Dead Still (DCI Andy Gilchrist) Read online

  Gilchrist followed Marsh to a pair of wooden rails on the warehouse floor, nothing more than lengths of four by two on which casks could be rolled, then wedged into place.

  ‘It was the last one in,’ Marsh said, pointing to a spot near the wall.

  Gilchrist tried to imagine the layout before the casks were moved. Rows of casks ran either side of him, stacked two high. ‘I thought you stored them bung up so you can sample them over the years.’

  ‘We do, aye.’

  ‘So how do you sample these on the lower level, if there’s a row of casks stacked on top of them?’

  ‘You don’t,’ Marsh said. ‘Once the top row’s stored and wedged, you’re only able to sample those on the top. Unless you started shifting the top row. Which is a lot of work for not a lot of return.’

  ‘So not every cask in this warehouse is sampled?’

  ‘No. There’s loads of casks left untouched from start to finish.’

  Gilchrist frowned. ‘So whoever put the body into that cask twenty-five years ago, also knew that if they stowed it here,’ he said, and tapped the ground with his foot, ‘then it would likely never be sampled at all in twenty-five years.’

  ‘That’s correct, aye.’

  He let his thoughts drift for a moment, as he walked back to Jessie and Dunmore. ‘So who first moved the cask?’ he asked Marsh.

  ‘Jimmy Mitchell. He’s the assistant manager. And that’s when he got hold of me.’

  ‘Where’s Jimmy now?’

  ‘Probably in the canteen.’

  ‘Take DS Janes to talk to him. We’ll need his statement. And yours, too.’ He turned to Dunmore. ‘And a statement from yourself.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Gilchrist looked around. ‘How many doors to this warehouse?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Lock them both,’ he said to Marsh, ‘and make sure none of your staff can access this area until our Scenes of Crime Officers have completed their forensic examination.’ Then to Dunmore, ‘Some place warm and dry where we can have a chat?’

  ‘My office.’

  As he followed her, he was struck by how unmoved she appeared, as if discovering the whisky-preserved body of your long-lost brother after twenty-five years was an everyday occurrence. No tears. No parting look. No backward glance. No whispered prayer for a rediscovered soul. Nothing.

  Over the years Gilchrist had interviewed hundreds of bereaved individuals, and one thing he’d learned was you could never predict how someone would react when confronted with the news of the death of a family member. Most cried, some inconsolably. Many held it together in stoic silence. Others sat there with glazed eyes, as if incapable of understanding what they were being told. But one – and Gilchrist remembered the moment well – actually laughed, jumped up from her chair, and offered to open a bottle of champagne in celebration.

  He’d seen how cold Katherine Dunmore could be, and wondered how she would respond to deeper questioning.

  Well, he was about to find out.

  CHAPTER 2

  Dunmore’s office was on the second floor, at the back of the distillery, with a corner window that overlooked an expanse of windswept meadow, grasses brown and flattened from the winter rain and lack of sun. Talking of which, whiter clouds on the horizon seemed to be thinning to a bright blue. For all anyone knew in Scotland, it could be the start of spring.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Dunmore said. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. I don’t intend to take up much of your time.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I do.’ Not a question, he knew, as she opened her desk drawer and removed a crystal tumbler and a half-bottle of whisky. ‘Gleneden Reserve,’ she said. ‘One of my favourite blends.’ She proceeded to pour herself a measure – close to a treble, as best he could guess – then dribbled in no more than a few drops from a jug of water. ‘You sure I can’t persuade you?’

  Gilchrist raised his hand. ‘Positive.’

  She nodded then took a sip that barely wet her lips. ‘God,’ she said. ‘That’s good.’ She reclined in her high-backed swivel chair and narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s one of the good things about owning a distillery. You’re allowed to sip whisky for lunch.’

  ‘Or breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t look like a whisky drinker, I have to say.’

  ‘And what does a whisky drinker look like?’

  She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Trade secret.’ Then she opened another drawer and removed a couple of miniatures. ‘Here.’ She pushed them across her desk. ‘Try them. I think you’ll find them palatable, maybe even enjoyable.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. But no thank you.’

  ‘On duty?’

  ‘At the start of a murder investigation.’

  The mention of murder seemed to wipe all pleasure from her face. Then, as if in the huff, she leaned forward and pushed the miniatures across her desk so that Gilchrist had to catch them as they toppled off the edge. ‘I insist,’ she said.

  He returned both miniatures to the corner of the desk, beyond her reach. ‘So when did Robbie Marsh call you this morning?’

  ‘Some time after nine.’

  ‘Quarter past? Five past?’

  ‘About that.’

  ‘Which is it?’

  ‘Quarter past. Give or take ten minutes. I mean, it’s not like I was timing him.’

  ‘And what did he say? Verbatim, if possible.’

  ‘Hah. Now you’re asking. Memory’s not as good as it used to be.’

  ‘Give it a try.’

  She raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘He said, Good morning, Mrs Dunmore. But I could tell from the tone of his voice that something was wrong.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He sounded slightly off. Nothing much. Nothing I could put a finger to.’

  ‘He might not’ve been feeling well. A frog in his throat. That sort of thing.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t that, it was just … I wished him good morning in response, then asked if anything was the matter.’

  ‘You asked him that, after just four words – Good morning, Mrs Dunmore?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Silent, Gilchrist waited.

  ‘Then Robbie said he had some disturbing news, that they’d discovered a body, and would I like him to call the police?’

  ‘Exact words?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To which you said?’

  ‘Is it Hector? And he said that he couldn’t say.’

  ‘How long has Robbie worked at the distillery?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Ten, twelve years, maybe.’

  ‘So how did he know Hector?’

  ‘He didn’t know him. Hector had disappeared long before Robbie joined us.’

  ‘Which is why I’m puzzled that he said he couldn’t say it was Hector, rather than ask who Hector was.’

  ‘Oh, everybody who works in Gleneden knows about Hector.’

  Gilchrist let several seconds pass, but Dunmore seemed content in her answer. ‘Did Robbie tell you where he’d found the body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you didn’t know he’d found it in a cask?’

  ‘I assumed that’s where it was.’

  ‘Why would you assume that?’

  ‘Because I knew they were doing a bottling run, and that’s where Robbie had been. I mean …’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Where else would it have been found?’

  ‘It could’ve been found by the roadside,’ he said, ‘before they started the bottling run. A hit and run, perhaps. Or in one of the fields. An elderly person who’d gone for a walk, collapsed, and died from hypothermia. I can think of other possibilities, but I’m intrigued as to why you presumed the body might be Hector.’ He held her gaze, and waited.

  She reached for her tumbler, took a sip that drained it to the halfway mark that time, then returned the glass to her desk with slow deliberation. ‘Well … I …’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what else to tell you. That’s the first thing that came to mind. Was it Hector? He’d been missing for so long. And there’s never a day goes by that I don’t think about him.’ She dabbed a hand at the corner of her eye. ‘He was my brother, after all. The owner of the distillery until … well … until he … he disappeared.’

  Crocodiles had shed more convincing tears, he thought. ‘I understand you don’t visit the distillery very often.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Not as often as I used to. No.’

  ‘Once a day, a week, a month, what?’

  ‘At least several times a month, I’d say.’

  ‘So how did you know they were doing a bottling run?’

  ‘It’s Monday. They always do bottling runs on a Monday.’

  ‘How did you know they were bottling a twenty-five-year-old cask this morning? And not a ten-year-old?’

  ‘I … eh … Robbie must have told me.’

  ‘When he phoned you this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t say that.’

  ‘As I said, memory’s a bit dodgy now.’ She hid her gaze behind another sip.

  Gilchrist waited until she returned the glass to the desk. ‘How old was Hector when he disappeared?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘And he ran the distillery until then?’

  ‘Not only ran it. He owned it.’

  ‘Lock, stock and barrel, one hundred per cent?’

  ‘Mummy had a small share in it at the time.’

  ‘Tell me about the watch,’ he said.

  ‘I bought it for his twenty-first,’ she said, unfazed by his sudden change in tack. ‘He’d wanted a Rolex, but I couldn’t afford that, not then, anyway.’
r />   ‘And how old were you then?’

  ‘Nineteen. Hector was two years older. One year and nine months to be exact.’

  ‘Were your parents alive?’

  ‘Mummy only. Daddy died the year before. Mummy was so upset. She cried for days and days, poor soul.’ Another sip gave Gilchrist the sense that she had no fond memories of her father, and might have been toasting the memory of his passing.

  ‘He must have been young when he died, your father.’

  ‘He was, yes. Forty-something. Five, I think. Maybe six. About that.’

  ‘And his name?’

  ‘Edwin.’

  ‘Your mother’s name?’

  ‘Alice.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘Oh, dear goodness, no. After Hector disappeared, she went to pieces. She was never the same. I ended up having to put her in a nursing home. I couldn’t look after her. Best place for her, as it turned out. But she never settled there. She shrank into herself, would be a good way to describe it. The poor soul then had a series of mini-strokes, micro infarctions of the brain, is the medical term. Then she passed away one night in her sleep.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ But he could have been talking to a cardboard image for all the emotion being shown. ‘Any other brothers and sisters?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Just me.’

  ‘So,’ he said, measuring his words. ‘When Hector disappeared, and your mother fell to pieces, who took over the distillery?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘All by yourself ?’

  ‘George helped.’

  ‘Are you and George still involved in the running of the business?’

  ‘Very much so. You can’t find good help any more. It’s a generational thing. In my day, you worked the hours you needed to get the job done. Nowadays, it’s all mobile phones, and minimum hours for maximum wages. Free handouts is what they’re looking for.’

  ‘All from only several days at the distillery a month?’

  A momentary pause, as if to recalibrate her thinking, then, ‘Most of our work’s done by email these days. Or phone. Business is handled perfectly well from home.’

  ‘What about Robbie and Jimmy?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do they expect free handouts?’

  ‘No. Robbie’s one of the best managers we’ve had. Jimmy’s still on probation.’

  Probation seemed an odd word to use about an employee. But that aside, he did a quick mental calculation. ‘So when Hector disappeared, you would’ve been twenty-four?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you and George married then?’

  ‘Yes. We got married the year before.’

  ‘What did your father think of George?’ he said, just to throw it out there.

  ‘He never met him, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have liked him. He never liked anyone I brought home.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Over-possessive of his only daughter, I assume. My relationship with Daddy was … how should I say it? … fraught. He wasn’t a pleasant man at times.’

  Gilchrist pulled his questions back on track. ‘Where can I find George?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  She rattled off an address, and he scribbled it down – Hepburn Gardens, St Andrews. ‘If he’s not there,’ she said, ‘he’ll be at his office. GC Publicity.’ Another address, followed by a couple of phone numbers.

  ‘What does GC stand for?’ he asked.

  ‘George Caithness. I never took his surname when we married. For business reasons.’

  He mouthed an Ah, then said, ‘Did Hector attend your wedding?’

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t he?’ Irritation seemed to creep behind her eyes. She took another sip, lips tight, as if his question had soured the whisky. Then she returned her glass to her desk with a firm thud of finality. ‘I don’t particularly care for what you’re suggesting, Mr Gilchrist, that Hector and I didn’t get on with each other. On the contrary, I loved Hector more than any sister could love her brother.’

  ‘And your husband, George,’ Gilchrist said, just to keep the pot simmering, ‘how did he and Hector get on?’

  ‘Like the best of friends. How else would you expect them to?’ She slid her chair away from her desk, swivelled it around so she faced the meadows, and Gilchrist the back of her chair. ‘You’re beginning to annoy me, Mr Gilchrist. I don’t feel inclined to continue with this … this chat. I’ll be talking to my lawyer. You’ll probably hear from her before close of business. Good day.’

  Gilchrist was surprised by Dunmore’s needless threat, and pushed to his feet, his eyes on her reflection in the window. But she seemed more interested on something in the distance than in a DCI preparing to leave her office. The manner in which she’d talked to him irked, and he found himself unable to resist stamping his authority. ‘When you do call your lawyer,’ he said to her reflection, ‘it would be in your best interests to tell her that you’re expected at St Andrews North Street Police Station at 8 a.m. tomorrow for a formal interview.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can fit that in.’

  ‘Change whatever plans you have,’ he ordered. ‘And be there. At eight.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I’ll consider that a wilful attempt to obstruct a criminal investigation, and I’ll have a warrant issued for your arrest.’

  Dunmore swivelled her chair around. Her hands, tight and sinewed, gripped the arms of her chair like eagle’s claws. Her eyes blazed with a sheen of anger, maybe madness. ‘How dare you,’ she said. ‘How dare you come into my office and threaten me with arrest when the body of my dear brother has only just been found.’

  Gilchrist slipped his hand into his pocket and removed a business card. He laid it face-up on her desk. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he said.

  He let himself out, conscious of Dunmore’s eyes on him all the way.

  CHAPTER 3

  As Jessie strode after Robbie Marsh on the hunt for Jimmy, she struggled to keep up with him, his long stride more suited to someone seven feet tall than the short-arse Scotsman he was. They crossed a gravel road, passed the entrance to the distillery, rounded the back of the building to a paved area that seemed to double up as a smoking area and barbecue slash picnic spot. A group of three people – two women, one man – huddled beneath an overhead canopy fixed to the wall. The rain had turned to drizzle as fine as haar. In the cold air a grey fug of cigarette smoke hung around them like personal fog.

  Marsh shouted, ‘Jimmy,’ then gave a sideways nod with his chin – over there, by the fence. Jimmy pulled on his cigarette as if his life depended on it, taking it down to his thumb and middle finger. Then he dropped the dout and stomped it into the slabbed paving.

  With just that action, Jessie took an instant dislike to him. She no longer smoked – how long had it been? Eight years? – and the sight of discarded fag ends littering the ground pissed her off. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she had a son, Robert, from whom she’d managed to keep the sin of smoking. But not only was smoking a filthy habit, smokers were filthy, too. What would the world look like if everyone who ate or drank cast their leftovers onto the ground for others to clean up? Same difference as douts, as far as she could tell—

  ‘This is Jimmy Mitchell,’ Marsh said.

  Jessie flashed her warrant card, and wrinkled her nose at the acrid fragrance that clung to Mitchell’s clothing. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘tell me about it.’

  Mitchell seemed confused, until Marsh said, ‘When we opened the cask—’

  ‘I’m not talking to you,’ Jessie said. ‘I’m talking to him.’

  ‘Oh, aye, right,’ Mitchell said. ‘We were getting ready for the bottling run, when I rolled out that last puncheon—’

  ‘What?’

  Jimmy looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘Rolled out that last what?’ she said.

  ‘Puncheon. It’s the largest of our whisky casks. Five hundred litres.’

  Well, it would have to be that size to stuff a body inside, she thought. She scribbled on her notepad, then said, ‘You were saying …?’

  ‘Aye, right.’ He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘So, when I rolled it out, the way it kind of wobbled, I could tell something was inside. I told Robbie, and after he’d checked it out, he said we had to open it. And when we took the lid off, there he was, stuffed inside, soaked all the way through with whisky.’

  ‘Did you not think of wringing him out?’