Dead Still (DCI Andy Gilchrist) Page 3

  ‘Naw, we wouldnae …’ He stopped when he realised Jessie was being sarcastic.

  ‘Then what?’ she said.

  ‘Robbie ran off to phone the boss, like. And I carried on with the bottling run.’

  ‘All by yourself ?’

  ‘Naw, me and the girls.’ He glanced at the two other smokers, and Jessie tutted as she turned on Marsh.

  ‘Only you and Jimmy, you said. Now we’ve got another two.’

  Marsh shrugged. ‘Thought you were only asking about opening the cask.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Jessie said. ‘Did you phone the rest of the staff to come and have a look? Any family members, friends, neighbours?’

  ‘Only Mrs Dunmore.’

  ‘And did she have a look inside the cask?’

  ‘She did, yes.’

  ‘Before or after you reported it to the police?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Jessie turned the full heat of her ice-cold stare on him. ‘What I’m trying to establish here, and what you seem to be trying to avoid telling me, is how long did it take you to phone it in after finding the body?’

  Marsh glanced at the ground, shuffled his feet, as if deciding whether or not to tell the truth. In the end, he said, ‘About an hour, I guess.’

  ‘I’m not interested in guesses. How long, exactly?’

  ‘I can’t say exactly for sure.’

  ‘How about you, Jimmy?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about phoning the cops.’

  Back to Marsh. ‘Okay, Robbie. You’re it. And you’d better stop pissing me around, or I may have to check you out in greater detail. And before you try to slip me another porky, be advised that we can and will check phone records.’

  Marsh puffed out his cheeks. ‘Maybe an hour and a half ?’

  ‘Maybe an hour and three-quarters?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Jessie glanced over Marsh’s shoulder. ‘Is that the canteen?’

  ‘It is, aye.’

  ‘Right, let’s go. I want written statements from the pair of you, the girls, too.’

  Gilchrist had just returned to the warehouse when he noticed a Range Rover bumping alongside the gravel path. It pulled to a gentle halt. The engine died. The vehicle was angled such that he couldn’t see the driver through the windscreen, although he did recognise the personal registration number plate as Cooper’s.

  The door opened, and D r Rebecca Cooper – police pathologist – stepped to the ground. He caught his breath at the sight of her hair. What he had always seen as one of her most attractive features – thick strawberry-blonde waves that folded over her shoulders in a sensuous mass – was now cut in a styled bob that hugged her cheeks. And where she used to rake it back from her forehead with her fingers, a fringe cut as straight as a ruler ran through her eyebrows. The change was so dramatic he could have been looking at a stranger, rather than a past lover.

  ‘You look surprised,’ she said.

  ‘Does it show?’

  She removed a packet of coveralls from the boot, and tore it open. ‘I’ve always been able to read you like a book, Andy.’

  ‘I take it Mr Cooper approves?’

  ‘Mr Cooper’s no longer around to approve of anything.’

  Which was a surprise, although with Cooper he had learned never to be surprised by anything she said or did. ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

  ‘Regrettably.’

  ‘Hence the new look?’

  ‘For attracting a new man, you mean?’

  Cooper had this way of diverting his most innocent of comments down a path that led him deeper into trouble. So he decided not to respond, even though he wondered if Maxwell Cooper’s absence was permanent, or just another period of separation until he returned to continue where he’d left off. Instead, he said, ‘Not quite what I was suggesting.’

  ‘And what were you suggesting?’

  ‘New situation, new look?’

  ‘The body’s in there, is it?’

  She walked off towards the warehouse, and for a moment he almost followed.

  Cooper was one of Scotland’s most respected forensic pathologists, and had worked with Gilchrist on a number of major cases. He would regret – probably to his dying day – that they’d had more than a professional relationship which at one time he’d hoped, maybe even expected, would progress to something more permanent. In the end, he found out he was not Cooper’s kind of man; world-travelled, knowledgeable epicure, CEO of own company. But even so, he couldn’t shift an irresistible sense of attraction, and an unsettling longing that stirred in his groin.

  He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and went looking for Jessie.

  What Marsh had called the canteen was more small café slash shop where visitors to the distillery could have tea, coffee, cakes, and purchase any number of bottles of Gleneden whisky. He found Jessie seated at a corner table with two women and Robbie Marsh. Jessie was gathering her notes, as the others pushed to their feet.

  ‘Thanks, girls,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in touch if I’ve any more questions.’

  As the women walked past him, Gilchrist caught Marsh’s eye. ‘Another question?’

  Marsh looked at him. ‘Sure.’

  ‘When you phoned Mrs Dunmore this morning, did you mention anything about the bottling run?’

  ‘Told her we were bottling a twenty-five-year-old.’

  He thought the answer too quick, as if Marsh had been primed. ‘And what did she say to that?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘Was it important that she knew?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘So why did you tell her?’

  ‘It’s …’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just did.’

  He waited a couple of beats before saying, ‘Anything else?’

  Marsh shook his head. ‘That’s about it, I think.’

  Gilchrist handed him a business card. ‘Call, if you think of anything.’

  Marsh walked away, mobile phone already in his hand.

  Gilchrist sat opposite Jessie. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t know if you’d call it luck, but that Robbie boy didn’t call it in as quickly as he said he did.’ She sifted through her notes. ‘Best I’d say, an hour and forty-five minutes from the time they discovered the body, and him calling it in.’

  ‘The reason being?’

  ‘Had to wait for Lady Gleneden to put on her make-up.’

  ‘That’s a bit weak.’

  ‘As water.’

  ‘What do you make of Dunmore? Do you believe her?’

  Jessie shook her head. ‘We’ve found a body, Mrs Dunmore. Oh, is it Hector?’ She scoffed. ‘No, I don’t bloody believe her. And what’s this about her and her husband visiting Hector the night he disappeared? If she remembered him wearing the clothes he’s still got on, then he must have been murdered that night at home.’

  ‘My thoughts, too.’

  ‘I think she’s being economical with the truth, the lying trollop.’

  ‘You’ll have a chance to tackle her again. She’s bringing her lawyer to the Office tomorrow first thing. So get hold of Jackie and get her to dig out the misper files for Hector Dunmore’s investigation.’

  ‘What about her husband, George? Will he be with her tomorrow?’

  ‘You and I are going to have a chat with him later.’

  ‘Why not right now?’

  ‘I want to see how Cooper’s getting on. You interested?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Try to keep it friendly for once.’

  ‘How d’you expect me to do that?’

  ‘Pin that tongue of yours to the roof of your mouth.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The area outside warehouse number 1 was no longer deserted. Two white SOCO Transit vans were parked close to the wooden building, their side and rear doors wide open. Crime scene tape across the doorway flapped in the wind.

  Inside, Gilchrist could tell all was not well. Cooper stood with her back to them, voice raised, her frustration clear. Three SOCOs kneeled on the ground by her feet, and it took him several seconds to realise they were struggling to lay Hector Dunmore’s whisky-soaked body into a body bag without damaging it. Despite their professional expertise, human flesh – any flesh, for that matter – soaked in alcohol for twenty-five years was unforgiving to the touch. Skin sloughed off bare arms like overcooked meat, to expose sinewed musculature. Dunmore might have had a fine head of hair as a twenty-six-year-old, but the body on the bag looked as if it was wearing an ill-fitting topper complete with crumpled left ear. One of the SOCOs swore as her hand slipped free, taking with it the skin of a bony right foot.

  So, no winter shoes, no slippers, no socks.

  Gilchrist interrupted the scene with, ‘Anything obvious to explain cause of death?’

  ‘Christ, Andy,’ Cooper snapped. ‘But if we’re ever able to get the body back to the lab intact, I’ll have an answer for you in a day or two.’

  ‘You couldn’t have something for me by tomorrow, could you?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ she said. ‘And what’s the rush? One day longer in a twenty-five-year-old murder enquiry isn’t going to make one iota of difference.’

  Well, he supposed she had a point.

  ‘Don’t let that slip,’ Cooper said.

  But the belt buckle on Dunmore’s trousers had already pierced the skin, and a roll of bloated intestine squeezed out from under his shirt and into the SOCO’s hands like purple sausage meat.

  ‘Chrissake,’ someone hissed.

  Body bags were made of non-porous material and, once zipped up, nothing escaped. Although Gilchrist saw that the problem was not something slipping out, but that everything was zipped up in the first place.

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; ‘No shoes?’ he said.

  ‘Nor socks.’

  A glance into the emptied cask confirmed that Dunmore hadn’t been wearing slippers either, or anything else on his feet that might have slipped off in the decanting. With checked shirt and corduroy trousers, Dunmore should have had something on his feet to walk about his house. At least, that’s what Gilchrist would have worn. But did it matter if he was barefooted before or after he was murdered?

  Probably not, came the answer.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ he said. But he could have been talking to a mannequin for all the response Cooper gave him.

  Outside, walking back to his car, Jessie said, ‘She’s a cold one.’

  ‘She can be difficult to communicate with at times. I’ll give you that.’

  Jessie chuckled. ‘Something tells me that you’re still hankering after her.’

  Gilchrist pressed his remote fob and his car beeped at him. ‘Did Jackie get back to you with Dunmore’s misper file?’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘Get onto it.’

  The drive from Gleneden Distillery to Dunmore’s home in Hepburn Gardens took less than fifteen minutes – a short commute that did nothing to explain why it had taken Dunmore so long to arrive at the distillery after Marsh phoned her. Gilchrist pulled onto a red-paved driveway that led to a two-storey house with a circular turret, and freshly painted roughcast that must have cost three months of a DCI’s salary to paint. An expansive lawn, green and manicured despite it being winter, filled one corner of the property. A ten-foot-high hedge, which must have been trimmed with the help of a spirit level, lined the boundary.

  He parked next to a black Range Rover Sport, and stepped into the cold January air.

  Jessie blew into her hands and sniffed the air. ‘Just stinks of money, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s well maintained, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Master of the understatement. How much does a distillery owner earn anyway?’

  ‘More than you and me.’

  ‘Yeah, added together. You ever think you’re in the wrong business?’

  ‘Often.’

  She eyed the front door. ‘Come on, let’s knock this punter up, and get back to the Office for a cuppa.’ But after five minutes of Jessie cursing and pressing the bell, rattling the knocker, the door remained unanswered. ‘Don’t think anybody’s in,’ she said.

  ‘I’m the master of what, did you say?’

  ‘You got a number you can reach him?’

  Gilchrist called the number Dunmore had given him for GC Publicity. On the third ring a woman’s voice said, ‘Hello?’

  Gilchrist introduced himself, then said, ‘I’m looking for George Caithness?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Caithness isn’t here.’

  ‘Do you know when he’s expected?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t.’

  ‘You got another number I can reach him?’

  ‘Give me a second.’ The line clattered, then silenced, clattered again, and a mobile number was rattled off. Gilchrist assigned it to memory, and when he ended the call, tapped it in. He cursed when he got through to a dead line. ‘It’s disconnected.’

  ‘Maybe your memory’s not as good as you think it is,’ Jessie said. ‘I don’t know how you can remember numbers like that. I’ve got to write them down.’

  Gilchrist did indeed have a memory for numbers, but just in case he’d got it wrong, he handed his mobile to Jessie. ‘Phone Caithness’s office again and check it out, will you?’

  While Jessie located the number and redialled it, Gilchrist walked along the side of the house. He unlatched a wooden gate at the corner of the garage, which opened up to a back garden as well maintained as the front, private, too, despite the adjacent homes. A twelve-foot-high leylandii hedge, trimmed as flat as a wall and squared at the top like topiary, ran around the entire boundary. Stone slabs inset into the lawn formed a path that led to a gazebo in the corner, which looked trapped by winter-bare clematis. Wooden decking ran along the back of the house, and stepped up to a hot tub.

  At the far boundary, he turned and faced the house. From there, he had a clear view of the upstairs rooms – curtains open, no lights on, no sign of activity.

  Just then, Jessie walked into the back garden, shaking her head. ‘You were right.’ She handed his phone to him. ‘I’d say the SIM card’s been removed.’

  He slipped his mobile into his jacket. ‘Something doesn’t fit here. Brand new Range Rover parked at the front, phone ringing out, no one answering the door.’

  ‘He could’ve gone for a walk, or a jog. Who knows?’

  ‘Maybe.’ But that sixth sense of his was warning him that there was more to George Caithness’s absence than a daily jog. He couldn’t point to anything, just that niggling feeling that stirred when things didn’t quite add up. ‘Have Jackie check the Range Rover. It might not be his.’ Then he pulled out his mobile, and walked to the middle of the lawn.

  When Dunmore answered, he said, ‘Your husband, George, isn’t home.’

  ‘I can’t help you with that.’

  ‘Any idea where he could be?’

  ‘Have you tried his office, for God’s sake?’

  ‘He’s not there, but his car’s here. A black Range Rover. That’s his, right?’

  The sigh that swept down the line could have been a whispered curse. ‘George could have gone out to buy a newspaper. He often does that. Or he could be at home watching TV, and not in the least interested in talking to the police. Which is something I have no interest in doing either. Good day.’

  The line died.

  Well, after her hissy-fit at the distillery, he supposed it was silly of him to expect her to welcome his line of questioning. But she shouldn’t treat him with such disdain.

  It only made him more determined.

  CHAPTER 5

  Back at the North Street Office, Gilchrist went looking for Jackie Canning – best researcher in the world, he called her – for the missing person’s file on Hector Dunmore. As soon as he entered Jackie’s office she held it up for him.

  ‘This … this …’ she tried, but her stammer stumped her every time.

  ‘Hector Dunmore’s file?’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Her mass of rust-coloured hair wobbled like an Afro. ‘Two,’ she said.

  ‘You made a copy for Jessie?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Thanks, Jackie. You’re a darling.’ He took both files from her, and blew her a squelchy ‘Mwah’ in the process.

  Jackie giggled, then shooed him away as if he were a naughty child.

  Gilchrist dropped the original file on Jessie’s desk, then headed to his own office. As he fingered the copies, he was surprised to see how sparse they were. It seemed that not much effort had gone into the investigation before the powers that be drew a line under it. A quick flip through confirmed Dunmore’s Land Rover had been found on the outskirts of Mallaig on the west coast of Scotland, about two hundred miles due west of St Andrews, on 14 December. A well-worn black parka jacket with a fur-trimmed hood had been found in the rear seat, and a tattered briefcase that contained a notebook and paperwork was identified by Katherine Dunmore as belonging to her brother, Hector. As if for the avoidance of doubt, a couple of sheets of Gleneden letterhead were also recovered from the briefcase, with Hector Dunmore’s name printed in the address.

  It all seemed too convenient for Gilchrist’s peace of mind.

  Interestingly, no fingerprints had been lifted from the Land Rover, with a note from the SIO that the steering wheel, handbrake and gear levers, seats – back and front – cabin and windscreen had all been wiped clean. Outside door handles, wing mirrors, and doors had been polished, too. The Senior Investigating Officer was D I Tom Calish, whom Gilchrist had only the vaguest recollection of – white-haired, rubicund face, beer belly, smoked sixty a day, on the verge of retirement – which didn’t bode well for Calish still being around. And twenty-five years ago, DNA was still in its infancy. So, with no fingerprints, and no mileage logbook – from what Gilchrist could tell – all Calish had to rely on for proof that the Land Rover had been driven there by Hector Dunmore in person, was the assumptive word of his sister, Katherine, and DVLA records for proof of company ownership. Despite suspicions surrounding the cleaning of the fingerprints, the Gleneden letterhead effectively closed the case in terms of identification, when Dunmore’s disappearance from his home in St Andrews was confirmed.