Life For a Life (24 page)

They settled for silence as he eased through Leuchars, and he was about to accelerate when Dainty called.

‘You were spot on, Andy,’ Dainty said without introduction. ‘The ballistics match. The gun that fired the bullet that killed Caryl Dillanos and Jana Judkowski was the same gun that killed Stewart Donnelly.’

Gilchrist mouthed a
Wow
. ‘So in all probability, they were contract killings.’

‘I’d bet the house on it. And here’s an interesting fact. That same gun was used in two separate incidents last year. One in Manchester in August. Local kingpin, Col Feeney, a right bad bastard, and his bodyguard, were shot through the head in Feeney’s Jaguar in an Asda car park. Feeney was in the back seat, his bodyguard was behind the wheel. In the middle of the fucking day, and no one saw a thing.’

‘Or no one was willing to risk their life being a witness,’ Gilchrist said.

Dainty grunted, then went on. ‘On top of that, the CCTV cameras weren’t working. And the other incident took place in Edinburgh in September – another punter who fancied himself as an up-and-coming bigshot, Jerry Best, was shot in the back of the nut as he was about to step into his home. Again, no one saw a thing. But it happened late at night in a quiet residential area.’

‘Any business connection between Feeney and Best?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Both of them were into prostitution and high-priced escorts,’ Dainty said. ‘Although Best was more upmarket than Feeney, if you get my drift.’

‘How about drugs?’

‘Feeney dabbled, but not much.’ The tone of Dainty’s voice warned Gilchrist that worse was to come. ‘But Best was starting to make a name for himself in trafficking,’ Dainty growled. ‘Starting to build a thriving business. The mind boggles. It’s unfucking believable that a modern-day slave trade exists.’

‘And the girls come from Europe?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Everywhere. Poland’s popular. So is Belarus, Ukraine and Romania, and probably all those other fucking places that used to belong to Russia.’

‘Any leads to the shooter?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘Dead ends. Every one of them. In and out, and leaves not a clue. They’ve even got a nickname for him. The Ghost,’ Dainty said. ‘He’s scary enough, that’s for fucking sure.’

‘And now the Ghost has made his way up north,’ Gilchrist said.

‘Looks like it,’ Dainty confirmed. ‘Listen, Andy, I’ll send you what I’ve got, and if you need anything else, just give me a buzz.’

Gilchrist thanked Dainty and ended the call.

‘The Ghost,’ Jessie said, and chuckled. ‘If it wasn’t so scary it’d be funny.’

‘Maybe Robert could work it into your comedy routine,’ Gilchrist said.

But he did not catch Jessie’s response. Instead he heard the echo of Colin’s voice whisper –
cleaner than a baby’s bum
– as his mind pulled up an image of a man down by the harbour slipping into a white Toyota with a dent in the bumper. He had never worked out why his mobile had rung that Sunday morning, or why the man had driven off, or why they had driven back while he was standing at the corner reading his newspaper. Then to find the abandoned house in Boarhills, as if he had been led by the hand, with not a fingerprint in sight, no clues, and no further forward.

It made no logical sense.

But Gilchrist knew logic and sense were nothing to do with it.

That Sunday morning, had he seen the Ghost?

CCTV footage confirmed that Donnelly had crossed the Tay Bridge at 8.23 on the morning of Stan’s attack. Donnelly had been driving the rented Ford, with one passenger in the front seat, the mysterious Craig Farmer. It seemed as if Farmer had just slipped away, like a ghost, which had Gilchrist’s mind firing into overdrive but leaving him with nothing but intangibles and thin air.

On the practical side, Jackie had located other footage of the same car as it appeared in the streets of St Andrews. As best they could work out, Donnelly first hit North Street at 9.40, which had Gilchrist wondering what took him so long – Dundee to St Andrews on the A919 was less than fifteen miles, and no more than a thirty-minute drive. Maybe they stopped for breakfast, or visited someone. Or somewhere? Gilchrist’s gut stirred at that thought.

Had they stopped off at Bowden’s cottage?

Or was he stretching reason too far. Still, the thought niggled.

Nance confirmed that Donnelly and Farmer had two pints in 1 Golf Place. Only one member of staff recalled seeing two people who matched their description, but could give no details, only that they both wore hoodies, which they kept pulled up.

‘They’re avoiding being ID’d on CCTV,’ Jessie said. ‘These guys knew what they were doing.’

Gilchrist could only agree.

At 11.52 the Ford was recorded leaving St Andrews on the A917 heading towards Kingsbarns and Crail on the coast, then captured on its return, clocked at 16.22 – still with Donnelly driving, still with his solitary passenger, and still with their hoodies pulled up.

At 17.18 it pulled into the car park at Murray Place. The lights were doused, and the engine switched off, while Donnelly waited for Stan to arrive, which was burning proof to Gilchrist – if he ever needed it – that Stan’s attack had been premeditated, not provoked as Donnelly had insisted.

Stan had finished for the day and had a bite to eat in the Golf Hotel on The Scores, followed by a pint in Ma Bells. When he walked through the lane to the car park in Murray Place, he was attacked as he was about to enter his car, keys in hand.

Footage showed Stan pulling the door open, then hesitating as Donnelly approached from his left. Stan faced him, and the next second was flat on his back, legs kicking and arms flailing as Donnelly, still wearing a hoodie, slashed his knife at him. It took three seconds into the attack – Gilchrist counted it – before Farmer emerged from the rental, jerked Donnelly by his hoodie, and pulled him off.

Two things struck Gilchrist as they replayed the footage: one, that Farmer moved with the speed and slickness of a man trained in unarmed combat; and two, that Donnelly put up no resistance to being pulled off, and had even sat with his rump on the bonnet of an adjacent car while Farmer attended to Stan – odd, to say the least.

Of course, Jessie noticed one other thing that troubled Gilchrist.

‘Zoom in on the back of Stan’s car,’ she said to Jackie.

Jackie did as instructed.

‘That’s a Mercedes,’ Jessie said. ‘Isn’t it?’

Jackie nodded, gave a nervous glance at Gilchrist.

‘Is there a fire sale on Mercedes in Fife?’ Jessie said, before the penny dropped and she turned to Gilchrist with a now-I-get-it gesture. ‘That’s your car,’ she said to him.

‘Stan’s was in for repair,’ he replied. ‘He borrowed mine for the afternoon.’

‘Which means . . .’

‘That Stan was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Gilchrist conceded.

‘And Donnelly was not after Stan. He was after you.’

The wrong place at the wrong time.

Gilchrist could only nod.

After close of play, Jessie and Gilchrist met up in the Central Bar, just the two of them – Nance had a date and had to put on her face; Mhairi was going home for a glass of wine and an early bed; Bill was now assigned to an hourly check of Bowden’s cottage, Gilchrist’s attempt to keep him out of the pub.

Jessie chinked her pint to Gilchrist’s. ‘Going back to this mistaken identity attack on Stan,’ she said, ‘I’d assume Stan’s worked it out for himself.’

‘I’d be surprised if he hadn’t,’ he agreed.

‘So why would Donnelly be after you? You come across him before?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

That was always a policeman’s worst fear, that one of the criminals he had helped put away would seek revenge. But as far as Gilchrist knew, his and Donnelly’s paths had never crossed. Which introduced a new set of fears, that Donnelly had been contracted to kill him. Why else would he have let Farmer pull him off Stan so easily once he’d been told he was trying to kill the wrong man?

He forced these thoughts to the back of his mind as Jessie went on.

‘I’ve had a colleague of mine in Strathclyde check out Donnelly,’ she said.

‘Not DI Lachlan McKellar, I hope.’

‘Lachie’s not DI,’ she corrected. ‘He’s bribed and screwed and lied all the way to chief super. If he wasn’t such a fat useless moron, I might be impressed.’ She gripped her pint glass, as if it were Lachie’s balls.

Gilchrist responded by sipping his pint.

Chief superintendent. That was the level of seniority he should have reached by now if he had not pissed off Fife Constabulary’s hierarchy with monotonous regularity. In a moment of drunken weakness, he had once tackled ACC McVicar about his prospects for promotion and been assured by the big man that they could not afford to lose someone with such drive and intuitive energy to the mundane duties of upper management. He had understood that McVicar had been letting him down gently.

‘Did you know that Donnelly was born in Dundee,’ Jessie said, ‘then moved to Manchester to live with his girlfriend?’

‘Can’t say that I did. About him living with his girlfriend, I mean.’

‘She’s dead.’

‘That figures.’

‘She didn’t die at the hands of Donnelly, you stupid twat. She was killed in a car crash.’

‘Was Donnelly driving?’

‘You’re a right bundle of laughs, I must say. Anything wrong?’

Well, he could tell her how guilty he felt over Stan being stabbed by mistake. Or how he wished he had been more aggressive interviewing Donnelly, maybe threatened him with a stabbing of his own. Or how he felt as if he was failing – it had been, what, six days since the woman was found on the Coastal Path, and they seemed to have achieved sweet eff all. But if the truth be told, he knew it was Jessie’s comment about Lachie reaching CS that stung him the most. Or maybe he needed to speak to his children before they forgot all about him.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just tired.’

He watched her dark eyes dance with his, and her smirk twist into a tight grin. ‘If I didn’t know better,’ she said, ‘I’d say you weren’t getting enough nookie.’

Gilchrist could have sworn the bar stilled for an instant while he struggled to come up with some witty response. ‘Speak for yourself,’ was all he could think of, and regretted the words the instant they left his mouth.

But Jessie failed to take insult. ‘Who the hell would want to be screwed by Jabba the Hutt?’ She took another mouthful, almost drained it. ‘Not me, although . . .’

Gilchrist frowned as her voice trailed off. ‘Have you heard from him recently?’

‘It’s non-stop. He texts me at least three times a day, every day. I mean, what is there not to understand about fuck off. If he keeps it up, I’m thinking of forwarding them on to his wife. That would start the shit flying.’

‘You can do better than Jabba.’

‘Anyone in mind?’

‘Not off the top of my head,’ he said. ‘But you’re young, attractive, smart, witty—’

‘Are you trying to get off with me?’ she said, then let out a hacking chuckle that had heads turning their way. It took all of ten seconds for her to settle down. She wiped her eyes, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Andy. You should have seen your face. You shouldn’t take what I say so literally.’ She reached for her purse. ‘Here, let me get another round. I’m beginning to enjoy this.’

Gilchrist was saved by his mobile ringing – ID Bill McCauley.

‘Yes, Bill.’

‘Nothing to report, sir. Just done another drive-by, and the house is still in darkness. No lights on inside, although some landscaping lights are on in the front.’

‘Solar sensitive,’ Gilchrist assured him. ‘Anything on Farmer?’

A pause, then, ‘I thought you’d already checked out the farm, sir.’

‘Not the farm, Bill. Craig
Farmer
. Donnelly’s sidekick.’

‘Oh. That. Eh . . . no. Not yet, sir.’

‘Well, keep at it, and let me know what you come up with. And in between, continue with an hourly drive-by. If you don’t see anything by midnight, call it a day.’

Gilchrist disconnected, troubled by Bill’s forgetfulness. By assigning Bill to drive past every hour until midnight, he hoped it might keep him from the pub. But Bill seemed to have a way of turning up at the office, the aroma of strong mints giving the game away – as damning as the smell of cigarette smoke on wool.

‘Problems?’ Jessie said, nudging a settling pint his way.

Nothing that a good sacking wouldn’t take care of
, he thought of saying. He had done what he could for Bill and knew he would have to bring it to a head. But rather than get into it with Jessie, he lifted his glass, and chinked it against hers.

‘You’re falling behind,’ she said, then her mobile rang. She glared at the screen, excused herself, and walked outside.

Through the window, Gilchrist watched her breath cloud the air while she let the caller have it full force. Her mother, he thought. Or maybe one of her brothers. He returned to his pint. Maybe it was what Jessie had said to him, or the beer working its magic. Or perhaps he was just feeling lonely. But he took the opportunity to make a call of his own.

‘To what do I owe the honour?’ Cooper said.

‘Calling to find out what’s new.’

She chuckled, a throaty rasp that cast up memories of silken skin and loose curls, and had him shifting his position on his stool. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘Mr Cooper has now returned from his sultry mistress in Italy.’

A confusing mixture of disappointment and relief flooded Gilchrist, followed by a surge of regret that he had called in the first place. ‘That’s not . . . I mean . . . I—’

‘You called to find out what’s new,’ she interrupted.

‘I did. Yes.’ All business again. He gripped his pint.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘the latest is that Mr Cooper is now on his way to London, and not expected back until tomorrow evening at the earliest.’

He glanced out of the window – no Jessie – felt his heart leap to his mouth. ‘I can’t really talk at the moment,’ he said. ‘Let me call you back.’

‘Don’t bother,’ she said.

He gave a wry smile. Well, she had every right to tell him to fuck off—

‘I’ll leave the front door unlocked,’ she said. ‘Come by anytime.’