The Killing Connection Read online

  Maybe it was an age thing.

  Out of the warmth of the car, the cold air hit him anew. He walked around the boot of his car to the front garden of the house. ‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘What’s going on?’

  The young man jerked at the sound of Gilchrist’s voice, then turned from the woman and directed a 1,000-watt glare at him. A white T-shirt seemed to be all he needed to ward off the November chill. He flexed a pair of tattooed sleeves and stomped towards Gilchrist like a dog to raw meat.

  ‘The fuck you want?’ he roared.

  Gilchrist held up his warrant card. ‘Careful, sonny.’

  But the man was over the garden railing and launching himself, giving Gilchrist next to no time to sidestep the flying assault. The man landed on all fours, his momentum carrying him onwards to headbutt the rear wheel of Gilchrist’s car. Even that seemed not to faze him. Up and on to his feet with the agility of an acrobat, a trickle of blood already working down his forehead – face tight with madness, fists clenched with anger.

  Alcohol, that was the problem. Not that the man had drained a few pints and whisky chasers for breakfast, more like he’d been drinking all night, giving it laldie.

  ‘I’m with Fife Constabulary,’ Gilchrist said. ‘And you’re under arrest for—’

  ‘Fuck that.’

  This time, Gilchrist was ready, using his attacker’s impetus to spin him to the ground. Even from that split second of interaction Gilchrist knew he was no physical match for the younger man. What he did have in his favour, though, was sobriety and a fearful sense of urgency – if he didn’t end the fight before it started, he would be on the receiving end of a right old beating.

  Experience, too, helped, and as Gilchrist followed him down, the point of his knee thudded into the man’s back with a force that should have cracked ribs. The man’s breath left him in a hard grunt but, more importantly, the blow stunned him for a moment. A tug at his left wrist, then his right, and Gilchrist had him handcuffed before he had time to recover.

  He kept his weight on the man’s back and leaned down, close enough to smell the warmth of alcoholic breath. ‘I am arresting you, sonny, for assaulting a police officer.’

  ‘Fuck, I didnae mean it.’

  To Gilchrist’s surprise, all strength left the man at that moment and his body sagged like a puppet having its strings cut. He read him his rights, turned him over and helped him into a sitting position. The man’s face was grazed where he’d hit the pavement, and smeared with blood from the cut to his forehead. Spittle and blood dribbled from a split lip.

  ‘Stay put,’ Gilchrist said, and shoved the man’s back hard against the railings. A quick adjustment with the cuffs had him secured to the metal bars. But he seemed not to notice, and simply hung his head in what could have been mistaken for shameful remorse.

  The garden gate opened to the strain of rusted hinges, and closed with a hard metallic clatter. A wheelie bin overflowing with carry-out detritus stood to the side of the front door which stood ajar and gave a view of curled linoleum, peeling wallpaper, children’s toys.

  Gilchrist walked to the corner of the property, where a boundary hedge butted against the house wall. He leaned down. Although he saw no evidence of physical injury, he said, ‘Are you hurt?’

  The young woman looked up at him through red-rimmed eyes, swiped her hand under her nose, shook her head.

  ‘Are you able to stand?’

  She nodded.

  He held out his hand, and she took it. Her fingers could have been iced to the bone. Of course, nightdresses were not intended for outdoor winter weather. He pulled her to her feet and diverted his gaze from an unintentional slip of nudity. A tremor gripped her body and made her teeth chatter. Two crushed beer cans lay at her bare feet, and he kicked them aside. He unravelled his scarf and threw it around her neck, then took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

  ‘We’ll get you inside,’ he said. ‘Heat you up.’

  By God, he could be doing with that himself.

  The hallway smelled like a snooker bar – cigarette smoke and alcohol, an underlying hint of burned food that teased the nostrils. As he led her to the kitchen, he noted a couple of fist-holes through the hall plasterboard, and a bedroom door with a split panel where there should have been a handle.

  The kitchen door, too, had a cracked hole about boot high. A chipped laminate table sat in the middle of the room, a broken pottery mug on its surface, tea or coffee trailing to the floor. He sat the woman down on the closest chair, lifted one of two overturned chairs off the floor and sat next to her.

  He was about to speak, when movement to the side of the fridge caught his eye, and he felt a thud in his chest at the sight of a child, no more than a year old, seated in a high-chair. The woman caught his look of concern, and said, ‘My daughter, Danette,’ then rose from her seat and lifted her out of the high-chair.

  While the woman rocked Danette in her arms, Gilchrist took the opportunity to call the North Street Office and report a domestic – male offender handcuffed outside main residence, arrested for assault on a police officer. When asked, the woman confirmed her address, her name, Jehane, and that of her partner, Blair, and we’re not married.

  While Gilchrist waited for support to arrive, he tried to find out about events leading to the moment when he’d caught Blair’s angry face inches from a frightened Jehane’s. He hadn’t needed to hear what was being said to recognise a domestic in full flow.

  Besides, the kitchen warmth was doing wonders for his chilled body.

  He opened his notebook. ‘Jehane,’ he said. ‘How do you spell that?’

  She told him.

  ‘That’s an unusual name.’

  ‘My mum’s French. My dad’s Scottish. Mum passed away in Nantes a few years ago. Her name was Danette.’

  ‘Is Blair Danette’s father?’

  Jehane shook her head. ‘Drew is. Blair’s friend. We split up a year ago.’

  ‘You and Drew did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Over Danette?’

  ‘Over Blair.’

  Gilchrist thought he saw the problem, but let his silence do the asking.

  ‘Blair and Drew don’t speak any more.’

  No, he thought. They wouldn’t.

  ‘Blair’s OK when he’s sober,’ she said. ‘Then something just sets him off.’

  Alcohol, as good a catalyst to violence as any. But Gilchrist thought it best to ask. ‘So what set him off this morning?’

  ‘He’d been out all night with a friend, and she told him I was seeing Drew again. It’s not true.’ She hugged Danette to her.

  Gilchrist decided to fast-forward a few frames. ‘Has Blair ever hit you?’

  Jehane lowered her eyes, hugged Danette closer, and Gilchrist knew the next words out of her mouth would be a lie. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Just verbal abuse?’

  ‘Not abuse,’ she said. ‘Just shouting.’

  Just shouting. This was the problem with most domestic incidents, one partner failing to understand the seriousness of the problem, that verbal and mental abuse could be every bit as damaging as physical abuse.

  The sound of feet thudding down the hallway brought Gilchrist’s interview to an end. A van crew in close proximity had answered the call. He rose from his chair as PC Tomkins entered the kitchen and hesitated, as if trying to work out how anyone could have beaten him to the scene. But he nodded when Gilchrist said, ‘I called it in.’

  Ten minutes later, Gilchrist was back behind the wheel.

  Blair had been escorted into the van without complaint, although Gilchrist thought he detected stiffness in his movements, a suggestion of pain, perhaps. They would drive him to the hospital to have his head wound checked – nothing serious, Gilchrist suspected – take an X-ray, glue the wound, maybe even take a CT scan just to be sure.

  But who was Blair, and what had led to that morning’s domestic?

  If Gilchrist was a betting man, he’d put money
on physical abuse being in Blair’s history. But it was the presence of the child that troubled him, in a home with evidence of violence – holes in walls, burst door panels, broken handles.

  You never want to get Social Services involved to the point where they might remove the child from its parents, particularly the mother. But everyone has a moral responsibility, police officer or not, to report concerns about any child living in violent surroundings.

  He would fill out a Cause for Concern Report.

  Another box he would make sure was ticked.

  CHAPTER 3

  Crail, Fife

  Gilchrist parked his car in Castle Street and walked down Rose Wynd.

  The wind had strengthened, bringing with it a touch of Arctic ice that had him stuffing his hands deep into his pockets and wishing he was flying off to somewhere warm. Wasn’t that what he used to do, spend a week in warmer climes over winter months? Now it seemed as if all his time was taken up with work, that holidays and weekends were a thing of the past – like mild winters in Scotland, come to think of it. If the temperature continued its downward spiral, they could be snowed under with ice blizzards by Christmas.

  Indoors, he turned up the central heating, but it would take time to work through the radiator system. In the bathroom, he switched on the shower and stripped off his wet clothes. His legs looked blue-white, as if they’d lost semblance of life – sticks of marble – and it took a minute under the hot water before he felt warmth returning to his frozen limbs.

  Five minutes later, his skin looked steamed and cooked, and he felt warm enough to walk into the kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Having missed breakfast due to the early call-out, he intended to have a bite before returning to the Office for the kick-off briefing. Two slices of bread into the toaster, teabag into the teapot, and about to pop open a jar of marmalade when his mobile rang – ID Mo. His daughter, Maureen, was not a morning person by habit, although better than his son, Jack, for whom mornings never had daylight hours in them. But if Maureen was up early, was something troubling her?

  ‘Good morning, Mo. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Of course, Dad, it’s just . . .’

  He thought he caught a man’s voice in the background, and said, ‘It’s just?’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve got some good news, well . . . at least I hope it’s good news.’

  Something in her tone came across as forced, warning him that he might not like what he was about to hear. But he tried to sound lively. ‘If it’s good news for you, Mo, I’m sure it’ll be good news for me, too.’

  A pause, then, ‘You remember Tom, don’t you?’

  He did. Tom Wright. Mo’s on-again-off-again boyfriend. St Andrews local. Father an English lecturer at the university. And that was about it. But last he’d heard, Mo and Tom had split up, hadn’t they?

  ‘Of course I remember Tom.’

  ‘Good. Well . . . he’s asked me to marry him.’

  In the face of his immediate dismay, he said, ‘That’s wonderful news, Mo,’ and hoped he’d hit the right note. On the one hand, having someone there for her, a soon-to-be husband who could give support during her bouts of depression, was just what the doctor ordered. On the other hand, Maureen could be the devil in disguise at times, and he hoped Tom knew what he was letting himself in for.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Maureen said. ‘You’re not just saying?’

  ‘Of course not. But I have to say it depends on how you answered Tom’s question.’ He gave a dry chuckle to let her know he was joking.

  ‘I said Yes, of course.’

  ‘I know you did, Mo, and I’m really happy for you.’ He caught the scratch of a hand being placed over the mouthpiece, some muffled voices, then Maureen was back.

  ‘We’d like to take you out for lunch today, Dad. Sort of a celebration.’

  Gilchrist felt his heart sink. With a murder investigation about to begin, all his time would be tied up for the next several days, maybe longer. It was unlikely that the discovery of the woman’s body had made it to the local news yet, but the media had surprised him before with the speed at which they could react. So he tried, ‘Have you heard this morning’s news?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be saying anything until after the briefing, but a woman’s body washed up on the Castle rocks this morning, and it’ll be full-on for the rest of the day.’

  ‘How about tomorrow?’

  Well, he supposed that was how most people would react to the news of a stranger’s death nowadays. With local and global news available 24/7 at the press of a button, it seemed that citizens the world over were inured to the tragedy of sudden and unexpected deaths.

  ‘Probably tomorrow, too,’ he said.

  ‘Saturday, then?’

  Bugger it. He knew Maureen wouldn’t let it go, that he would have to agree a time and place. ‘How about tomorrow, then? I could maybe squeeze in a half hour or so between briefings. Provided I’m not out and about,’ he added, just to give himself an exit strategy if he needed one.

  Despite the obvious slipperiness of his offer, Maureen said, ‘That would be great, Dad. We won’t take up your time. Just a quick chat and a drink and show you the ring.’

  The ring? Bloody hell, this was for real. Not that he hadn’t thought he’d be a father of the bride one day, just that it all seemed so . . . so unexpected and – and what?

  Premature?

  Had Maureen fully recovered? Was she ready for this? Well, if he thought back to his own engagement – if he could call it that – he certainly hadn’t been ready. Nowhere near. Of course, a knicker-dropping session in the Valley of Sin by the eighteenth green could have had something to do with it.

  ‘How about the Central?’ Maureen said. ‘It’s close to the Office.’

  Too close, he thought, particularly with Smiler being an unknown quantity. ‘How about the Criterion?’ he offered. ‘Now they’ve changed it back from Lafferty’s.’

  ‘Does twelve o’clock work?’

  ‘Sounds good. If you don’t hear from me, I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Great, Dad, love you.’

  The line died before he realised he hadn’t given his wishes to Tom.

  Fifteen minutes later, he fired up the BMW’s ignition, wiping toast crumbs off his jeans as he clipped on his seatbelt. He’d given up wearing suits to the Office, and resorted to smart trousers and casual jackets. But he’d not collected his laundry for two weeks and was faced with the choice of putting on a new pair of Levi 511s, or re-wearing his sodden trousers – he should have draped them over the radiator if he’d thought about it. The jeans won. He was running behind schedule, and called the Office to set the kick-off briefing back fifteen minutes. Then he phoned Jessie.

  ‘Just heard you’ve postponed the briefing,’ she said.

  ‘How did you hear that?’

  ‘I’m at the Office. Couldn’t stand being stuck indoors any more.’

  ‘Spreading germs?’ he said. ‘We could have the entire Office signed off by the start of the week.’

  ‘You’re just going to have to make sure I get out and about, then.’

  ‘Well now you’re here, get Jackie up and running on misper reports, and get a photo and distribute it around other forces. It’s too soon to say where she could have come from, but I’d include Lothian and Borders, and Tayside in the first instance. Has the body been moved to the mortuary yet?’

  ‘SOCOs are working on it.’ Jessie lowered her voice. ‘And you’ll never guess who’s just walked in.’

  ‘Ah, shit.’

  ‘Got it in one,’ she said. ‘Smiler.’

  Chief Superintendent Diane Smiley was the last person Gilchrist wanted to attend his kick-off briefing. She was known for being hands-on, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. But he was pissed off with himself at running late – for his own bloody briefing, for crying out loud. Not the best of starts to have witnessed by your new Chief Superintendent.
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  ‘Want me to get it going?’ Jessie said.

  ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen.’

  ‘So that’s a No?’

  He hung up.

  As it turned out, he arrived at 9.10 – ten minutes later than his original briefing time, or five minutes early for the revised. When he entered, he sensed an embarrassed rush to silence, as if he’d been the topic on everyone’s lips.

  He nodded to the Chief Superintendent. ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘Good of you to come along, DCI Gilchrist.’

  He took a few minutes gathering together what information was available, relieved to see photographs of the dead woman posted on a corkboard, and miscellaneous notes printed on an adjacent whiteboard: Name? Address? Age? Married? Friends? Employed? Credit Cards? Bank Accounts? – and photos of the Castle rocks, with date, time, weather, wind strength, and more printed notes: Pushed? Jumped? Drowned? Suicide? Murder?

  Hadn’t he already concluded that she’d been murdered?

  He faced his team, irritated by CS Smiley choosing to stand to the side of the group. With her navy-blue trouser suit, white silk blouse and dyed blonde hair, she looked more the business executive than Chief Superintendent. The tiny smirk in her mouth warned him that she might know something he didn’t.

  ‘OK,’ he said, eyeing the group. ‘Let’s summarise what we know. He tapped a photo that showed a close-up of the victim’s face – hair pulled back like wet ribbon, eyes damaged from fish teeth or crab claws, skin cut and grazed and spattered with rain or sea spray. ‘The body was found at the foot of the Castle rocks this morning by a Mr . . .’ He searched the whiteboard for the man’s name, but couldn’t find it. ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Murdo,’ Mhairi offered. ‘George Murdo. Called it in at twenty past six.’

  ‘Thanks, Mhairi.’ He added the name and time to the board, and caught a glimpse of Smiley’s smirk widen. ‘We have his written statement?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. PC Burns interviewed him. Mr Murdo was out jogging—’

  ‘Must be keen,’ Jessie quipped.