Life For a Life (11 page)

‘Three women are dead,’ Gilchrist reasoned.

Jessie added, ‘And if you’ve been dishing out beef injections behind Mhairi’s back, you’d better cough up now, or . . . you know . . .’ She nodded to the Ladies.

‘Look,’ Angus said. ‘It’s . . . if I . . .’

‘We won’t tell Mhairi,’ Gilchrist said – she could read it in his report.

Angus lifted his pint, gave a nervous look towards the Ladies, then said, ‘Look. It was only a one-nighter. That’s all. It meant nothing. I’ve never seen her—’

‘What’s her name?’

Angus shook his head. ‘I can’t remember. Honest, I can’t.’

‘That’s it,’ Jessie said, preparing to stand. ‘Where did you say the loo was?’

‘Caryl,’ Angus said. ‘She told me her name was Caryl Dillanos.’

‘Phone number?’

Angus shook his head.

‘She give you a business card?’

Angus grabbed his pint. ‘Here’s Mhairi. You gave me your word.’ He took a mouthful as Mhairi reached across Gilchrist to her seat. ‘Feeling better?’ he tried, and gave her a smile that could have cracked porcelain.

Mhairi retrieved her scarf and coat, bundled them together and, without a word, turned and walked from the bar.

‘Mhairi. . . ?’

Jessie glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Shit, I’m late for Robert.’ She pushed to her feet.

Panic swelled across Angus’s face as his mind worked out the obvious. ‘You said you wouldn’t tell her—’

‘I’m going home to take my son out for a meal,’ Jessie snapped at him. ‘And I swear that if I ever think he’s going to turn into a lying shagging cheat like you, I will cut his balls off and shove them down his throat.’ She patted Gilchrist on the shoulder. ‘Toodle-do.’

Gilchrist caught sight of Jessie scurrying past the bar window, and wondered if she would catch up with Mhairi, or tell her tomorrow. He faced Angus.

‘And then there were two,’ he said.

Angus lifted his pint, almost drained it.

Now they were alone, Gilchrist did not want him to leave. ‘Do you have a solicitor?’

‘What? Look, I forgot all about her. I never even remembered until—’

‘That’s it,’ Gilchrist said, louder than intended. Four people at the adjacent table stilled for a hushed moment, and he waited until they started talking again. ‘If you want me to charge you with obstructing an investigation, you’re going about it the right way. Now let me ask you one more time. Do you have a solicitor?’

‘I have. Yes.’ Angus almost pleaded, ‘Do I need her?’

‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether or not I believe what you’re about to tell me. And if I even so much as get a whiff that you’re withholding the truth, I will charge you, and once I do, you can give your solicitor your chequebook, because by the time I’m finished you won’t have anything left to start up any kind of business.’ He sat back, and gave a dead smile. ‘Understood?’

Angus nodded.

‘Right,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I’ll have her business card for starters.’

Back in the office, Gilchrist ran his fingers over the business card.

Not your run-of-the-mill business card, but glossy, coloured, quality stock, with Dillanos Furniture embossed in a swirling Victorian gold scroll, beneath which was printed the name, Caryl V. Dillanos, and job title, International Buyer – which would have elevated her professional status in Angus’s eyes – and a freephone and fax number.

The flip side was blank. Did Dillanos Furniture exist, or was the card only a fake to be handed out to impress eager-to-please comeons like Angus? Or was there some other way he could reach Caryl V. Dillanos, International Buyer for Dillanos Furniture, directly?

Rather than call her office number, he googled Caryl V. Dillanos and came up with zero hits. Caryl Dillanos came up empty too. He tried the company name, Dillanos Furniture, and received a number of hits, excerpts from newspaper and magazine articles that gave the sales pitch –
specialising in micro-pocketed spring technology for improved comfort, shape retention, and long-term durability
. One link led him to the company website, but it turned out to be little more than eyewash, with only a few pages of stock photographs, and again no physical address.

But the phone number was the same as on the business card.

He checked the time – 21.08 – too late, he knew, but he dialled it anyway.

‘Dillanos Furniture Showroom. How can I help you?’

The chirpy voice surprised him – English accent, too. ‘Caryl Dillanos, please?’

‘Caryl’s not here at the moment. Can I take a message?’

Gilchrist pushed himself to his feet, his mind racing. ‘When do you expect her?’

‘I couldn’t say. Who shall I say is calling?’

‘It’s a personal call. Do you have another number for her?’

‘We’re not allowed to give it out, sir.’

Well, it had been worth a try. ‘Caryl said she might be in tomorrow,’ he lied. ‘Can you give me your address, please?’ He scribbled it down, but the street name meant nothing to him. ‘And which showroom is this?’ he asked.

‘We only have the one showroom, sir.’

He gambled with, ‘I thought Caryl had another one in London.’

‘Only Glasgow, sir.’

That’s better. ‘I’ll call back tomorrow,’ he said, and hung up.

Out of nothing comes something? He eyed the scribbled address – Glasgow – and thought it was worth a question, at least. He dialled Jessie’s number, but it punted him into voicemail, and he left a message telling her she needed to be reachable 24/7.

No sooner had he ended the call than his mobile rang.

‘Just missed you,’ Jessie said. ‘I was in the loo.’

‘Caryl Dillanos,’ he said. ‘The name mean anything to you?’

‘Dillanos Furniture rings a bell. Is that her?’

‘Could be.’

‘They’ve got a showroom in Glasgow. On the south side, I think. But other than that, I know nothing about them.’

‘Right. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty in the morning.’

Gilchrist paid Stan a short visit in the Memorial, pleased to see that he was up and about, albeit shuffling around the ward in pain.

‘What’s the new DS like?’ Stan asked him.

‘Your job’s safe, old son, don’t you worry about that.’

‘Any news on the missing Craig Farmer?’

Gilchrist raised an eyebrow. ‘Who told you Farmer was missing?’

‘Got to keep my eye in, boss. Can’t let the world pass me by. But Nance popped her head in yesterday. Gave me an opportunity to grill her.’

Gilchrist nodded. ‘So, you bought my Christmas present yet?’

Stan rolled his eyes and said, ‘Why don’t you help me back into bed, boss, and once I get out of here I’ll put two pints behind the bar. How does that sound?’

‘Sounds like a deal.’

Back at his cottage, Gilchrist poured himself a full measure, more than was probably good for him, and carried his glass through to the front room. He settled down in front of the gas fire, took a sip, let the whisky swill around his mouth.

In bars, he stuck to pints, but in the privacy of his cottage he would try the occasional whisky, and the Balvenie Doublewood was like finding a seam of smooth gold in the fiery world of Scotch. He eyed the lowball glass, then picked up Dainty’s printout.

Jeannie Janes. DOB – 20 October 1958. A quick mental calculation put her at forty-seven, twenty years younger than she looked, and thirteen years younger than the required age for a bus pass.

Maybe he should just report her to the authorities and let them deal with it.

He read on.

Jessie’s mother lived in Easterhouse, which he knew was more underprivileged than upmarket. He scanned a catalogue of offences, nothing serious in terms of crime, but all of it breaking the law. Most incidents occurred near the infamous Blythswood Square District, an area of Glasgow once renowned for its prostitutes, Jeannie being picked up three times in as many days during a busy spell over one festive season. He found no mention of a Mr Janes, and suspected Jessie’s father was like Robert’s, another man who abandoned responsibilities before they blossomed.

He took another sip of Balvenie, returned the almost finished glass to the side table and, despite the weight of his eyelids, forced himself to read on. But he soon found himself glazing over the same sentence, the heat and the alcohol working their magic . . .

Dainty’s printout slipped from his grip on to his lap.

He came to four hours later – 03.11 – confused for a sleeping moment, until he saw the remains of his unfinished whisky on the table beside him. He eased himself to his feet, spilling Dainty’s printout to the floor, and knew from painful experience not to bend down and pick it up until his back loosened up.

He carried his whisky through to the kitchen and sat it on a shelf in the fridge – waste not, want not – then returned to the lounge and switched off the fire. He risked picking up the printout, and placed it on a chair under the dining table.

He managed to remove his trousers and shirt before he tumbled on to the top of his bed in his underpants, and let sleep take him.

The walk to his Merc could have been at the Arctic Circle.

Sunrise was still a good two hours away, and a stiff wind felt as if the air was cold enough to crack brass balls. Stars pinpricked a black sky. A half-moon gave off a hazy glow. He breathed in the frozen air, felt its crystal freshness clear his lungs and his head. Somehow, just the chill of the early morning darkness reminded him of his childhood days at Christmas, when his big brother, Jack, would lead him through to the living room in the small hours of a Christmas morning, both of them shivering with excitement or cold, he could never tell which, then switch on the lights to the stunning thrill of presents beneath the tree, only to have the wrappings ripped open minutes later in the bitter cold of an unheated room.

Although Gilchrist loved Fisherman’s Cottage, and the coastal town of Crail, he hated the fact that he had no garage and had to park his car in the elements. He switched on the engine, turned the heat up full, and closed the door while he scraped frost from the windows.

Several freezing minutes later he was ready to go.

Outside Crail, he switched to full-beam, the car’s headlights reflecting the frost off the road like a million miniature catseyes. He checked the time – 07.05 – ahead of schedule, and dialled Jessie’s number.

‘Hello?’

He ignored the grumpiness in her voice, and said, ‘Good morning.’

‘What d’you want?’

‘I’m running early. Should be with you around seven twenty.’

‘You’ll have a ten-minute wait then,’ she said, and hung up.

And he had.

He checked the time on the dash when her front door opened – 07.29. Jessie tumbled on to the pathway and strode towards his car, clapping her gloved hands to warm up.

A rush of cold air followed her inside.

She strapped on her seat belt in silence, and he said, ‘Everything OK?’

‘Just drive.’

He pulled away from the kerbside and did not venture a word until he drove beyond the town limits, the Strathtyrum Golf Course on the right. Beyond, the Eden estuary gave a cloud-laden blush, and a hint of the coming day.

‘Whatever’s upsetting you,’ he said, ‘let’s have it.’

‘It’s personal, Andy.’

‘Not any more it’s not.’

‘Fire me, then.’

‘The thought has crossed my mind, I have to tell you. But I like what I’ve seen so far, and I think you have much to contribute to the—’

‘Much to contribute?’ she said. ‘What the fuck does that mean? Here Jessie, have a look at this dead body, and let’s have your contribution. Jesus Christ, Andy, it’s not a game of charades we’re playing, it’s a full-bloodied—’

‘Exactly.’ He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘And if you let your personal life interfere with my murder investigation, then yes, I will fire you. On the spot. Today. Right now, if you want. And happily, too. Got that?’

His anger took him by surprise, and seemed to have shocked Jessie into silence. He gave her ten seconds in which to bomb him with her retaliation. But it never came, and he risked a glance, only to find she was staring into the blackness of the passing countryside. For tuppence, he could turn the car round and take her back home, it was nice knowing you—

‘Did you talk to anyone about extending the Non-Harassment Order?’ she said.

‘I did.’

She turned to face him then, and he saw that she had been crying, not because he had snapped at her but at some point during the night. ‘You never told me that,’ she said.

‘I never had a chance.’

She paused for a moment, then said, ‘Why don’t we start again? Good morning, Andy.’

‘Good morning, Jessie. And how was last night?’

‘Shite. How was yours?’

‘Better than yours, by the sound of it.’

‘So why are we heading to Glasgow?’ she asked, and a subtle shifting of her position in the seat told him that the joking was over, and so was last night’s trauma.

He told her about his interrogation of Angus, how Angus had confessed to having met Caryl Dillanos twice only – he had no reason not to believe that – and that they had sex both times, which extracted a
What is it with men and their cocks?
He handed her Caryl’s business card, and told her how he had searched the internet, and that the website looked like it was there as a front only.

‘I’m not convinced Caryl Dillanos is her real name,’ Gilchrist said.

‘It sounds too, what’s the word . . . ?’ she said. ‘Cinematic.’

‘Cinematic? Maybe you should take up writing instead of stand-up comedy.’

‘And maybe you should stick to being a detective instead of being a smart-arse.’

‘Touché.’

‘So you think this Caryl might have a criminal record?’ she asked.

‘We’ll soon find out,’ he said, then thought he would try again. ‘So, how’s Robert?’

At the mention of her son’s name, her mood changed. A cold wind could have chilled the air between them.

This time, he had the common sense not to press.

They hit the backup to Glasgow city centre just before 8.55 a.m., but by the time they crossed the Kingston Bridge on to the south side, it was 9.16.