was not yet ready to give anything out. “Why the east coast?” he asked.

“Jimmy’s ill.”

Watt’s answer made no sense to him, but he said, “Flu, cold, what?”

“Cancer.”

Gilchrist felt a flush warm his face. His mind leapt to Gail,
and he had to blink once, twice, three times to clear the image. “Terminal?”

“Word is he’s got less than six months.”

“So he’ll be dead and buried by the time Bully’s out.”

“All his life he’s lived in Bully’s shadow. Even with Bully inside Jimmy still played second fiddle. But he can’t wait for Bully to come out. He wants to reap the benefits of a life of crime before he dies.” Watt took another sip of beer. “Jimmy’d been coming up this way several times a week. I figured he was getting ready to handle one final shipment.”

Now it made some sense. Watt had assumed that Jimmy’s visits to St. Andrews were to set up that final shipment. But he had it all wrong. The final shipment had already arrived, hidden in a coffin in the Auld Aisle Cemetery where it would remain until Bully got out of Barlinnie, or Jimmy shifted it before he died.

“Jimmy’s made three trips to Spain this year alone,” Watt said.

“Setting up his retirement villa?”

Watt nodded, sipped his beer.

According to Bootsie, he had told Watt when and where each body part was going to turn up, alerting Watt to Jimmy Reid’s visits to St. Andrews so he could keep his eye on him. What Gilchrist could not rationalise was that Watt had known Jimmy Reid was involved in Chloe’s murder, but had turned a blind eye for the sake of the discovery of a drug shipment.

“So how did Bootsie know when Jimmy was going to make a trip to St. Andrews?” Gilchrist asked.

“Wee Kenny.”

“Jimmy’s goffer was grassing on him?”

“Without realising it. Wee Kenny told Bootsie that Jimmy was about to hit pay dirt. And Bully’s putting it about that he’s going to be out in two and retire to Spain. I’d been keeping my eye on Jimmy for some time. He’s a right bad bastard. Some say he’s even worse than Bully.”

Now it was beginning to make sense. With Jimmy dying, the
key was the next six months. For Bully to take his revenge on Gilchrist, what better way than to have Jimmy take care of it while he was still in prison? What did it matter to Jimmy if he killed a few more? But where was he now? In Spain? Hiding in Scotland? Waiting for the final shipment—

“You still haven’t told me why you think there’s no drug shipment,” Watt said.

“We found it,” Gilchrist said, and puzzled at the look of distress that passed over Watt’s face.

“You found it?”

“All thirty million. Give or take a few.”

“Where?”

“The Auld Aisle Cemetery. In Topley Senior’s grave.”

Watt placed his glass on the bartop with practiced calm, then faced Gilchrist. “Two years,” he hissed. “Two years we’ve had our eye on that. Two years watching and waiting for the right moment.”

For once Gilchrist’s sense of logic left him. “You’ve lost me, Ronnie.”

“The drug shipment was never coming from Europe. It was
going
to Europe.”

Now Gilchrist understood. Topley’s grave was being used as a holding spot.

“Two years I’ve been monitoring the European connection.” The muscles on Watt’s jaw rippled across his face. “Two years flushed down the toilet, all because of you and your fucking daughter.”

Gilchrist hit him then, a straight-fingered punch to the solar plexus that had Watt gritting his teeth and gasping for breath. He caught the bartender’s alarmed look, but Nance stepped to the bar and held up her warrant card.

“Mine’s a pint of Eighty,” she ordered.

The barman seemed relieved to oblige.

For a confusing moment, Gilchrist wondered what Nance
had done with Bootsie, then he pressed on with Watt. “So, with Jimmy’s visits to St. Andrews you thought the shipment was about to be moved.”

Watt straightened himself, tried to act as if nothing was hurting. But from the grey sheen around his eyes, Gilchrist knew he was struggling. “Through Topley’s company.”

Part of a larger holding group. Some international company with too much money
.

“And you had Maureen spy on Topley and report back to you.” Watt almost smiled.

“You put Maureen’s life at risk, you pompous prick. For what?” The strength of his anger stunned Gilchrist. For sixpence, he could rip Watt’s heart from his chest with his bare hands. “Did you not think of telling her the danger she was in?”

Watt turned on him. “I tried to get her out,” he growled. “But she was having none of it. She refused to meet me. What the hell could I do? I ended up pleading with her on the phone about a week ago.”

The sixteen-minute call. “And?”

“She said she thought something was about to break.”

“Damn it, Ronnie. You should have got her away—”

“You still don’t get it.” Watt’s eyes burned. “It was Maureen who terminated our arrangement. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen. In the end she told me to fuck off.”

Gilchrist knew there was more than a hint of truth to Watt’s words. Maureen was like her mother—stubborn beyond reason. Surely her obstinacy had not got her killed.

“She wanted to write crime novels.” Watt tried a laugh. “Wanted firsthand experience, for fuck sake.”

Christ. All Maureen had to do was ask her father. Was he so far out of her life that she could not ask him for help? He focused his mind, intent on keeping the pressure on Watt. “But you needed someone on the inside,” he said. “So, you let her walk into the lion’s den.”

“She jumped at it.”

“Didn’t you tell her about Topley’s criminal background?”

“Of course I did. That’s why she fucking jumped.” Watt tried a smile, but his lips seemed not to work. He pushed his beer away and covered his eyes, and it took Gilchrist a full ten seconds to realise Watt was struggling to hold back his tears. He glanced at Nance, but she looked as puzzled.

He gave Watt a moment before saying, “What aren’t you telling me, Ronnie?”

Watt came to, stared at his pint. “Oh, she was a natural,” he said. “She had them all fooled. Topley never suspected a fucking thing. The hours were long. Which was part of the cover. No one would notice her working late, digging up shit. I thought she was safe.” He shook his head, lifted his beer. “I loved your daughter.”

Gilchrist felt his heart stutter at the past tense.

“And I’ll always wonder if I could have done more to prevent her being killed.”

Gilchrist gripped Watt’s arm. “What do you mean?”

“Mo’s gone, Andy. Bully’s closing shop. No one’s ever going to find her.
Ever
.” He tugged his arm free and turned to his glass. “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

Chapter 37

G
ILCHRIST THOUGHT HE
kept his emotions in check, but his stomach burned as if the beer was acid. Something flashed in his mind’s eye, an image of Watt’s bloodied face, Maureen’s tortured grimace, her lips pulling back in a silent curse. She hated him then, at that instant, at the moment of his discovery. Had she died with those thoughts?

He pushed away from Watt and stepped from the bar.

“Andy.”

Nance’s voice came at him as if from a distance. Fingers gripped his arm, tight as talons. He looked down, then up, then off to a picture on the wall, the window. Darkness outside. Another night. One more night without Maureen. In his life? Or in this world? Was she dead? Was Maureen really dead?

“Andy.” Fingers on his chin, turning his face.

“She’s gone, Nance,” he whispered.

Her eyes fired up. “You can’t give up, Andy. Not now.”

“No,” he said. “I’ve lost her.” The sound of his own voice puzzled him. Had he lost her? Or had she let him go? Was it as simple as that? Daughters fell out with their fathers, held grudges for days, weeks, months, could even hate their fathers.

Had Maureen hated
her
father?

How could she? When he sat her on his knee and pretended they were on a runaway horse together, he remembered how she had giggled and squealed and wrapped her arms around his neck. How could she hate him?

“Come on, Andy. Sit down.”

His arm tugged. His feet lifted.

The bench seat thudded hard against his back.

The wooden table glistened with spillage, the ashtray grey with burned dust. He pulled out his wallet. “Here,” he said, “get me a whisky. A large one.”

“You need rest,” Nance said to him.

“What for, Nance? What the hell for?” He struggled to his feet. Hard hands pulled him down. He slumped back onto the bench seat.

“Look at you,” she said. “You’re dead on your feet.”

Dead on your feet
. The irony of it brought a grin to his face. You had to be alive to be dead on your feet. “Good one, Nance. Good one.”

She frowned again, as if not understanding. But what was there not to understand? Maureen was dead. And he had let it happen. Right under his nose, he had let it happen. He had ignored the warning signs, the notes, the cryptic clues, the crystal clear messages from Bully. Christ, how could he—

“
Andy
.” She tugged his sleeve. “Look at me. Don’t listen to a word Watt says. He knows nothing, Andy. Nothing. Do you hear? Bootsie doesn’t trust him.”

“Where’s Bootsie now?”

“In hiding.”

“I know that. But where?”

Nance glanced at Watt as if to make sure he was out of earshot. “It doesn’t matter.”

Gilchrist could tell from the glitter in her eyes that she no longer trusted him. Is that how it begins? A little bit of distrust? A bit more, until all of a sudden the ground opens up and Hell swallows you whole?

Trust? Who knew what the fuck trust was any more?

He stood, the move so sudden that Nance gaped up at him.

He gave a twisted smirk. “I’m having a drink.”

“Getting drunk’s not the answer, Andy.”

“D’you know what, Nance?” He saw uncertainty flicker in her eyes. She had never seen him this unhinged before. He was scaring her. If he wasn’t so fucked up he would be scaring himself. “I’m not looking for any more answers,” he said. “I’ve had it up to here with answers. I’m through with being lied to every minute of every day. So do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to get drunk. That’s what I’m going to do. If it’s all right with you, that is.”

Nance lowered her eyes as he brushed past.

He reached the bar and opened his wallet. He fingered a twenty, was about to remove it when it struck him what Nance had said. Had he misheard?

He returned to the table and leaned down to her, so close his lips were almost kissing her right ear. “Bootsie doesn’t trust Watt?” he said.

Without looking at him, Nance smiled.

“What’s Bootsie holding back?”

“Topley’s mother.”

“What about her?”

“And Wee Kenny’s mother.”

“Yes?”

“Were sisters.”

Gilchrist slumped back into the bench seat. For the life of him he could not figure it out. “And?”

“Which makes Topley and Wee Kenny cousins.”

Maybe Nance was right. Maybe he really was dead on his feet. “I’m listening.”

“And family,” Nance added.

Gilchrist narrowed his eyes. Family.
Now
he thought he understood. “And Topley knows Wee Kenny’s dead, but doesn’t know how or who?”

“He knows how. He suspects who.”

Now
he had it. “Jimmy Reid.”

Nance tilted her beer to him.

“Which means …?”

“Any allegiance Topley had to Jimmy and Bully,” she said, “has just gone out the window.”

“A new turf war?”

“And then some.”

Gilchrist smiled, but only for a moment. Something was missing. “When did Topley find out it was Jimmy?” he asked.

“Oh …” Nance glanced at her watch. “… I’d say about ten minutes ago.”

D
ESPITE THE TIREDNESS
and the alcohol Gilchrist felt wide awake. As he gunned his Merc through the night, his mind sparked questions like a fired crackerjack.