Dead Catch Page 15

  CHAPTER 25

  The remainder of the day seemed to fly past with barely a glimmer of hope. Efforts to find more information on Christie’s final journey to Amsterdam brought them to a dead end. Mhairi found nothing new in the logbook, obliging Gilchrist to conclude that the only useful information it provided had been the business card with Maxwell’s name printed on it. With that in mind, he toyed with the idea of phoning Victor Maxwell, and just challenging him. But he had no proof of anything, and realised he would only be wasting his time, but more worryingly, could be showing Maxwell his hand.

  Besides, Dainty’s words of warning – best to steer clear of him – still echoed in his mind.

  By close of play, Gilchrist had come up with nothing. The Maritime and Coastguard Agency had no records of the movement of Golden Plover, which he found more than a little troubling. It seemed to him that Golden Plover was even more elusive in its existence than Brenda Girl.

  Calls to port authorities throughout Scotland were leading nowhere. None had any record of Golden Plover. No harbours, boat clubs, marinas or fishing clubs had any record of anchorage, berthing, repair or storage fees being paid for Golden Plover. Whoever owned, or was in possession of, Golden Plover must have berthed it in a private marina, or pulled it from the sea and dry-docked it out of sight. For all he knew, it could have been docked in some farmer’s barn along the road.

  The only good news, if it could be called that, was Jackie’s report on Kristen, Jack’s girlfriend of the month, which Gilchrist found late in the day, buried in his in-tray. Despite the misery of that first meeting, it turned out that Kristen Hedström graduated from Oxford University with a first-class honours in English Literature, then spent five years travelling through Europe, from which no record of any laws being broken surfaced. But in the UK, a minor scuffle with the police in London saw her fined fifty pounds for resisting arrest during a demonstration against the killing of animals for fur. And six years prior to that, she’d been arrested on suspicion of possessing illegal substances. She pled guilty and was given a six-month suspended sentence, and one hundred hours of community service. Not exactly a guilt-free history, but it was certainly miles from the stuff of mainlining addiction. If he could take the positive, it would be that Kristen might be good for his son, keeping him straight from her own experience, along the lines of once bitten, twice shy.

  But the day had not been a complete waste. Jessie had managed to arrange for her and Gilchrist to meet Tommy at the back of the old paper mill in Guardbridge. The council was trying to encourage new businesses into the property, with abandoned space being rented out at unbeatable prices. The project was still in its early stages, and most of the building was still vacant. A time to meet had been agreed – 9 p.m. – when all start-ups were closed, the paper mill locked for the night, and the waste ground at the rear hidden in complete darkness.

  By 6.30 p.m., Gilchrist’s head was spinning.

  He pulled in Mhairi and Jessie for a quick debriefing, and by 6.45 p.m. decided to call it a day. Being Friday, he offered to buy them a few drinks in the Central. Mhairi declined – she was meeting Colin in the Whey Pat Tavern, then off to Dundee to try a new Thai restaurant that had been getting rave reviews. Jessie had to head off home to sort out Robert’s dinner – mince pie, chips and baked beans – and to settle up with Angie for that week’s work.

  Rather than drive home to Crail, Gilchrist decided to have a bite to eat in the Central Bar. Booths that backed against the walls were perfect for spreading out files and reviewing records in private while he relaxed with a pint.

  He pushed through the College Street entrance into the crowded din of a Scottish bar at the start of the weekend. He squeezed between rowdy students and hungry tourists, past a pair of ruddy-faced caddies who looked surprised to see they were still standing. It didn’t take him long to determine that all the booths were taken, and when a young couple slid off their bar stools, he managed to claim a spot at the bar with his elbow.

  Behind the bar, the staff shimmied past each other in the narrow aisles like dancers searching for partners. He caught the eye of one of them, a slim woman with short black hair and a pleasing smile, and ordered a pint of Deuchars.

  It came up dark and creamy, good enough to eat, and his first mouthful almost took it to the halfway mark. But the bar was too crowded to find a table and order food, so he paid for his pint, intending to drive back to Crail and have something to eat at home. He checked his mobile, and found to his surprise that he’d missed a text from Cooper – clocked in at 17:58, when he’d been deep into that day’s summary – Am free tonight. Can I buy you a pint? Becky xx

  He eyed the message, trying to work out Cooper’s reason for wanting to meet him. It had taken him many painful hours to finally realise that he wasn’t the type of man with whom Cooper was prepared to invest the rest of her life. Of course, add to that the annoying fact that her peripatetic husband, Max, had apparently resolved his unfaithful ways and returned to the matrimonial home, proverbial tail between his legs, and the writing was there for all to see.

  Since the turn of the year, Gilchrist had struggled to put their failed affair behind him. Even so, Cooper would often appear before him, shape-shifting in his mind’s eye, sensuous, smiling, hair falling over his face as she impaled herself upon him. He almost groaned at the thought, then cast his gaze around the bar in case she was already there. That would be typical Cooper – send him a text and watch how he reacted.

  He took a sip of his pint, then tapped his response – Sorry. Busy. Maybe another time? His finger hovered over the Send button while he reread his message. Would she see his open-ended reply as an opportunity to rekindle their relationship? And if she did, would he readily agree? He looked around the bar again as the answer came to him. Then he eyed his mobile, pressed the Back button, and retyped his message – Can’t. Working.

  He pressed Send, slipped his mobile into his pocket and left his pint unfinished.

  Outside, in the relative quiet of Market Street, he walked across the cobbled road. He had no destination in mind, only that he felt an overpowering need to breathe in the chilling night air, clear his mind of fogged thoughts. He tugged up his collar, shivered off the night chill – had the temperature dropped twenty degrees? – and strode on.

  At the end of Church Street, he almost turned left to check out the Criterion, but a glance at the overspill clientele standing on the pavement – mostly smokers – forced him to change his mind. He turned right, walked along South Street, past the old Kirk on his right, and the walkway to the pend onto Market Street, then past the old Post Office building, now a modern eatery – the kind of place Cooper would like. As he walked, he came to understand that it was not Cooper’s text message that was bothering him, nor his curt response to her, but his and Jessie’s meeting with Tommy later that night.

  Just thinking of facing Jessie’s brother had his pulse rate spiking. Few criminals had that effect on him, but Tommy Janes did. Or maybe it was what he wanted to ask Tommy that had him worried, that in order to uncover the truth, Tommy would have to acknowledge his personal participation in several illegal episodes.

  Still, the question had to be asked. No doubt about it.

  He just had to be prepared for Tommy’s response.

  CHAPTER 26

  St Andrews to the old paper mill in Guardbridge was some five miles, no more than a ten-minute drive. Once he cleared the town limits, Gilchrist said, ‘In a way, I’m surprised Tommy agreed to meet.’

  Jessie shuffled on her seat. ‘I think he knows he’s running out of time. He’s a tough nut. But I’ve never heard him so scared.’

  Gilchrist said nothing, kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  What had started off as a body found on a beached fishing boat was now developing into something far more sinister and outreaching, like some giant web that caught all passing debris. But once trapped, there might be no getting out. And as he drove on, he could not shift the feeling that
he was missing something, some vital link that pulled everything together.

  ‘Is it worth getting Tommy on the phone?’ he asked.

  Jessie tapped her mobile, placed it to her ear, then shook her head. ‘He’s removed the SIM card.’

  Well, what had he expected?

  The countryside slid past in silence. Off to the right, the lights of Guardbridge and Leuchars broke the black darkness of the North Sea and the Eden Estuary. He slowed down at the Guardbridge roundabout, swung a tight right, and kept his speed steady as he drove on towards the paper mill.

  Soon the walls of the old building ran alongside on the right, rising some forty feet into the night sky. For just that moment, they could be on the outskirts of some major city. Tommy had agreed to meet them at the back of the old paper mill where renovation works had evolved into the demolition of smaller buildings, tearing out of concrete aprons, removal of steel reinforcement. A chain-link fence with security warnings ran along the heel of the footpath.

  A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that no one was behind him. Ahead, the road lay deserted as it cleared Guardbridge limits on its way to Leuchars. He touched the brakes, slowing down to twenty, then to fifteen as he cruised alongside the chain-link fence.

  ‘You see anyone?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing. But that’s Tommy for you.’

  He’d not given any thought about the logistics of meeting Tommy until that moment, and said, ‘I didn’t expect it to be fenced off. It looks secure.’

  ‘There must be an opening,’ Jessie said.

  He drove on, but the fence ran all the way to Motray Water. Beyond, the road entered dark countryside. His headlights sparkled on glittering asphalt. Although spring was almost here, night frost persisted. He braked hard at Toll Road, tyres slipping on the ice, loose stones clattering the underside as he did a hard U-turn.

  Jessie had her mobile to her ear. ‘He’s still got it off.’

  He eyed the dashboard. ‘We’re running early. If he’s here, maybe it makes sense for him to power it down.’

  ‘I told him I’d call when we got here.’ She hissed a curse, and said, ‘He’s always been a mad bastard.’

  He crossed Motray Water again, and turned right into River Terrace. The road was wide enough to swing the car around, and he bumped over the kerb onto the pavement, and parked facing the security fence. His headlights shone through the fence, into a darkened area of flattened waste ground. He turned the lights off, and killed the engine.

  The wind hit them as they crossed the road to check out the security fence. A quick shake of a support post confirmed it was solid. At ground level, too, the tension in the wire was strong, with additional fixings that secured it to the ground – no way to crawl under, and too high to climb over.

  They walked towards the main building, Gilchrist checking the fence every ten yards or so, hoping for a gap through which he and Jessie might slip under. But the fence was new, the fittings secure, and he realised the only way they were likely to gain access was through the entrance gate itself.

  But at that time of night, the gate was locked. A double padlock secured it. With the days of night-watchmen long gone, Gilchrist searched for a webcam, and found it high up on a pole on the other side of the security fence. Somewhere, some bored security guard would be watching him and Jessie on screen monitors.

  Jessie gripped the fenced gate with her fingers and gave it a hard shake. The posts rattled, but there was no give in them. ‘Jesus,’ she hissed. ‘Where the hell are you, Tommy?’

  ‘Try his mobile again.’

  She did, but the result was the same.

  ‘Have you tried sending a text?’

  ‘What do you think I’ve been doing? He’s removed the SIM card, or switched it off, or something.’

  It was the something that troubled Gilchrist. Why would a career criminal as street-smart and prison-tough as Tommy Janes be scared? He stepped away from the fence, and backed onto the road. But the fence appeared solid either side of the entrance gate.

  Was Tommy already here? Had he brought wire cutters with him?

  To his left, the security fence ran into the country darkness. To his right, it connected with the gable end of the old brick building. ‘There must be another way in,’ he said. ‘Where did Tommy say he would meet?’

  ‘In the waste ground at the back of the paper mill,’ she said. ‘Exact words.’

  ‘The back. Not the side. Which is where we’re standing now.’

  ‘Holy shit, Andy. The back, the side, does it really matter?’

  ‘Well, if we were inside, I would say it doesn’t. But as we’re outside looking in, then I’d have to say it does.’

  Jessie rattled the gate again. ‘Fuck sake, Tommy.’ Then she had her mobile to her ear again, and cursed when the connection failed.

  ‘Maybe there’s another way in,’ he said. ‘A side door off the street.’ Which was when he noticed it, a car parked by the pavement, about a hundred yards from where he and Jessie stood. Had it been parked there when they first drove past? He couldn’t say.

  ‘Over there,’ he said. ‘Is that the car you got the list of names from?’

  Jessie followed his line of sight, eyes straining to see in the dim light.

  ‘Looks like a Vauxhall,’ he offered.

  ‘Is it silver?’

  ‘Could be.’

  She stuffed her hands into her pockets, and set off along the footpath. ‘If the rear light’s broken, then it’s Tommy’s.’

  ‘Offside or nearside?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Offside light or nearside light?’

  ‘Jesus, Andy, you can be so bloody annoying at times.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Jessie reached the car before Gilchrist, and walked straight to the boot. She felt a surge of relief as she recognised it. Tommy was here after all.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘And it’s the right-hand light.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s the same car?’

  ‘It’s got the same bird-shitty roof. So it has to be.’

  She said nothing as Gilchrist ran his hand over the broken tail-light. ‘For future reference,’ he said, ‘this is the offside rear-light.’

  ‘I’ll remember that next time I’m watching football,’ she snapped, and an image of Lachie flashed into her mind. He’d done that sweetheart deal with a car salesman, for which she was supposed to be forever grateful. This was the problem with men, their presumed superior knowledge when it came to cars. They could be birds displaying plumage to win a mate. Did they really think she would drop her knickers for a smooth-talking car mechanic? Your spark plugs need changed. Oh, aye, right, well, your place or mine then? Who could remember whether left was offside or nearside?

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’ Gilchrist asked.

  She threw him a glance. ‘Jesus, Andy, you’re such a boring bastard.’

  But he had moved away, was slipping latex gloves onto his hands – she pulled a pair from her own pocket – and trying the door handle …

  The door opened. He leaned inside. ‘Looks like it’s been hotwired.’

  ‘Well, this is Tommy Janes we’re talking about.’

  The interior cabin bulb wasn’t working, but even so, in the dim street light she could see the car’s state of disrepair – seats torn and stained, dashboard grey and fingered with dust, grease smudging the windscreen. The car could do with a proper valeting – or just driven to the scrappies and dumped. All in all it looked just as it had yesterday when she’d collected the envelope. Except that now there were wires dangling from the steering column.

  ‘You’d think he’d have given it a clean,’ she said. ‘At least try to blend in.’

  ‘Maybe he’s only using it for this meeting.’

  She turned to face the paper mill, the two-storey brick wall, the barn-sized door that ran along a metal rail on two metal wheels – pull the door, and it slid along the wall. She saw no padlock or keyhole, which to
ld her the door could be locked only from the inside. But in the centre of that sliding door was a smaller hinged door through which staff could enter or exit without having to slide the main door open.

  Gilchrist already had the flat of his hand against it.

  ‘It’s unlocked,’ he said.

  The door creaked open to reveal a black interior.

  Jessie stepped over the threshold and followed Gilchrist inside. She stopped for a few beats to allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. A gust of wind rushed through the opening, slamming the door behind her with a clatter that echoed like a drumbeat. A shadow shifted to her side, and her heart leaped to her mouth. She whipped her mobile towards it. From the dim light of its screen she caught a figure approaching her—

  ‘Can’t find a light switch,’ Gilchrist said.

  Her legs almost gave way. ‘Bloody hell, Andy. I nearly peed myself.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Have you got X-ray eyes or something?’

  ‘I saw a light switch as I entered, but it doesn’t work.’

  Jessie fiddled with her mobile, and switched on its beam.

  The room lit up like a crypt.

  Cardboard boxes, as large as shipping cartons, clustered one corner. Stocks of paper as bulky as rolled rugs stood against the wall like dummy Scotsmen. Metal buckets, tins of paint and two extension ladders gave the impression that workmen had only just finished for the day. The air hung thick with the smell of fresh paint and oiled varnish, within which she thought she could detect the sour smell of something less pleasant.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asked.

  ‘A storage area, maybe?’

  ‘Strange place to have a storage area. Right at the main door.’

  ‘That would be for ease of transport.’

  ‘Oh, right. Why didn’t I think of that?’ It annoyed her that she wasn’t thinking clearly, that the surreal fear of being trapped in a crypt had dulled her thought process. She shone her mobile at the far wall to reveal the black opening of another doorway.