The Meating Room (8 page)

‘Who’s her solicitor?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘She wouldn’t say, so I pressed her a bit, and she confessed that she hadn’t exactly started the process yet.’

‘Lying trollop.’ Jessie again.

Gilchrist said, ‘I’m listening,’ then sipped the last of his beer.

‘I told her that if she was in any way prevaricating—’

‘That’s a big word,’ Jessie said. ‘Did the bitch know what it meant?’

‘She also knew what complicit meant.’

‘So she coughed up?’

‘She certainly did,’ Stan said. ‘The pair of them have been at it since Christmas.’

Which had Gilchrist thinking about Cooper. Christmas was when their affair started, too. ‘How long has she been with Stratheden?’ he asked.

‘Says she was offered a job just before McCulloch and Magner hit the big time, but turned it down. Decided to stay where she was – Robertson McKellar, an accounting firm in Cupar. Better job security.’

‘And Magner persuaded her to change her mind, when, exactly?’

‘Ten years ago. Almost to the day.’

‘An anniversary boink.’ Jessie nodded to the bar. ‘They’re up.’

Gilchrist pulled himself to his feet and pushed in at the counter. Something did not compute. If Janice had been with Stratheden for a decade, why had she only recently started an affair with Magner? His gut told him she was holding something back.

He thanked the barman, pocketed the change, carried the small glasses back to the table – Drambuie on the rocks for Jackie; Bombay Sapphire and slimline tonic for Mhairi. Another trip to the counter for his and Stan’s pints of Deuchars – he’d persuaded Stan to quit Fosters – and Jessie’s half of Belhaven Best. Again, he managed to squeeze in without spilling a drop.

‘You’re getting good at that,’ Jessie said.

‘Plenty of practice.’ He gripped his glass. ‘Here’s to Greaves.’

‘Long may he choke,’ Jessie said. Gilchrist had the IPA to his lips when her eyes lit up and she announced, ‘You’ve got company.’

He turned, expecting to see Cooper, then felt his heart stutter at the sight of Maureen.

Her face, which had once been full and attractive, now looked haunted and drawn, with eyes that stared from hollow sockets. Her dark hair no longer bounced thick and glossy by her neckline, but was tied back in a tight ponytail that only accentuated how thin she had become. Three stone she had lost in total, but from a body that had been slim in the first place.

Jessie rose to her feet, and offered Maureen her seat. ‘Here you go, Mo. I’m going outside to make a call. I’ll be back in five.’

Gilchrist stood, as Maureen nudged his cheek in a half-hearted peck and whispered, ‘Sorry for hanging up on you earlier.’ Then she squeezed past him, nodding hello to everyone in turn. And in the passing, he sensed the lightness of her body, even though she was cocooned in a woollen scarf and thick anorak that hid her emaciated frame. She sat, black jeans slack on too-thin legs.

‘The usual?’ he asked her.

‘I’ll just have one,’ she said. ‘Then I’m heading back to the flat.’

‘Anything to eat with it?’

‘I’ve already had a bite.’

Gilchrist doubted it, but did not have the heart to challenge her in front of the others. Instead, he returned to the bar, caught the barman’s eye again, and asked for a Cabernet.

‘Large or small?’

Gilchrist wanted to reply ‘small’, but Maureen would only down it in one to remind him she never drank small measures. ‘Large,’ he said.

When he returned to his seat and handed Maureen her drink, the conversation had already shifted to her Open University studies.

‘Can’t wait to get the exams out of the way,’ she said, in response to a question from Mhairi.

‘And then will you apply for a job with Fife?’

Maureen lifted the glass to her lips, then shrugged, giving Gilchrist his first hint that she might soon be leaving St Andrews again.

‘I guess you wouldn’t want your old dad as a slave driver,’ Stan joked.

Jackie mouthed a laugh, then clapped again.

‘I’m not that cruel,’ Gilchrist said, but that only encouraged Maureen to hide behind her wine, letting him know that the topic of her postgraduate employment was off limits.

And so was his investigation. An early debriefing with the teams, followed by almost two hours with Greaves, most of which had been a waste of time, meant that Gilchrist had scarcely discussed the day’s events with Stan and the others. Although he trusted Maureen, and shown her details of previous cases, for some reason he did not want her involved in the massacre of the McCullochs.

He gripped his pint and asked, ‘So, how’s Jon?’

‘Wouldn’t know. I hardly see him these days.’

‘I thought you liked him.’

‘I thought so, too,’ she agreed. Her next sip of wine almost drained the glass.

Well, that put an end to that. Like father, like daughter, he thought. Or maybe like father, like family was more correct.

In the several years leading up to their separation, Gail had cut back on her alcohol intake. He had since wondered if her sobriety had contributed to their break-up. Maybe through sober eyes she had seen what a failure he had been as a husband and father, which in turn had encouraged her to have the affair with Harry.

He almost felt relieved when Jessie reappeared.

‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’m ready to chew nails.’

‘Ouch,’ said Mhairi.

‘There are never enough stools when you want one,’ Jessie said, looking around.

‘That’s ’cause it’s Friday and the bar’s busy.’

‘Who’s a clever Stan? Can I squeeze in beside you, Andy?’

Gilchrist took his chance and said, ‘My turn.’ He stood, mobile already in hand, and left Jessie to take his chair. Without another word, he threaded through the crowd and exited by the side door on to College Street.

Outside, the air felt raw, as if the temperature had plummeted ten degrees. A bitter wind brushed the cobbles, and he turned his back to it as he made the call. A gull screeched from the black skies above Church Street as he counted five rings, then six. He was about to hang up when Cooper answered.

‘I’ll give you a call back,’ she snapped.

The line died before he had time to respond.

He returned the mobile to his pocket and eyed the entrance to the bar. If Maureen had not been inside, he would have walked to the Merc and driven straight to his cottage in Crail. As it was, he returned inside with a heavy heart, saddened by the knowledge that Cooper would be sharing her bed with her undeserving husband that night.

Morning hit Gilchrist with the sickening pain of a thudding headache. He lay still for several seconds, struggling to pull his mind from the dark cobwebs of sleep, before daring to open his eyes. The familiar twin skylights assured him he was at home in his own bed. He flapped an arm to the side, felt only cold emptiness. He rolled over and stared at the pillow.

No Cooper.

Memories of last night came back to him in fluttering moments of clarity intertwined with clouds of emptiness as dark as space. He remembered the others departing – Jackie with her crutches; Jessie leaving with her, and helping her to the door; Stan and Mhairi not long after, trying not to look like a couple, but failing comically.

Then it had been just the two of them, daughter and father.

He closed his eyes and counted two more pints of Deuchars, followed by two – or was it three? – Glenfiddichs, while a carefree Maureen kept easy pace alongside, downing four large glasses of wine, maybe five. So much for having only the one. He cursed himself for being too lenient. Just like her mother, once Maureen started, she did not want to stop until the bottle was finished. Gilchrist tried to convince himself that she was just a young woman with a tortured memory who liked the mental release that a hefty dose of alcohol gave every now and again. She did not do drugs – or so she told him, and he chose to believe her – so he reckoned the occasional heavy session was not all that bad.

As his memory peeled back the previous night’s events layer by misted layer, he remembered dropping Maureen off at her flat – he escorted her upstairs, made sure she got inside safe and sound – then driving back to Crail rather than abandoning the Merc and taking a taxi.

But it had not ended there.

Once home, he tried to make sense of what they had achieved so far and made a list for the following days. But like the fool alcohol often made of him, he opened a bottle of The Balvenie and poured himself a double Doublewood, or maybe a treble, and maybe even more than one.

Then came the recollection of calling Cooper, which had him groaning at the memory.

‘I said I would call you back.’

‘I know, but I thought you might like to—’

She hung up, and that should have been that. But, on impulse, he dialled her number again, only for it to be answered by a man’s voice telling him it was late and to stop calling his wife. Gilchrist did not hang up. Instead, he held on to the call in silence. The stalemate lasted all of ten seconds, after which Gilchrist took drunken pleasure from the fact that Mr Cooper ended the call first.

Christ, just the memory of it brought a hot flush to his face.

He dragged himself from bed and just about managed to make it to the bathroom without throwing up. A scalding shave and a shower long enough to flood the bath did little to ease the headache, but he was able to keep down a mug of tea and a half-slice of unbuttered toast, followed by four Panadols that dulled the edge of the pain.

On the stroll to the Merc, it felt more like mid-winter than early March. An icy wind cold enough to bite the fingers off you, blasted in from the sea as if in advance of a hurricane. Or, as the Scottish meteorologists tended to say, gusty winds and scattered showers. They could be broadcasting hurricane alerts around the globe with winds as strong as these, but in Scotland it was business as usual.

He waited until he drove through Kingsbarns before calling Jessie.

She answered with, ‘Are you
never
late?’

‘We’ve a meeting in Glenrothes this morning, remember?’

‘I know, Andy. You reminded me fifty million times last night. Talking of which, how’s your head? When I left, you looked as if you’d settled in for the night.’

‘My head’s fine,’ he lied. ‘But I’d feel a lot better if Jackie had been able to find an MO that at least bore some resemblance to the . . . the . . .’ He let the words die.

‘Do you ever think’, she said, ‘that we might have got it wrong? That it doesn’t necessarily have to be a serial killer?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Or that we don’t know we’re dealing with a serial killer until the MO shows up at least another two times.’

‘So you’re saying this might be a first?’

‘Serial killers have to start somewhere,’ she said. ‘If there was an identical MO out there, Jackie would have found it. So, if we don’t have anything similar from any other case in the country, then, yes, it probably is a first.’

The first of a serial killer’s victims? It was a plausible theory, but why did he not believe it? This killer had killed before. He was sure of it. But with nothing more than gut instinct, he knew he had little chance of convincing others.

He stared at the road ahead. In all his thirty-odd years with Fife Constabulary, he had never witnessed such a brutal crime scene. He had seen some horrific deaths in his time, but an image of the bloodied bathroom floor hit him with such clarity that he almost had to pull over. He tugged the steering wheel as a gust of wind buffeted the car. Away to his right, windswept surf painted strips of white on a blackened sea. The horizon flickered grey and blue, dangling the promise of a calmer day before his hurting eyes. For all anyone knew in Scotland, it could be warm enough to barbecue that evening.

‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘It’s too . . .’ He struggled for the words, then found them. ‘It’s too thorough. Too targeted. Too precise.’

‘The girls, you mean?’

‘Yes. Not a hair out of place. All tucked up like he’s put them to bed.’

‘They
were
in bed.’

‘You know what I mean,’ he said, irritated by the speed of Jessie’s tongue. ‘He’s telling us that we’re looking for a man with a hatred of’ – he was going to say
women,
but that was wrong – ‘one particular woman. Amy McCulloch.’

‘So it’s a revenge killing. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Could be.’

‘But revenge for what?’

‘Therein lies the problem,’ Gilchrist said.

‘Listen, you’re keeping me back. I need to put my face on.’

‘I’ll be with you in ten—’

‘Make it fifteen, unless you want a scare.’

‘Could you go a Starbucks?’

‘Now you’re talking.’

‘Latte in fifteen?’

‘And no sugar.’

With that, she hung up.

It was closer to twenty-five minutes by the time Gilchrist pulled into the kerb outside Jessie’s semi-detached in Canongate. Her little Fiat, brand new and hardly used, sat parked by the back door. For the first two months after joining Fife Constabulary and moving to St Andrews from Glasgow, Jessie and her son Robert had lodged with a friend of hers, Angie, in Forgan Place. Their move to a home of their own three weeks ago seemed to have done wonders for Jessie’s spirits. Or maybe it was Robert’s imminent cochlear implant operation, and the promise that her boy would finally hear, after being deaf from birth, that had pulled her out of the doldrums. Confirmation that the operation would be covered by the NHS had been the icing on the top.

No sooner had Gilchrist shifted into neutral than the back door opened and Jessie scarpered down the drive, hand at her neck, head tucked into her chest, hiding from the wind.

The door opened, followed by a rush of ice-cold air and Jessie saying, ‘Fuck.’

‘Good morning to you, too.’ He slipped into gear. ‘Coffee’s in the holder.’

She removed it, peeled back the lid, and said, ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘A morning kiss?’

‘Just drive, will you?’

He waited until he turned left at the West Port roundabout and was accelerating along Argyle Street before asking, ‘How’s the coffee?’