Authors: T F Muir
‘Sorry,’ Jessie said, then added, ‘Today’s what? Thursday? So if it’s five days, we’re looking at probable time of death some time on Sunday?’
‘Clever you,’ said Cooper. ‘But as no one saw anyone running along the Coastal Path, we could assume it was dark, which would suggest night.’ She eyed Gilchrist. ‘Does that work with any theories you have?’
‘Won’t know for sure until debriefing this evening,’ Gilchrist said. ‘But it’s a good start. Thanks, Rebecca.’
‘My pleasure. I should have all post-mortems with you later today.’
‘Could you also include an enlargement of the tattoos?’
‘Of course.’
Gilchrist had just let Jessie precede him through the door when Cooper said, ‘Do you have a minute, Andy?’
He turned, caught her nodding in the direction of her office. ‘I’ll catch up with you,’ he said to Jessie. But she walked on without a break in stride.
Gilchrist entered Cooper’s office.
She removed her mask. ‘Close the door, please.’
Gilchrist did as she asked, then moved to the closer of two chairs that fronted her desk. He gripped the back of it.
She smiled at him. ‘Quite the little spitfire you’ve got there.’
‘Doesn’t mince her words, springs to mind.’
She returned his gaze with a steady look of her own. ‘I’m having a small gathering at home this evening and wonder if you’d like to come along.’
‘I take it Mr Cooper’s on his way to Italy?’
‘To spend five days with a sultry mistress or two, no doubt.’
Gilchrist searched for some way to let her down gently. What Cooper was suggesting could come back to hurt both of them professionally. ‘This case will probably keep me late.’
‘Come after,’ she said.
‘I mean, really late.’
‘Really late is fine. I’ll be in bed before midnight. Come and join me.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Small gathering means just the two of us.’
‘Ah,’ said Gilchrist.
Cooper pushed herself to her feet and, with an action that he knew she was doing for his benefit, combed her fingers through her hair, tossing it at the nape of her neck.
They faced each other. At five-ten she was not much shorter than his six-one.
Then, as if some decision had been reached, she stretched for the door handle. ‘I’m a busy woman,’ she said, ‘and you’re a busy man. I’m sure we can find some way that fits both of our schedules.’ She twisted the handle, but kept the door closed. ‘I feel it only fair to warn you about one failing I have, which is that I tend not to be patient.’
‘Ah.’ It seemed to be all he could think to say.
‘And I suspect my patience will expire with the return of Mr Cooper,’ she said. ‘I’ll send you a missed call. That way you’ll have my personal number.’
He was about to ask how she had obtained his mobile number when she twisted the handle and opened the door, and invited him to lead the way.
‘After you,’ he said.
She winked at him. ‘A gentleman to the last.’
Gilchrist found Jessie pacing the car park, too deep into her text messaging to notice his arrival. He beeped the remote, and the Merc’s lights flashed. Even then, Jessie did not look up. He turned the ignition, reversed the car from its space, and eased towards her.
She finally looked up with a frown when he almost nudged her with the bumper, then mouthed,
One minute
.
When she eventually slid into the passenger seat, he said, ‘Everything all right?’
‘Just talking to Robert. Don’t know how we’d communicate without text messages.’
‘Do you need to go home?’
‘No. He’s fine. Says he’s fine-tuned the sheep piss in the whisky joke for me,’ she said, and chuckled. ‘Can’t wait to read it.’
As Gilchrist pulled into traffic, his mobile beeped once in his pocket. He made a point of looking puzzled, then continued to drive on.
‘Is that Cooper giving you her number?’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist glanced at her, then decided silence was the best response.
‘You’re all the same,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Shouldn’t you be asking, ‘‘Is it that obvious?’’ Yes, it’s that obvious.’ A pause, then, ‘It was her, wasn’t it?’
‘How would I know?’ he said. ‘I haven’t checked.’
‘Where’s that honesty you’re always talking to me about?’
‘Well, how’s this for honesty? Next time you’re at a postmortem, I want you to show some professional respect for—’
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘You’re protecting her. You fancy her.’
‘I don’t fancy her, for crying out loud. I would be saying exactly the same if it was Quasimodo performing the post-mortems.’
‘Quasimodo? Now there’s a thought.’
‘We’re supposed to be professionals. Not some, some, some . . . Ah,
fuck
.’
Jessie waited until they were across the Tay Road Bridge and on the A92 before she said, ‘I’ve been giving the tattoos some thought. I don’t think they’ve been done by hand.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I don’t know. They just don’t seem right to me, somehow. I thought they looked too regular, too identical to be done by hand. It’s more like they’ve been stamped on.’
‘You mean so they can be rubbed off?’
‘No. They’re proper tattoos, but done by a machine. Not a machine but more like a stamping thingie. You know, you lift the arm, smack the stamper on to the skin, and hey presto, there’s your tattoo.’
Gilchrist gave the idea some thought. Did it matter if the tattoos were hand done or not? He could not see that it made any difference but he would give Cooper a call regardless, on her office phone, which might also send the message that he did not think it wise to visit her home. On the other hand, he could keep a low profile until after Sunday—
‘Earth to Gilchrist?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was thinking.’
‘Does it hurt?’
He pulled out to overtake a group of cars and had to swerve back in as a farm tractor with a wooden trailer loaded with turnips exited a field gate on the opposite side of the road.
‘Steady on,’ Jessie said. ‘Do you have any idea how much a new pair of knickers costs these days? And why do they always call them a pair of knickers? Can I buy a pair of knickers, please? And they give you one. I don’t get it.’
Gilchrist waited until a clear stretch opened up, then overtook the tractor. When he hit eighty, he said, ‘So what difference would it make if the tattoo was stamped on by a machine thingie versus being hand done?’
She shrugged. ‘Buggered if I know.’
‘Why suggest it then?’
‘Aren’t we supposed to brainstorm? You know, stick our heads together and come up with something out of left field.’ She chuckled. ‘And that’s another one. What does that mean anyway? Left field.’
‘It’s a baseball term.’
‘I know that, but what does it mean?’
‘Left field is some place on the baseball park where the ball does not normally go.’
‘OK, Babe.’
‘Babe?’
‘Babe Ruth? The baseball player? Where’s your general knowledge?’
Neither of them spoke for a couple of miles, until Jessie said, ‘Your face goes kind of red when you’re angry. Not red red, but more of a kind of deeper tan red. Did you know that?’
‘No. But I’m glad you’ve pointed it out.’ They arrived at an intersection, and for the first time since leaving Dundee Jessie took an interest in where they were heading.
‘Haven’t you taken a wrong turn?’ she asked him.
‘Thought we’d take a look at some videos.’
They arrived at Strathclyde Police HQ in Pitt Street, Glasgow, just after midday. DCI Peter ‘Dainty’ Small greeted Gilchrist with a firm handshake that defied the man’s size. He nodded at Jessie. ‘Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’
‘Likewise.’
‘This way. Got Tam to set it up. Quality’s not great but it’s not quality the bastard was trying to achieve.’ Dainty pushed through a door, held it open for Gilchrist and Jessie to step through, and said, ‘It’s not for the faint-hearted.’
‘It never is,’ said Gilchrist.
‘No, Andy. This is grim. I mean it.’ And something in the tone of Dainty’s voice warned him to expect the worst.
But in truth, no one could have prepared themselves for the worst.
Tam turned the screen so Gilchrist and Jessie could watch. ‘I can zoom in, if you’d like. But it’s as grainy as fuck.’
‘It’s fine as is, Tam, thank you.’
The sound was tinny too, a man’s voice talking in the background, mixed with the sibilant hissing from cheap sound equipment. The camera held steady on another man seated on a chair, arms behind him, body and legs wrapped into almost mummified immobility by what looked like duct tape. Only his head was free to move, although his mouth was taped, behind which his lips could be seen writhing.
‘I’m going for a smoke, and to say another prayer for Gordie’s soul.’ Tam pushed himself to his feet and exited the room without another word.
‘Gordie?’ Gilchrist asked Jessie, remembering her earlier comment.
She nodded at the screen. ‘DS Gordon McArthur.’
Gilchrist moved the mouse, tried to fiddle with the sound, but Tam already had it set at the best quality. Even so, it was difficult to make out what was being said.
‘. . . I would not notice? Do you . . . my business and pretend to be . . . think I am a fool? No . . .’ The voice rose, as its tone deepened despite the sibilance. ‘. . . you who are the fools . . .’
‘Here it comes.’ Jessie pressed closer.
The screen blackened, and Gilchrist thought they had lost the image, until the dark void turned into the back of a man walking towards the seated figure, then morphed to the body and legs of someone moving to the side of the chair. Even with the CD’s poor quality, Gilchrist caught the fear in Gordie’s eyes, which had widened to the point of popping. Taped as he was, he was able only to tilt his head and rock the chair, and Gilchrist realised that the chair must be bolted to the floor, otherwise it would surely tumble. He was also conscious of Jessie’s face next to his, her breathing light and low in an expectant pant, like a sprinter trying to steady the nerves before leaving the blocks.
‘Here we go,’ Jessie whispered.
The screen zoomed in so that Gordie’s face half-filled it. ‘There has to be two of them,’ Gilchrist said.
But Jessie did not answer. Her breath stilled, locked in her throat.
Then a sudden intake by his ear told Gilchrist the moment had arrived.
Gordie’s eyes widened more, impossible it seemed, and even though his mouth was gagged, his roaring scream was unmistakable. A large, dark hand gripped the top of Gordie’s head, while the other used what looked like a long boning knife to saw beneath and behind his right jaw, to the back of the neck.
Five seconds into it, the screaming had not subsided. The blade glinted in the lights as the knife continued to saw, as if the butcher was having difficulty cutting through the gristle. And Gilchrist came to understand that the execution was never intended to be clean and swift, the first cut away from the carotid artery telling him that the killing was being staged, to deepen the horror of the viewer, and Gordie’s torture.
Ten seconds in, and the sawing had moved to the back of Gordie’s head.
Gilchrist felt his breath leave him as a wave of light-headedness swept over him. He pressed his hand to his mouth. ‘Dear God,’ he whispered.
And still Gordie’s eyes popped and his breathless scream continued, until it seemed as if all that filled the room was—
Silence.
Gordie’s eyes had closed as if a switch had been clicked.
The camera zoomed out, so that the viewer could see the upper half of the victim, and the action of the executioner. Gilchrist sensed an urgency in the movements then, as if the best part was over, and the need to bring it all to a sorry conclusion was the driving force.
The blade shifted to the throat, cut in deep.
Gilchrist groaned.
The hand gripped Gordie’s head by the hair, lifted it up and, with one final jerking tug, cut through all that was left of the neck, and pulled the head free.
The executioner carried the head, its neck dripping of blood, towards the camera until the screen was filled with Gordie’s closed eyes, which looked remarkably peaceful despite the horror of moments earlier.
‘Next one’s the brothers,’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist pushed his chair back and stood. ‘I’ll give it a miss,’ he said, and strode straight to the door, except that he bumped into the wall on the way.
‘Andy?’
He fumbled with the door handle, then stepped into the corridor.
Outside, Tam caught his eye as Gilchrist walked towards him, and had a cigarette out of the packet by the time he reached him. Even then, the tremors in Gilchrist’s fingers caused him to drop it, and he watched in despair as it rolled into a puddle.
Tam removed another, lit it for him, and planted it between Gilchrist’s lips.
Gilchrist inhaled as if his life depended on it. Christ, the way he felt at that moment, it probably did.
‘Gordie left a wife and an eighteen-month-old daughter,’ Tam said.
Two more hard pulls that had the inside of his cheeks touching his tongue, and the cigarette almost done.
‘Another one?’
Although his fingers still shivered, Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Gave up smoking.’
Tam nodded, dropped his dout to the pavement, ground it out with his shoe. ‘Years ago,’ he said, ‘when I was a stupid teenager, I used to be a ban-the-bomber.’ He narrowed his eyes, stared at some imaginary event over Gilchrist’s shoulder. ‘Now? After seeing what they done to Gordie?’ Tam’s eyes returned to Gilchrist, cold and hard. ‘We should nuke the fucking lot of them.’
‘You look queasy,’ Jessie said.
‘That’s how I feel.’ Gilchrist powered up to fifty. Ahead, a steady stream of traffic lined the inside lanes of the M80. He eased out, accelerated to sixty, tried to pull his thoughts together, force himself to concentrate on the case. ‘Did anyone follow up with the ring?’
‘What ring?’
‘On his right hand.’
‘I don’t remember seeing a ring,’ Jessie said.
Gilchrist frowned. The recording had been grainy, the action blurred, but he thought he had caught the glint of a ring on one of the fingers. Or maybe a glint of light on the knife’s blade had made him think it was a ring. He struggled to pull it up in his mind’s eye but his brain seemed unwilling to cooperate.