T. Frank Muir
Hand for a Hand
The second book in the DI Gilchrist series, 2009
To all women betrayed by those they trusted
Three lawyers’ tongues, turn’d inside out,
Wi’ lies seamed like a beggar’s clout.
– A couplet from Robert Burns’ original manuscript of his epic poem Tam O’Shanter, which he was persuaded to leave out
Chapter 1
Seventeenth Hole, Old Course
St. Andrews, Scotland
TAM DUNN WATCHED the golf ball take a hard kick left and slip into the infamous Road Hole Bunker, a sandy-bottomed pothole that fronted the seventeenth green.
Bud Amherst, one of an American four-ball that teed off at 7:00 that morning, first on the ballot, threw his five-iron to the ground. “Goddammit,” he shouted, turning to Tam. “Course’s nuthin but sand traps. Why didn’t you tell me it was there?”
The way Bud played golf it would have made no difference if Tam had first led him by the hand and stood him in the bunker. But Tam the caddy, always hopeful of an American-sized tip, bit his tongue. “My mistake, sir.”
Close to the green, the bunker looked more like a hole in the ground, its face a vertical wall of divot bricks that even the pros struggled to overcome.
“Whaddaya think?” Bud asked Tam.
“Sand-iron, sir.”
“I know that, goddammit. Which way’s it gonna break?”
“About three feet from the left.”
“As much as that?”
“At least, sir.”
Tam kept tight-lipped as Bud took a few clumsy practice swings. The only way Bud was going to get the ball onto that green, he thought, was to lift it and place it. Bud turned to the bunker, prepared to step down into it, then stumbled backwards.
“Aw God, aw God.”
“Sir?”
Bud slumped to his knees. The sand-iron slipped from his grip.
One of the Americans, the tall one called JD, trotted across the green. “Hey, Bud, you okay?”
Bud stretched an arm out and flapped it at the bunker.
Tam stepped to its lip and stared down at the hand, at skin as white as porcelain, bony fingers clawed like talons. Even from where he stood he could tell it was a woman’s hand, a fine hand, he thought, except the wrist looked butchered and bloodied, like a cut of meat hacked, not sliced, the bone glistening like a white disc smeared with blood.
And all of Tam’s hopes for an American-sized tip evaporated in the cold Scottish air.
Chapter 2
“YOU’D BETTER GET down here, Andy.”
“Where’s here, Nance?”
“Seventeenth green on the Old Course. Next to the Jigger.”
Gilchrist drew his Mercedes SLK Roadster to the side of the road and pressed his mobile to his ear. It had been a while since he had heard DS Nancy Wilson as breathless. Not since they had run the length of the West Sands chasing what’s-his-name. Blake. That was it. Murray Blake. Rapist, serial shagger, petty thief. How some people thought they could get away with it never failed to amaze him.
“What’s got you fired up?” he tried.
“Severed hand in a bunker. Victim’s in her early twenties, late teens-”
“Her early twenties?”
“Sorry. Yes. It’s a woman’s hand.”
Gilchrist tugged the steering wheel, felt the tail-end throw out as the Merc spun in a tight circle. “Any rings?” he asked. “Moles? Scars?”
“Nothing obvious. Fingernails are short. Not varnished. Skin’s a bit rough.”
“As in manual labour?”
“As in someone who doesn’t use hand lotion.”
“Or couldn’t afford to.”
“Maybe.”
“It couldn’t have come from the mortuary or been cut from-?”
“Not a chance, Andy. She’s been murdered.”
“Get on to the University. Find out if any students have gone missing, called in sick, not turned up, whatever.”
“Got it.”
“Has Mackie seen it yet?”
“Just arrived. Along with the SOCOs.”
“Make sure they take fingerprints and run them through the AFR system.”
“Got it.”
If the victim had no criminal record, the Automatic Fingerprint Registration System would draw a blank. But it was worth a shot. “Estimated time of…” He wanted to say, death, then chose, “… amputation?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“How about the other bunkers?”
“We’ve got a team walking the course. Nothing back from them yet.”
“Any thoughts?” he asked.
“Nothing definite. The sand was smooth, which might suggest the hand was placed in the bunker.”
“As opposed to thrown in?”
“Odd, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.” Gilchrist was again struck by the undercurrent of excitement in Nance’s voice. He thought back to her statement-Not a chance. She’s been murdered-and knew from the firmness of her response that there had to be more. “What’re you not telling me, Nance?”
“She, I mean… the hand was holding a note. Addressed to you.”
A frisson of ice touched his neck. He booted the Merc to seventy. “What’s it say?”
“Murder.”
Murder? “So whoever severed the hand is sending me a message.”
“Looks that way.”
“How was the note addressed?”
“On the envelope. Your name. DCI Andrew Gilchrist.”
Andrew. Not Andy. Was that significant? “Typed? Or hand-printed?”
“Looks like a computer printer. Ink hasn’t run. Maybe a laser printer.”
Something tugged at his mind. “I thought you said note.”
“I did.”
“Inside the envelope?”
“Yes.”
“Someone opened the envelope?”
“It wasn’t sealed.”
Although the envelope was addressed to him, found in the clutches of a severed hand, it niggled him that it had been opened and read. “Why use an envelope to put a note inside?” he asked. “Why not just the note? Why the envelope, then the note?”
“To keep the note dry?”
“Maybe.”
“Greaves wants to assign you as SIO.”
Senior Investigating Officer. Gilchrist laughed. “I would have thought a severed hand clutching a note addressed to me would make it obvious that I should be SIO.”
Hearing his own words made something slump to the pit of his stomach. He had always dreaded this moment, the day when he would be targeted by some sick pervert. And the pervert who severed the hand had asked for Gilchrist to be involved. No, more than that, wanted Gilchrist to be involved. But why? Was the woman someone he knew? At that thought, a surge of panic jolted his system.
“Describe the hand again, Nance.”
“Left hand. Skin’s flawless, except for the fingernails. They’re cracked.”
“Not bitten?”
“No.”
Relief powered through him. It was every policeman’s fear that their family would be the victim of revenge, their lives threatened by some criminal bent on getting even for some long-forgotten score. The thought that the hand could have been his daughter’s had hit him with the force of a kick to the gut. Maureen lived seventy miles away in Glasgow, but bit her nails and picked the skin. Despite the gruesome task ahead he almost smiled.
“Fingernails look as if they’ve been trimmed,” Nance went on. “But the cracks still show.”
“Meaning?”
“Not sure. But it might help ID her.”
Gilchrist was fast approaching traffic. He eased his foot off the pedal. “I’ll be with you in ten minutes,” he said, and hung up.