Authors: T F Muir
He returned McVicar’s unblinking stare, and said, ‘I’ll be in a better position to answer that, sir, once we have the toxicology results.’
‘I hear you, Andy, but what’s your gut feeling on this one?’
Gilchrist knew he was one of McVicar’s most respected DCIs, although he also understood that his maverick approach to a number of earlier cases had been noted with disdain. But he had always found McVicar to be a man of integrity, someone who kept his word. Not how he would describe Greaves. Gilchrist and Greaves had torn into each other before, and it would not take too many more arguments before the DCI told the CS where to shove it.
‘It doesn’t matter what my gut feelings are, sir. We can second guess ourselves until we’re blue in the face. What matters is that we have four dead people, three of whom have been murdered. I believe we need to speak to Thomas Magner as a matter of urgency.’
‘Quite,’ said McVicar.
‘I wouldn’t trust that man as far as I could throw him,’ Greaves added. ‘God knows how he manages to look himself in the mirror every day. Where is he anyway, for God’s sake? Why is it taking so long to find him?’
‘DS Janes has located him in Stirling,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I believe he’s on his way to St Andrews as we speak.’
‘What’s he doing in Stirling?’
Gilchrist ignored the question. It was time to leave. He caught McVicar’s eye again. ‘I think we need to play this close to our chests for the time being, sir.’ He glanced at the window, saw the mob at the main entrance, which seemed to have swelled since he last looked. ‘We shouldn’t disclose any details relating to Mrs McCulloch’s death. Nor the girls.’
‘Agreed.’
‘And I would also suggest we delay the media conference until we talk to Magner.’
McVicar nodded. ‘I’ll put them off for the rest of the afternoon; tell them we’ll hold a press conference at Glenrothes HQ later today. That work for you?’
‘That should at least help quieten this place down, sir.’ He tilted his head at the window to make his point.
‘What time, Andy?’
‘I’ll arrange for daily debriefings at five. So . . . no later than six, sir?’
McVicar nodded.
‘And it’s early days,’ Gilchrist pressed on. ‘Until we have something more definite, if any of us can’t get past the media with a No comment, we should stick with the story that we’re looking into why Brian McCulloch committed suicide.’
‘Is that wise?’ Greaves asked.
‘Don’t know if I’d call it
wise
. More like playing it safe.’ He addressed McVicar. ‘If you have no more questions, sir, I’d like to get on with it.’
‘Of course.’ McVicar turned to Greaves. ‘Tom?’
‘I want to be personally debriefed at close of play today, Andy. And I mean
today.’
Gilchrist barely acknowledged the order and strode out of the lounge.
Stan slipped from the rear of the gathering and caught up with him as he reached the front door. ‘What’s eating Greaves, boss?’
‘I’ve stepped on his toes once too often, I think.’ Gilchrist already had his mobile out by the time they reached the forecourt. Together they walked towards the fountain, where Gilchrist made a point of turning his back to the media scrum at the entrance gate. He did not want some over-eager journalist trying to lip-read his call.
‘Any luck, Jessie?’
‘I’m almost at North Street. Magner and his solicitor should already be there. How soon can you get here?’
‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said, then glanced at the reporters. It might take him all of fifteen minutes just to work his way past that lot. ‘Don’t start until I get there.’
‘Spoilsport.’
Gilchrist ended the call, then turned to Stan. ‘We have the ACC’s approval to use all resources available. That won’t last for ever, so jump on it. Coordinate the investigation with the Anstruther Office. Visit Stratheden Enterprises, find out if the company’s in trouble, what their financial status is, who owes who what, any bad debts, big bills, threatened legal action, failed contracts. Maybe it’s all about money. And talk to the staff. Find out what kind of a guy McCulloch really was.’
‘You think he’s two shades of grey, boss?’
‘Maybe a dozen shades. He seemed too good to be true. An upstanding member of the community. Went to church with his family every Sunday. Never missed a day’s work. Gave regularly to charities. Two daughters top in their classes at school. I mean, if you wanted the perfect family, you wouldn’t have to look any further.’
‘I’ll have someone check out the school, too, boss.’
‘And find out what’s on the girls’ computers, who their friends are on Facebook, who they’re twittering—’
‘Tweeting.’
‘What?’
‘It’s tweeting, boss.’
‘Oh, right. Who they’re
tweeting,
messaging, emailing, calling. Do the same with the landline, and Mrs McCulloch’s mobile. And if we can’t locate McCulloch’s mobile, pull the records from the network. Use the Anstruther lads to talk to the locals, find out who McCulloch hung about with, who he last had a pint with, who he last had round to dinner. You know the drill.’ He grimaced and shook his head. ‘We need to find out why this thing happened.’
‘Could be something to do with the ongoing Magner investigation, boss.’
Gilchrist stared into the distance. He’d been thinking exactly the same thing. Fife Constabulary were currently investigating Thomas Magner over allegations of a series of rapes. As best he knew, eleven women had come forward since the beginning of the year, with each claiming that Magner had sexually abused her back in the late seventies or early eighties. The accusations themselves raised some serious questions, such as why now? And why all at once?
It was hard to see a link between that investigation and the massacre of the McCullochs, aside from the fact that Brian McCulloch and Thomas Magner had been business partners. McCulloch was clearly the prime suspect in the slaughter of his family. But Gilchrist just couldn’t see it. Why would he commit such a brutal murder, kill his daughters, and then get dressed up to the nines before taking his own life? Gilchrist had seen more dead bodies than could be considered good for his health, as well as a fair number of suicides. But one thing did strike him. Of all the suicides he had seen, McCulloch was certainly the best dressed.
He faced Stan. ‘The ongoing investigation might be the what,’ he said, ‘but we need to work out the why.’
‘Boss?’
‘Magner’s the answer, Stan. I’m sure of it.’
He turned and walked to his Merc.
Gilchrist entered the interview room and took the seat next to Jessie. He introduced himself as DCI Andy Gilchrist of St Andrews CID, then noted the time for the record. Across the table, Thomas Magner faced them with arms folded. His black suit looked freshly dry-cleaned, his shirt white and straight from the packet. A red silk tie matched the tip of a handkerchief peeping from his chest pocket. He looked heavier than he seemed in media photographs, and harder, too – face lightly cratered with the faded remnants of acne, short hair more white than the blond it used to be, and more crewcut than styled.
He could be the poster boy for a hardman’s agency.
Seated next to him was a younger man in a dark blue pinstriped suit, hair and skin as slick as any male model’s. He slid a business card across the table.
Gilchrist glanced at it – Thornton Pettigrew, of Jesper Pettigrew Jones Solicitors, with an address in Edinburgh. He said to Jessie, ‘Has Mr Magner been advised that his attendance is voluntary, and that he can leave at any time?’
‘He has.’
‘I would remind you that my client has taken time away from his busy schedule to assist in any way he can,’ Pettigrew said.
‘Yes,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I can see how the murder of his business partner and his family could be a bit of an inconvenience.’
Magner raised his hand to silence Pettigrew’s objection, and said, ‘I’ve known Brian for most of my professional life, Mr Gilchrist. I knew his wife, Amy, a lovely woman, for many years, too. Their two daughters, Eilish and Siobhan, were like daughters to me, too.’
‘Do you have any children of your own?’
‘I’ve not been blessed in that way.’
Gilchrist returned Magner’s innocent look. Rather than ask for more personal details – he could always get them later – he decided to change tack. ‘It took us a while to locate you, Mr Magner,’ he said.
‘I was in Stirling at a developers’ convention in the Highland Hotel last night. Most of these affairs are boring and can drive you to drink. So I obliged and had a few too many at the bar.’ He flashed a white smile, which had Gilchrist making a mental note to count his fingers if he ever shook hands with the guy. ‘I took advantage of having no appointments this morning by sleeping in later than usual, so I never caught the tragic news until mid-morning. As soon as I realised it was Brian and Amy, I contacted the local police station in Anstruther to offer assistance.’
‘Extremely busy schedule?’ Jessie said. ‘Drinking in the bar? Sleeping in?’
‘Most of my business is done at odd hours,’ Magner said. ‘I was talking business until well past midnight last night, and I’m scheduled to be in meetings in Aberdeen this evening. They will have to be postponed now, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Jessie concurred. ‘And do the late hours you keep explain why you don’t return phone calls?’
‘I almost never return calls from numbers I don’t recognise.’
‘Even when they leave an urgent voice message?’
‘Indeed.’
‘What my client is saying,’ Pettigrew reasoned, ‘is that he contacted the police at the very first opportunity afforded him.’
‘And how did you first hear of the tragedy?’ Gilchrist asked, in an effort to get them back on track.
‘In the hotel. When I switched on the TV this morning. It was all over the news.’
‘And your convention? Was that held in the same hotel?’
‘It was.’
‘Many people at it?’
‘Two or three hundred, I’d say.’
‘How long did it last?’
‘From seven in the evening until eleven.’
‘Straight through?’
‘With ten-minute breaks on the hour.’
‘Were you with anyone?’
‘Brian was supposed to meet me, but of course he never made it.’ Magner tightened his lips, shook his head.
Not a tear in sight, Gilchrist thought. ‘Did you try calling him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s busy. I’m busy. We meet up when we can.’
‘Not even to arrange a meeting?’
‘No.’
‘So, you attended the convention by yourself?’
‘As it turned out, yes.’
‘Were you seated at a table with other attendees?’
‘No, we were in rows, like in a theatre.’
‘Pre-assigned seats?’
‘No, it was informal. You could sit wherever you liked.’
Jessie leaned forward. ‘So where did you sit?’
Magner shrugged. ‘I was near the back, but I couldn’t tell you the seat number or row.’
‘All night?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Did you return to the same seat after each of the hourly breaks?’
‘I did, yes.’
Jessie pressed on, ‘And who did you sit next to?’
Magner raised his eyebrows. ‘I couldn’t tell you his name.’
‘His
name?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Yes, it was a man.’
‘Singular, only one man. Did you sit at the end of a row?’
Magner stared hard at Gilchrist, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Yes, I was next to the aisle.’
‘And was this man on your left or your right?’
‘Does it matter?’ snapped Pettigrew.
Gilchrist kept his eyes on Magner. ‘Left or right?’
‘Left.’
‘So, you sat near the back row, in an aisle seat. You must have been one of the last to arrive.’
‘I missed the start of the conference, yes.’
Gilchrist sensed Jessie shifting by his side, so he held up a hand to tell her to keep out of it. Vehicular access to Tentsmuir Forest was closed from 8.30 p.m., but the exit barrier was never locked, so visitors could leave any time. And it took an hour and a quarter, maybe an hour if you pushed it, to drive to Stirling. So if McCulloch’s death was not suicide, Magner conceivably could have killed his business partner, then driven to the convention, arriving at around 9.30 to establish his alibi. Well, it was a weak theory, he supposed, but at least worth a shot.
‘How late were you?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Minutes only. The first speaker was already at the podium, so I took the nearest available seat.’
Gilchrist nodded, deflated by the answer. Still, he could check the hotel’s CCTV footage to determine whether Magner was telling the truth. ‘And before that, where were you?’
‘Stirling. I’ve been there most of this week.’
‘Most
of the week?’
‘I drove to Glasgow for a meeting on Wednesday.’
Gilchrist persisted with his line of questioning, poking, prodding, but gaining nothing, going round in circles. He could check CCTV footage of every bar and restaurant Magner said he visited, but that would be man-hour intensive. Besides, he was beginning to sense that discretion was essential when dealing with someone like Magner – not the sort of man you arrested at the first opportunity.
Fifteen minutes later, he sat back and nodded to Jessie to take over.
She obliged with, ‘You said you knew Amy McCulloch for a long time. How long?’
Magner shrugged. ‘Twenty or so years.’
‘Before or after she married Brian?’
‘Before.’
Jessie nodded, waited a couple of beats. ‘Did you ever go out with her?’
Pettigrew jerked upright. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Jessie said, ‘I was asking if your client ever dated Amy McCulloch, before – or after – she married Brian McCulloch.’
‘On the grounds that my client is currently under investigation after a series of rape accusations—’
‘That is precisely why I’m asking the question—’
‘. . . which he continues to deny
vehemently,
I will have to advise my client not to answer that.’
Gilchrist said, ‘You should also advise your client that we are investigating a multiple murder, so any answers that seem evasive could encourage us to reconsider your client’s supposed innocence.’