Dead Still (DCI Andy Gilchrist) Read online

  Also by T. F. Muir

  (DCI Gilchrist series)

  Eye for an Eye

  Hand for a Hand

  Tooth for a Tooth

  Life for a Life

  The Meating Room

  Blood Torment

  The Killing Connection

  Dead Catch

  (DCI Gilchrist Short Story)

  A Christmas Tail

  Copyright

  Published by Constable

  ISBN: 978-1-47213-106-5

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © T. F. Muir, 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Constable

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by T.F. Muir

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Acknowledgements

  For Anna

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  First and foremost, this book is a work of fiction. Those readers familiar with St Andrews and the East Neuk may notice that I have taken creative licence with respect to some local geography and history, and with the names of some police forces, which have now changed. Sadly, too, the North Street Police Station in which DCI Gilchrist is based has not only been closed but demolished – I still struggle to believe it – but its past proximity to the town centre with its many pubs and restaurants would have been too sorely missed by Gilchrist for me to abandon it. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.

  Any and all mistakes are mine.

  www.frankmuir.com

  CHAPTER 1

  10.35 a.m., Monday

  Gleneden Distillery, Outskirts of

  St Andrews, Fife, Scotland

  Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist switched off his car’s engine. Rain battered the roof in a hard drum roll, and streamed down the windscreen in sheets. He leaned forward to peer up at the thunder clouds, but it looked as if the downpour was on for the rest of the day, maybe even the month.

  From the passenger seat, Detective Sergeant Jessie Janes said, ‘Not halfway through the month yet, and the Met Office is saying this could be the wettest January on record.’

  ‘Could be. Which at least gives us some hope.’

  ‘The way it’s pissing down, I’d say it gives us no hope.’

  Then … just like that … the rain slackened.

  ‘Looks like the sun’s trying to break through,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Oh that’s really going to make a difference.’

  ‘You got an umbrella?’

  ‘Just the suntan lotion.’ Jessie tutted, and opened the door to an icy January wind. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ she said. ‘At least it’ll be dry where the body is.’

  Gilchrist beeped his remote as Jessie scurried along a concrete path – head low, collar up – and into the entrance foyer of Gleneden Distillery. Glass-encased shelves, brightened by soft lighting, glowed with an array of golden malts that stood to attention on tartan-covered plinths. Padded velvet-like boxes lay opened to display sets of nosing glasses engraved with Gleneden Distillery. Pocket flasks, tops unscrewed as if to entice a quick toast for the road, stood amongst sets of sterling silver stirrup cups shaped as stag antlers, fox heads, howling hounds, wing-spread eagles.

  His attention was drawn to the centrepiece, a metal-rimmed glass case that looked strong enough to withstand a hammer blow, and which housed a dark, bulbous bottle with a Victorian scroll proclaiming it to be a fifty-year-old single malt. A black tag lay next to it, with a gold-flaked inscription that priced it at £15,000. It looked inviting, he had to confess, but you would have to be filthy rich or stoned drunk – maybe both – to spend that on a bottle. Of course, at that price you wouldn’t drink it, just store it some place safe, knowing that with each passing year it would rise in price. Gilchrist wasn’t a whisky drinker per se, more of an eclectic drinker, preferring the thirst-quenching satisfaction of real ales, even the occasional mass-bottled beer if the mood took him, and now and again the odd whisky when he had one too many last ones for the road, often to his own detriment.

  When he caught up with Jessie, she had her warrant card out and was challenging the receptionist, a young blonde-haired woman whose tartan outfit seemed two sizes too small and several years too old. He had a sense that she was someone who never looked polished no matter what she wore. Or maybe her bitten fingernails and a messy tattoo that peeked from the throat of her blouse in red and yellow swirls gave that impression.

  ‘Mrs Dunmore rarely visits the distillery,’ the receptionist was explaining to Jessie.

  ‘What is it about expecting us that you don’t understand?’

  ‘There’s nothing noted in her appointments’ diary.’

  ‘Get her on the phone.’

  ‘She’s not in her office.’

  ‘I don’t care where she isn’t. Phone her mobile.’

  ‘I don’t have her mobile number.’

  Gilchrist stepped in with, ‘Is the distillery manager around?’

  ‘That would be Robbie Marsh.’

  ‘Now we know his name, is he available?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him this morning.’

  Gilchrist smiled. ‘That’s all right. We’ll make our own way to the ageing sheds, then.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to go there without—’

  ‘Inspector Gilchrist?’

  All three turned towards the voice, which came from a middle-aged woman who had entered the foyer through a door in the back wall and was now walking towards them, hand outstretched. A belted wax jacket, which matched green wellington boots, glistened with water droplets, as if she’d just stepped in from a light shower.

  ‘Katherine Dunmore,’ she said. ‘I own Gleneden.’ H
er grip was dry and firm, and her lips twitched in a half-hearted smile.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist. St Andrews CID.’ He held out his warrant card, then introduced Jessie. ‘Detective Sergeant Janes, who’ll be assisting in our investigation.’

  Jessie nodded in response, but Dunmore’s gaze darted to the receptionist, while her hand took hold of Gilchrist’s arm and steered him towards the door. ‘We’ll be with Robbie,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘In number one warehouse.’

  Outside, the rain had picked up again, but Dunmore seemed not to care as she strode down a gravel pathway alongside a black wooden building that reeked of creosote and tar, splashing through puddles in her wellington boots like a child heading to school.

  Inside the warehouse, silence reigned, as if the rain had stopped. A fousty smell that reminded Gilchrist of dusty dampness swamped his senses. He scanned the warehouse. Every square inch, it seemed, was taken up by wooden casks of various sizes lying on their sides on rails of wood – larger casks stacked two high, smaller casks three high.

  Dunmore pulled back her hood, tucked strands of dark brown hair behind both ears, and shouted out, ‘Robbie?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Dunmore.’ The voice came from behind rows of large wooden casks off to Gilchrist’s right.

  ‘That’s the police here,’ she said. ‘Can you show them the …’

  Her voice tailed off as a man emerged from between a lane of casks, removing a pair of heavy-duty gloves. He approached Gilchrist as if intent on tackling him, then shook his hand with a steel grip. ‘Robbie Marsh,’ he said, then nodded to Jessie.

  ‘I believe you called it in, Mr Marsh,’ Jessie said.

  ‘I did, aye,’ and without further prompting said, ‘It’s over here.’

  Gilchrist walked after Marsh’s slim figure, aware of Dunmore trailing behind. When they reached the open cask, Marsh stood back to let them look inside. That close to the cask, the air was redolent of an enticing whisky aroma that teased Gilchrist’s taste buds – well, for a beer drinker, who would ever have thought?

  The wooden cask stood upright, metal hoops slackened, lid off – some four feet tall, three feet in diameter. When Gilchrist leaned forward, he saw that it was drained of whisky, with a fully clothed body crammed inside. He didn’t have to see the face to know it was the body of a man: checked shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal strong arms and an expensive watch with a man-sized face still fastened to the wrist; shirt collar up at the back to reveal a woollen tie, presumably still knotted; thick corduroy trousers the colour of whisky.

  ‘Okay,’ he said to Marsh. ‘Run it past me. How you found him.’

  Marsh glanced at Dunmore, and Gilchrist had a sense that permission to speak had been sought, and granted. ‘We’re one of a handful of distillers that have their own bottling plant.’

  ‘That’s unusual, is it?’

  ‘Most use one of the major bottling plants in Edinburgh or Glasgow.’

  ‘Okay. Keep going.’

  ‘We were getting ready for our bottling run this morning, but when we rolled out this cask we could tell right away that something was wrong.’ He raised his eyebrows, puffed out his cheeks. ‘So we popped the bung to nose it, and that was that. It was off.’

  ‘In what way?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Just didn’t smell the way it should.’

  ‘So then what?’

  ‘We tried to insert the dog—’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The dog. It’s a copper tube, like an oversized test tube, on a bit of string, that we use to take samples through the bunghole. But we couldn’t get it in. Something was blocking it.’

  ‘Did you not think of calling the police then?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘What for? We thought it was a bung cloth that had worked its way in, that’s all.’

  ‘Does that happen a lot?’

  ‘Almost never, but when we tried to dislodge it with the bung puller, that’s when we knew we had a problem and that we needed to open it.’

  Gilchrist nodded. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Well, we rolled it out and stood it up—’

  ‘Bung in or out?’

  ‘We put the bung back in, of course.’

  Jessie said, ‘It helps if you don’t miss out bits. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Marsh scratched his head. ‘Well, we put the bung back in, and rolled it from over there to here. Then we stood it up, and drove off the top hoops so we could remove the lid. And that’s when we discovered what the problem was.’ He nodded to the body.

  Gilchrist eyed the warehouse floor. Bone dry. ‘What did you do with the whisky that was already in the cask?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s still in there.’

  Gilchrist looked into the cask again, and in the dim light saw that the lower half of the body was actually submerged. ‘You didn’t drain any off ?’ he asked.

  ‘No need to.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Over the years,’ Marsh said, ‘the cask absorbs some distillate. And the wood’s porous, so some evaporates. We lose about two per cent on average a year. That’s what Customs and Excise allow you, anyway.’

  ‘The angel’s share?’ Jessie said.

  ‘It is, aye. But the older the whisky, the higher the percentage lost.’

  ‘How high?’

  ‘After twenty-five years, we would expect it to be about half full.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Jessie said, ‘the angels should be bouncing off heaven’s walls.’

  Gilchrist coughed an interruption. ‘What did you do after you found the body?’

  ‘I phoned Mrs Dunmore—’

  ‘Why do that?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You’d just discovered a body. Why not phone the police?’

  ‘Well, I …’ Marsh scratched his head again. ‘I … I wanted to know what to do.’

  Gilchrist glanced at Dunmore, whose gaze seemed focused on some spot on the warehouse floor. ‘And what did Mrs Dunmore say?’

  ‘She told me to phone the police. Which I did. And now you’re here.’ Marsh seemed pleased to have that part of the conversation over. But Gilchrist had a sense of not being told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  He faced Dunmore. ‘Is that your recollection of events?’ he said.

  She looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Yes, it is.’

  But Gilchrist was having none of it. ‘So your manager phones you up and tells you he’s found a body, and you tell him to phone the police?’

  ‘Yes.’ A tad uncertain.

  He looked at Marsh, who seemed more interested in the condition of the opened cask than in Gilchrist’s questions. Back to Dunmore. ‘You didn’t think to ask anything else?’

  Dunmore’s resolve seemed to surrender under Gilchrist’s hard gaze. She grimaced for a moment, then edged closer to the cask. Without looking inside, she said, ‘I did ask Robbie if he thought the body could be Hector.’

  But even as Gilchrist said, ‘Hector who?’ the vaguest of memories stirred – a missing person, back in the eighties, maybe nineties, the man’s name appearing before him—

  ‘Hector Dunmore,’ she said. ‘My brother.’

  ‘Who disappeared twenty-five years ago,’ he added, the logic tumbling into place.

  Dunmore closed her eyes and nodded.

  ‘And what did you say, Robbie?’ Jessie said. ‘When she asked you?’

  Marsh shrugged. ‘I told her I couldn’t say.’

  Of course he couldn’t, Gilchrist thought. Marsh would’ve been in primary school when Hector Dunmore vanished. And twenty-five years ago, Gilchrist had less than half a dozen years on the force under his belt. But even though he knew the answer, he said, ‘Mrs Dunmore, can you positively identify the body as that of your missing brother?’

  She pursed her lips, then said, ‘I can, yes. It’s Hector.’

  ‘Did you touch the body in any way?’

  Her gaze shot at him.

  ‘To
identify him, I mean.’

  ‘No. I knew from his clothes and his hair. And his watch.’

  Gilchrist waited.

  ‘I bought that watch for his twenty-first. A Seiko. Hector liked the black face, and the date-window thingy. It was all I could afford back then.’

  ‘And the clothes?’

  ‘That’s what he was wearing when he disappeared.’

  ‘You remember what he was wearing?’ Jessie said.

  Dunmore’s back straightened. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Clothes are clothes,’ Jessie said. ‘What month did he disappear?’

  ‘December. The twelfth.’

  ‘That’s the middle of winter. And he wasn’t wearing a jacket?’

  Dunmore seemed taken aback by the question. ‘Well … I … No. He wasn’t.’

  ‘So when and where did you last see him?’

  ‘The night he disappeared.’

  ‘Keep going,’ Gilchrist said again.

  ‘As best I remember, George and I went round to Hector’s to drop off some shopping – fresh cuts of meat that we buy in bulk from a local farmer.’

  ‘And George is …?’

  ‘My husband.’

  Gilchrist caught Jessie’s eye. They would need to talk to George, too. ‘And what time would that have been?’

  ‘We didn’t stay long. Got there about six-ish. Stayed less than an hour.’

  ‘And Hector was wearing then what he’s wearing now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about shoes?’

  ‘Shoes …? I …’ She shook her head. ‘Slippers, maybe.’

  If the body of Hector Dunmore was wearing the same clothes as when his sister and brother-in-law had last visited, then it seemed logical to conclude that he hadn’t gone outside that evening after they’d delivered his shopping – in the middle of winter, no jacket or cold-weather garments – and must have been killed indoors. Were the Dunmores the last people to have seen Hector alive? Rather than voice conjecture, he made a mental note to obtain the records of Hector’s misper investigation.

  With that in mind, he said, ‘We’re going to have to seal off this area while we carry out our investigation.’ He looked at Marsh. ‘Can you show me exactly where the cask was stored for twenty-five years? We’ll have to seal that area off, too.’

  Marsh nodded to a wall about six feet away. ‘Just over there.’