The Meating Room Read online

  Gilchrist returned Purvis’s cold stare, toying with the idea of cuffing him just for the hell of it. But it would likely take no more than another whistle for both dogs to return to protect their master. Better get rid of them first, he thought. ‘We’ll be waiting for you,’ he said.

  Purvis gave a scowl in response, then strode after his dogs.

  Jessie stood with her arms wrapped around her middle, as if on the verge of tears.

  Gilchrist retrieved her mobile. ‘You dropped this,’ he said.

  She took it from him and wiped it clean. ‘I think I wet my knickers.’

  ‘I would’ve wet mine, too, if I was wearing any.’

  Jessie tried to smile. Then Gilchrist brushed past her and walked to the back door. He twisted the handle. To his surprise, it opened – unlocked, just as Purvis had said – leaving him thinking he had it all wrong, that Purvis, just like Magner, might be innocent. Or more correctly, when he thought about it, that proving Purvis or Magner were guilty was another matter entirely.

  He pushed open the door and stepped into a tidy kitchen.

  ‘Not quite the proper way for a criminal to behave,’ Jessie said.

  He looked around the small room, ready to seize the opportunity. He had work to do while Purvis locked up the dogs. ‘You any good at making tea?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m a mum, you forget, and mums can do anything.’

  ‘I’m not asking if you can or can’t,’ he said. ‘I’m asking if you’re any good at it.’

  ‘I think you’ve got verbal OCD.’

  ‘Jesus, Jessie. Just put the bloody kettle on, will you? And give me a shout before Purvis gets back.’ Then he turned and walked into the lounge.

  CHAPTER 25

  Gilchrist worked out that he probably had four minutes, tops.

  He walked straight through the living room, intending to start in the master bedroom. The first thing that struck him was how neat and tidy everything was. The bed was made, pillows fluffed up, duvet cover folded over without even a hint of a ruffle. A quick opening and closing of wardrobe doors offered nothing obvious.

  He entered the en-suite shower room, which was still warm and clammy from Purvis’s recent shower. The glass panel had been wiped down with a rubber T-blade, the sink dried with paper towels. The toilet seat was down, and a quick look-see revealed nothing. He launched himself at a wicker basket in the corner and pulled off the lid, only to feel a surge of disappointment on seeing the contents – a white tee-shirt, a pair of white underpants and black socks. If his theory was correct, that Purvis had been involved in the murder of Linda James, then there had to be blood-covered clothes lying around somewhere, or at least some traces of blood.

  Purvis surely could not have had time to dispose of them.

  A look under the bed revealed nothing, so Gilchrist strode into the spare bedroom.

  A quick inspection told him that if Jimmy Watson shared the cottage with Purvis, then he maintained an almost invisible presence. The wardrobe, drawers and bedside cabinets were all empty, except for two sports jackets that looked as if they would fit Purvis, three tee-shirts, an unused pocket diary, and a small plastic container.

  The latter piqued Gilchrist’s interest.

  He opened it to find twenty-five separate compartments – five by five – with the whole unit perfectly sized for storing twelve-gauge shot-shells in the down position. Given Purvis’s record, by law he would not be permitted to own any gun. So, did the empty ammunition container belong to Watson?

  With a mild flush of panic, Gilchrist realised he was almost out of time. He returned the container to the cabinet drawer and made his way back to the kitchen. The kettle was reaching the boil, and three mugs were lined up on the counter-top next to a packet of biscuits. Jessie had the kitchen drawers open, and was scratching her way through their contents.

  ‘Anything?’ Gilchrist asked.

  She shook her head. ‘You?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The cottage was too small to have a separate utility room, and Gilchrist opened the kitchen units one at a time to confirm they were fully integrated. A small under-the-counter fridge hid behind a wooden cabinet door. Next to that he found a freezer. He located the tumble-drier and washing machine at the far end of the kitchen.

  ‘You see him?’ he asked Jessie.

  She eased back the curtain. ‘He’s on his way back. I’ll let you know.’

  Gilchrist pressed the button to open the washing machine’s door. It clicked, but nothing happened. He tried again, but the door was either locked or stuck. He kneeled on the floor and peered through the glass.

  ‘Andy, he’s back.’

  Gilchrist jumped to his feet, closed the wooden door that concealed the washer, and stepped towards Jessie as the back door opened.

  ‘Find anything of interest?’ Purvis asked.

  Jessie said, ‘Tea’s up.’

  Purvis eyed the mugs on the countertop, the plate of biscuits, the kitchen cabinets one by one, his eyes missing nothing as they shifted from one cabinet to the other. Then his gaze found Jessie and hung on her for a moment, before drifting over her shoulder to settle on Gilchrist.

  ‘Do you own a gun?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can apply for a search warrant and come back later, if you’d prefer.’

  Purvis said nothing for a long moment, then walked into the living room. He opened a drawer in a corner-table and removed a key, which he handed to Gilchrist.

  ‘What’s this?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘It’s Jimmy’s.’ Purvis nodded to a small door on the wall next to the fireplace, which Gilchrist had assumed contained the fuse box. ‘Look in there,’ he said.

  Gilchrist inserted the key and the lock clicked. He pulled the door open to reveal two twelve-bore shotguns and a rifle.

  ‘Any of these yours?’ he asked Purvis.

  ‘I told you. They’re Jimmy’s.’

  ‘You got proof of that?’

  Purvis walked to an ornate wooden chest in the middle of the room, which doubled as a coffee table. He released the clip-lock and lifted the lid, then retrieved a folder from deep inside.

  Silent, Gilchrist waited.

  Purvis handed him several slips of paper, and a quick scan confirmed that the rifle and both shotguns were registered to Mr James Watson of Cauldwood Cottage.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Purvis asked, holding out a hand for the key and gun licences.

  ‘I’d like to see the paperwork for the BMW, too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A similar car was involved in a fatal hit-and-run accident last night.’

  ‘I was in Edinburgh last night.’

  ‘I never said where the accident occurred.’

  ‘You’re with Fife Constabulary,’ Purvis replied without missing a beat. ‘Edinburgh’s Lothian, not Fife, so you wouldn’t be involved if the accident happened there.’

  The speed of Purvis’s response told Gilchrist he was dealing with someone with a quick mind who was not afraid to challenge police authority. More troubling was that Purvis had a violent criminal record and ready access to a cache of weapons, even though they were purportedly licensed to the mysterious Jimmy Watson, whose presence so far was nothing short of ghost-like.

  ‘Do you have proof you were in Edinburgh?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘What sort of proof?’

  ‘Restaurant bills, hotel receipts—’

  ‘I do cash. Not credit cards.’

  ‘Earn a lot, do you?’

  ‘Enough to get by, yeah.’

  ‘Where were you this afternoon?’

  Purvis narrowed his eyes, as if a seed of doubt had entered his mind. Or perhaps he had just worked out that Gilchrist must have visited the cottage earlier in the day.

  ‘In Cupar,’ he said. ‘Shopping.’

  ‘Go there often?’

  ‘Only when I need to buy food.’

  ‘What did you buy?’

  ‘Look in the fridge. Yo
u’ll see. Milk, yogurt, cheese, butter, bread.’

  ‘Show me,’ Gilchrist said, and followed Purvis back into the kitchen.

  Jessie asked, ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Don’t push it,’ Purvis replied, and leaned down to open the fridge.

  Gilchrist glanced inside and noted the contents – exactly as described. ‘What about laundry?’

  Purvis closed the fridge door. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Do any at home?’

  Purvis looked at Jessie and said, ‘Does he always do this? Act the fool?’ He turned to Gilchrist. ‘Washing machine’s behind you. You’ve already had a look. But go ahead and have another.’

  Gilchrist glanced at the cabinets and, sure enough, the door that hid the washing machine had sprung open just a touch. ‘What are you washing?’ he asked.

  ‘I usually wash clothes in my washing machine. What do you wash? Your dick?’

  The question lay between them like foul-smelling smog.

  ‘Do you have a number for Jimmy Watson?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Off the top of my head, no.’

  ‘So how do you get hold of him?’

  ‘He gets hold of me.’

  ‘You don’t worry that he’ll run off with your Beemer?’

  Purvis narrowed his eyes, as if seeing the danger in Gilchrist for the first time. His lips pressed tight together, and anger worked across his face. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

  Gilchrist decided to press harder. ‘What do you keep in the barn?’ he asked.

  ‘My private collection of classic cars. What d’you think?’

  Purvis’s answer was intended as a lie, and Gilchrist said, ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘Too true, mate, it’s not good enough.’ Purvis slipped a mobile out of his back pocket and said, ‘Chat’s over. I’m calling my solicitor. You want to talk to me again, book me with something, then we can have a formal talk down at the station.’ He turned his back on Gilchrist and walked into the living room.

  Jessie caught Gilchrist’s eye and shook her head. He could tell she was still nervous from the dogs. And Purvis’s bully-boy manner had not helped. But that aside, Gilchrist had found nothing to suggest that Purvis had anything to do with the murder of Linda James. The irritating fact – or irritating lie – was that the BMW had been lent to a friend. If it was not on the premises – as a reflex, Gilchrist turned his head in the direction of the barn – then it really could be anywhere, and impossible to find.

  His mobile rang – Stan. He took the call, aware of Purvis talking to someone – presumably his solicitor – in the other room.

  ‘I’ve got the photographs, boss.’ A pause, then, ‘I think you need to see them.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Heading to the Office. Should be there in about ten minutes.’

  ‘We’ll meet you there,’ Gilchrist said, and ended the call.

  He walked through to the living room.

  Purvis was still on his mobile, his voice little more than a whisper, as if not wanting to be overheard. At the sight of Gilchrist, he stopped and pressed his hand to the mouthpiece. ‘Why don’t you come right on in?’ he said.

  Gilchrist handed him one of his business cards. ‘We can’t stay. Thanks for the tea. Have Jimmy Watson call me the moment you hear from him.’

  Purvis stared at the card, as if deciding whether to rip it up now or later.

  He chose later, and Gilchrist retreated back to the kitchen.

  Outside, neither he nor Jessie uttered a word until they were inside the car.

  ‘He scares me,’ Jessie said.

  Gilchrist slipped into reverse and eased out of the driveway. ‘It’s the dogs that are scaring you,’ he said. ‘Not Purvis. Without the dogs, Purvis is just another cocky bastard trying to act hard.’ He knew it was a lie even as he said the words.

  Purvis was more than just a nasty piece of work. He was a narcissistic psychopath with obsessive compulsive disorder. The neatness of his home, the assured confidence when under interrogation, the arrogant belief that he was above the law and better than those who served it, all told Gilchrist that. But he had not failed to catch the one question that triggered the end of the interview – What do you keep in the barn?

  ‘Can you take me home first?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘I need to change my knickers.’

  Gilchrist glanced at her, but she was looking out the window. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Back there, when you said . . . you know . . . I thought you were joking.’

  ‘No joke,’ she said. ‘And it’ll be no joke either if Jabba’s waiting for me.’

  ‘He hasn’t called today, has he?’

  ‘I blocked his number.’

  Gilchrist’s smile turned to a chuckle. ‘He’ll be jumping up and down.’

  ‘Not in my house, I hope. He’d go through the floorboards.’

  When Gilchrist pulled up to the kerb at Canongate, Jessie said, ‘It doesn’t look like he’s here.’ She opened the door. ‘Back in a jiffy.’

  Gilchrist waited until she slipped inside, then called the Anstruther Office and asked if they had managed to secure the search warrant for Cauldwood Cottage. He was convinced the BMW had not been lent out. It had to be in the barn. But when the news came back that the warrant had been denied because of insufficient evidence, he cursed and killed the connection.

  Next he called Stan. ‘We’ll be with you in another five minutes.’

  ‘Okay, boss. I’m back in the Office, at my computer.’

  Something in the tone of his voice had Gilchrist pressing the mobile hard to his ear. ‘You sound concerned, old son.’

  ‘You need to see this, boss. I’m not sure.’ A pause, then, ‘I haven’t shown it to anyone else. But I think we’ve got trouble.’

  Gilchrist gave Stan’s words some thought. ‘Trouble?’ he said. ‘As in, el shito is about to hit el fano?’

  ‘Got it in one, boss.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I’m in the right mood for that.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Jessie climbed back into the Merc and slammed the door shut with a force that should have broken its hinges.

  ‘Couldn’t find a clean pair?’ Gilchrist tried.

  She glared at him for a hard moment, then said, ‘If anyone threatens my son, I swear to God I’ll have them. I really mean it. I don’t care how high up the police tree they are.’

  ‘Or how fat they are?’

  She paused for a second. ‘That fat prick. He’s really done it this time.’ She clicked her seat belt into place, then looked to the upstairs bedroom window and blew a kiss.

  Robert looked down at her, gave a wave in response, then slipped from view.

  Gilchrist pushed into gear. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘He’s fine. Now. But he was worried earlier.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You know I’ve blocked Jabba’s number. But oh, no, he still doesn’t get it. So he came round this morning looking for me. When he found out I was at work, he was not happy. Then he tried to play the big Mick with Robert, show him how good a dad he could be, telling him that he wanted to take him to the new flat that he thinks we’re going to move into.’

  ‘Does Jabba know sign language?’

  ‘You know, Andy, you can be a right plonker at times.’

  Well, he wasn’t going to argue about that.

  ‘No, he doesn’t know sign language. He wrote it down.’ She had her mobile out and was scrolling through her Call Log. ‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘Four numbers I never answered. I knew they would be from him, trying to call me from someone else’s phone. Maybe I need to block these—’

  ‘What did Robert do?’ Gilchrist interrupted.

  ‘Nothing. He just let Jabba know that I would be back later. Then Jabba sees Robert’s mobile lying on the table, so he picks it up and tries to call me using that. He knows I’ll always answer a call from Robert. Anyway, he’s fiddling with it and Robert t
ries to grab it off him. Well . . .’

  Gilchrist accelerated on to Bridge Street. ‘Well what?’

  ‘He pushed Robert away, and Robert tripped and banged his head on the floor.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s a bit shaken, but nothing’s broken. That’s not the point. I can’t have that fat prick entering my home and laying hands on my son.’ She scrolled through her Contacts, found a number, and pressed the mobile to her ear.

  Gilchrist stared at the road ahead. This was not good. Having an affair – albeit a short-lived one – with a fellow detective was one thing. Harassing her to go out with him, despite being told in no uncertain terms to piss off, was another. But entering her home uninvited, when she was not there, and pushing her son around was beyond a joke.

  ‘Lachie. It’s me. No, no, you listen. I am not having you—’ Gilchrist glanced at her – lips pressed tight, eyes glistening with tears. The tinny echo of Lachie’s rattling voice left him in no doubt that he was telling her off.

  ‘No, Lachie, listen . . . No, that’s not true . . . No, no, it’s not. Will you listen—’

  Gilchrist eased the car on to North Street and accelerated up the hill.

  ‘Okay, Lachie, you do what you have to do. But I’m telling you, that’s it. You just stay away from me. You hear? Just stay away.’ She stared at the mobile in her hand for a long moment, then looked at Gilchrist. ‘He hung up. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Would you like some help?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘If you’re any good at dumping body parts in the middle of the ocean, big fat ones, then, yeah, I’d like all the help you can give me.’

  Gilchrist frowned as he drove on while Jessie glared out the window. Minutes later, he pulled off North Street and drove through the pend into the Office car park. He switched off the engine, but neither of them made any effort to move.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’ he said.

  She sniffed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If he’s threatening you, or harassing you, or bullying your son, you can take legal action against him.’