Life For a Life (20 page)

Had he just missed them?

He eyed the road that led uphill to the A917, tried to remember what vehicles he had passed. But it was no use. His whole focus had been on chasing a white car to the exclusion of all others. He tried the office, just in case.

‘Nothing yet, sir.’

He called off the BOLO and told Liz to send someone to the property – he read out the address on the wall – and said, ‘See if you can find out who owns it,’ then walked towards the entrance gateway.

He had warned the office that they might be armed.

Despite that, he marched up the driveway to the half-hidden car.

Gilchrist’s instincts had been spot on.

He had his white Toyota, dent in the rear bumper, and a number plate that told him his grey matter was not dying after all. On the ground, the telltale trail of footprints showed him how someone had walked from the Toyota straight to the other vehicle, the driveway clear where it had been parked overnight. The other man had entered the house, then returned to the car. A couple of slide marks on the back step showed where he had slipped.

Gilchrist called the office again, told Liz he had located the car, no passengers, but they might manage to lift prints. And even as he was saying that, he realised they could have an entire house-load of fingerprints to lift.

‘Mr and Mrs Ramsay,’ Liz said to him. ‘That’s whose name the house is in.’

The back door was closed, but unlocked.

Gilchrist opened it using the tips of his gloved fingers.

The kitchen blinds were drawn. Light from the open door cast a bright beam over a terracotta-tiled floor, and reached into the room like a painted line that ran up and over pine cabinets. The air held a hint of disinfectant, as if the place had been scrubbed clean.

‘Hello?’ He pushed the door wider. ‘Hello?’ He stepped inside.

He opened the blinds, feeling as if he was letting daylight into the house for the first time in weeks. As he scanned the work surfaces, the sparkling stainless-steel sink, the drying tray to the side with nothing in it, he thought the place had been kept overly tidy for a pair of thugs. The walls, too, a light beige that blended with darker doors and frames, were devoid of pictures, as if whoever lived here had failed to turn the house into a home.

An opened door led into a dark hallway. At the far end, a heavy velvet curtain hung over the front door, doubling as a draught excluder.

He found a light switch and clicked it on to reveal an empty hall, furnished only by a beige runner that covered a wooden floor.

‘Hello?’ he shouted.

Silence.

A quick look into other rooms confirmed the house was deserted.

Outside again, he was halfway down the drive when his mobile rang.

‘No luck,’ said Dick. ‘Somewhere in Crail, as best I could tell. But the number’s untraceable.’

Gilchrist was about to thank him when Dick said, ‘I also did another check on that mobile you gave me.’

Gilchrist reached the end of the driveway, stepped around the skid marks.

‘I didn’t mention it yesterday,’ Dick said, ‘but the funny thing is that it’s not made any more calls, other than to the numbers I gave you yesterday.’

‘Incoming?’

‘Nada. Zilch. Outgoing only.’

‘Powered down?’

‘More likely SIM card removed and thrown away.’

‘So, it might be safe to conclude that the person Dillanos spoke to on the last number she called, the one you couldn’t trace or identify, might have given her a warning?’ It seemed the only logical answer.

‘That would be a sensible bet, I’d say.’

Gilchrist eyed the neighbouring bungalow to the left, then a two-storey semi to the right, and wondered if anyone had noticed anything in the Ramsays’ bungalow, or if they might be able to give an ID.

‘There’s no way you can trace the number?’ he tried again.

‘Not with an iffy SIM card. Ten a penny. Use them and ditch them.’

A squad car rounded the corner and Gilchrist recognised DC Bill McCauley at the wheel, WPC Mhairi McBride in the passenger seat. He thanked Dick and disconnected. By the time he reached the car, McCauley was on his feet, blowing into his hands.

‘Bloody freezing,’ McCauley said.

Gilchrist nodded. The temperature felt as if it had dropped more than a couple of degrees. Overhead, the sky had dulled to a darker grey, the morning threat of sunshine now only a fading memory. Mhairi made her way round the front of the car to join them.

‘What have we got, sir?’ she asked.

Maybe it was seeing Mhairi again, or the memory of why she had not joined them last night, but it seemed so obvious that he wondered why he had not thought of it sooner. ‘Are you and Angus still on speaking terms?’ he said.

‘Not any more, sir.’

‘That sounds serious.’

‘I’d rather live in the Antarctic, sir.’

‘Good,’ he said, and smiled at her. ‘Phone Angus, and find out if this house is on his books. And if it is, lift him.’

Mhairi grinned and walked off, mobile at her ear.

Gilchrist put his hand on McCauley’s shoulder. ‘You look rough, Bill.’

‘After the Central, I had a date with Eilidh.’ He smiled. ‘Stayed up too late.’

Gilchrist nodded. He did not believe a word of it. McCauley was well known for his binge drinking, and the mint smell of his breath told Gilchrist that Eilidh was being used as an alibi. He gave McCauley’s shoulder an avuncular squeeze, and said, ‘I’d like you to give the keys to Mhairi, and make sure she drives for the rest of the day. OK?’

McCauley grimaced.

‘And I don’t want to have this conversation again, Bill. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘When you get back to the office,’ Gilchrist pressed on, ‘start the ball rolling for a warrant to search this house.’

‘Yes, sir,’

‘Is Baxter in today?’

‘Day off, sir.’

‘That’s more sensible,’ he said, and stared McCauley out until he got the message and returned to the car and slid into the passenger seat.

Mhairi returned, her eyes sparkling from anger, or the cold air, he could not say.

‘Problems?’ he tried.

‘None that clapping a pair of bricks to his gooleys wouldn’t solve.’

‘Ouch.’ He eyed her. ‘I’m listening.’

‘He denied it, of course.’

‘Of course. And you think he might have rented it out?’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t know any more, sir.’

Gilchrist saw that Mhairi was still hurting, and he now regretted asking her to call. But a glance at McCauley told him that only one of them had turned up for work that day.

‘How was it left?’ he asked her.

‘I told him to get himself to his office in an hour or I’d have him arrested.’

‘How did that go down?’

‘He told me to eff off.’

‘What’s his number?’

‘Sir?’

‘I’d like to call him, tell him what’s what—’

‘I can handle it, sir.’

He held her gaze, and sensed her panic. ‘Something you’re not telling me, Mhairi?’

‘No, sir, I just . . . I just need to do this myself.’

‘Even the arrest?’

She took a deep breath, let it out. ‘If I have to, yes, sir.’

Gilchrist glanced at the squad car, thought McCauley looked ill. Probably just the mention of a bacon sandwich would have him throwing up. ‘Drop Bill off at the office,’ he said to her, ‘and I’ll catch up with you at Patterson and McLeod’s.’

Gilchrist waited another fifteen minutes for the SOCOs to arrive.

Their white Transit van pulled up behind his Merc.

Colin was first out and shook Gilchrist’s hand. ‘Christ, it’s chilly,’ he said.

Gilchrist eyed the van, expecting to see others follow. ‘On your own?’

‘Robbie’s with me. Finishing off a call to his bird. He’s coming to the good bit.’ He winked at Gilchrist, then eyed the driveway. ‘So what’ve we got?’

Gilchrist showed him the tyre tracks. Despite the low temperature, the asphalt was beginning to show through in blackening patches. He nodded to the car. ‘And see what you can find on that Toyota. But don’t enter the house until we have a warrant.’

‘Is the Toyota unlocked?’

Gilchrist grimaced. ‘Didn’t check that.’

‘Don’t worry. If it’s got a lock and a handle, Robbie’s your man.’ He marched to the front of the van and smacked the windscreen with the flat of his hand. ‘Out,’ he shouted. ‘Come on, we’ve got work to do.’

Gilchrist grimaced, then left them to it.

The neighbour’s driveway was shorter and led to an almost identical bungalow. The garden lay white with snow, thicker in places protected by the shadow of a garden wall that ran the length of the boundary – a perfect winter’s scene, he thought. Smoke rose from the chimney in a grey column that thinned in a light wind. Either side of the front door, windows glistened, through which he caught the silhouette of someone deep in the room.

He pressed the doorbell, a small lighted button with the name Clarke beneath it.

A few seconds later, the door opened to the sound of clicking locks and a bright-faced woman who reminded him of his ex-wife Gail before she turned bitter.

He held up his warrant card and introduced himself.

The woman stepped into the vestibule and pulled the door behind her, as if to keep her home and her personal belongings safe from his prying eyes.

‘How well do you know the Ramsays?’ he asked.

‘I’ve known Lennie and Jean all my life,’ she said, then as if realising why he was standing on her doorstep, pressed her hand to her mouth. ‘Has something happened to them?’

He shook his head. ‘I need to talk to them. That’s all. Do you know where they are?’

‘British Virgin Islands. They visit their son every Christmas and New Year. They always stay for at least three months, sometimes four.’

‘Anyone look after the house while they’re away?’

‘They leave a key with me,’ she said, ‘but they also have it registered with a property management company that sometimes let it out over the festive season.’

‘Patterson and McLeod?’ he tried, just itching to bring Angus into the equation.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

Well, maybe Angus was clean after all. ‘Can you tell me anything about the people who are renting it at the moment?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘They keep themselves to themselves.’

A few more innocent questions got him nowhere, until he said, ‘Have you noticed what they drive?’

‘One of their cars is the same as ours,’ she said, ‘which is the only reason I would know.’

Gilchrist eyed the sleek body of a BMW X5 SUV. Snow clung to the roof and bonnet, but along the side its black paintwork glistened showroom new. ‘Same colour?’

‘Silver.’

‘Registration number?’ He was pushing the boat out, but you could never tell.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know my own. If the lights didn’t flash when you press the button, I’d never find it.’ She chuckled, and Gilchrist smiled in support.

He asked if she could describe the renters, perhaps give some idea of ethnicity, but she had paid no attention – why should she? She’s wasn’t nosey. He asked when she had last seen the renters, how long she thought they had been there, and if she knew when Mr and Mrs Ramsay were expected to return. But her answers were only filling up his notebook, not really gaining any ground.

He had just about run out of questions when he said, ‘Do you have any way of contacting the Ramsays? In an emergency, say?’

‘I’ve got their son’s number.’

‘That’ll work,’ he said.

As he waited while she returned indoors, he thought of the call to his mobile earlier that morning, and the glimpse of the man getting into the Toyota, which in turn had led him to the Ramsays’ house—

The door snapped open.

‘Here you are.’ She handed him a slip of paper. ‘I’ve included the international code.’

He exchanged the slip for one of his cards and asked her to call him anytime, day or night, if she ever thought of anything else. He crunched his way back down the driveway, called the office, and asked Liz to put out a BOLO on a silver BMW X5 SUV, two passengers, one white, one Arabic-looking. There, he had said it.

He just hoped he had it correct.

Next, he eyed the printed phone number.

He had spent a week in the Caribbean once, when Gail first left and he took himself off to St Thomas for a few days of sunshine, rum cocktails, and the hope of some quickly forgotten holiday romance. But a shrimp cocktail on his first night put him in bed for the next three days with food poisoning. All things Caribbean after that were eaten or drunk with half-hearted enthusiasm.

He glanced at his watch – 10.33 – which, if his memory and arithmetic were correct, put it at 6.33 on a Virgin Islands’ morning, sunny, no doubt. Time they were up, he thought, and dialled the number.

He got through to a man’s voice on the second ring, and asked for Mr Ramsay.

‘Speaking.’

Gilchrist had expected an older-sounding voice, then realised he might have their son on the line. ‘Mr Ramsay Senior?’ he asked.

‘Lennie’s still in bed. Can I help?’

Gilchrist gave a belated apology for disturbing them at such an early hour.

‘No problem. We’re all usually up by now. But Lennie had one too many last night.’

What is it with Scotsmen and Saturday nights? Gilchrist explained the reason for his call, and asked if Lennie could give him a call back.

‘Jean’s around,’ the man said. ‘She might know.’

When a frail-sounding voice came on to the phone, Gilchrist worried that he had woken the entire Caribbean neighbourhood. But Jean could not remember the name of the property management company. ‘And I warned Lennie not to go with him. I didn’t like the look of his eyes.’

‘Whose eyes?’

‘The man who came around to look at the property.’

‘From the property management company?’

‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’

For a moment, Gilchrist thought he was going to land lucky, but he’d really been asking too much. ‘And you can’t remember the name of the company?’

‘Hold on a minute, I’ll check with Lennie.’

‘I thought he was . . .’ But from the clatter of the phone, he realised that she had laid it down. Another glance at his watch confirmed it was 6.42, and just the thought of a sun-filled morning and a walk along the beach was enough to have him toying with the idea of trying the Caribbean again – but without fish dishes.