Dear God. Now this. A young woman’s hand. What had happened? Had her hand been severed in the course of torture? Was she still alive? No, he thought. She was already dead. But where was the rest of the body?
He floored the pedal, overtook three cars.
And why a hand? Why leave it where it was sure to be found?
Simple. Because the perpetrator of this crime wanted the hand to be found.
Hence the note. For him.
But who was this young woman?
Being forty-seven, Gilchrist did not know too many young women. His daughter, Maureen, of course. But she had never invited him to meet her flatmates or friends. Not that she hid them from him, but she lived away from home, ever since Gail left him. And then there was Chloe, his son’s girlfriend. And that was about it as far as young women were concerned.
Still, he needed to put his mind at rest.
He located Maureen’s number and felt a flush of irritation as her answering machine cut in. Leaving messages seemed to be his way of communicating with her these days. He kept this one short, ordered her to give him a call, then he called Jack. It was a wild thought. But better to be sure.
“Hello?” Jack’s voice sounded tired, heavy.
“Did I wake you up?”
“What time’s it?”
“Almost eleven. The day’s nearly done.”
Jack coughed, a harsh sound that seemed to come from his chest, which made Gilchrist think he had started smoking again. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Isn’t a father allowed to call his son and ask how he is?”
“Come on, Andy. First thing in the morning?”
Gilchrist let out a laugh. Jack was a freelance artist whose creative side seemed to flourish only on the other side of midnight and sobriety. Midday could be an early start.
“How’s Chloe?” Gilchrist asked.
“Fine why?”
Gilchrist thought Jack’s answer was too quick. “I’d like to talk to her,” he said.
“Why? What’s up?”
Because we’ve found a severed hand and I’m scared to death it might be Chloe’s.
“Might be interested in buying one of her paintings,” he said. “Can I talk to her?”
“Sure. I’ll get her to call when she gets back.”
“Out shopping, is she?”
“Something like that.”
Gilchrist pressed the mobile to his ear. Jack had a cavalier attitude about most things, but his voice sounded lifeless. “Everything all right?” he tried.
A sniff, then, “We had a lover’s tiff.”
“And?”
“And she’s stomped off to cool down.”
“Sounds serious.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“Good.” And Gilchrist meant it. Chloe was the best thing that had happened to Jack. An artist too, she had a calming effect on his wild son, even assuring him that Jack no longer smoked cigarettes or any other substances. He almost hated to say it, but he trusted Chloe more than he did his own son. He held on, expecting Jack to continue, but it seemed as if the topic of Chloe was over.
Gilchrist decided to change tack and felt a flicker of annoyance that he had to bring the subject up. But he needed to know. “How’s Mum?” he asked, and grimaced as he waited for the answer.
“Not good, Andy. Not good at all.”
“How long?”
“Couple of months. Maybe less.”
“Jesus.”
“They’ve got her on morphine.”
“Is she still at home?”
“You know Mum.”
Gilchrist pulled to a halt behind a traffic jam. Ahead, the grey silhouette of St. Salvator’s spire and the Abbey ruins lined the dark skyline. By the University buildings, black rocks fell to a blacker sea. He closed his eyes, dug in his thumb and forefinger.
Gail. Sometimes he felt as if he still loved her. Other times he was not sure if it was being betrayed that had given him the right to wallow in self-pity. He never understood why he still cared for her. Was it hurt over her infidelity? Or her utter rejection of him once she left? Or jealousy at her having found someone else? And now she was dying and-
“Andy?”
Gilchrist looked up. “Sorry, Jack. Stuck in traffic. Is Maureen still helping out?”
“I guess.”
“You heard from her?”
“About a week ago.”
“I’ve left umpteen messages on her answering machine.”
“That’s Mo for you.”
“It runs in the family.”
“Hey, we’re talking. Right?”
Gilchrist chuckled. “If you talk to her, Jack, tell her to check her messages and give me a call.” Jack grunted, which he took to mean yes. The Citroën in front lurched forward with a burst of exhaust. Gilchrist followed. “Thanks, Jack. Catch you later.”
Gilchrist thought it odd how different his children had become. Maureen and Jack were growing apart, had grown apart, professionally, politically, socially and, even though he hated to say it, financially. Where Mo was self-reliant and careful with money, taking part-time jobs for extra cash, Jack could go months without selling a sculpture or painting, and no commissioned work in sight. He often wondered how Jack survived, then ditched that thought for fear of the answer.
But Mo was different. A young woman with definite views on how to run her life, with no sympathy for those who struggled. If Gilchrist struggled with his relationship with his daughter, what chance did Jack have of getting through to her?
He pulled onto the road that led to the Driving Range, then powered towards the Old Course Hotel. He found a parking spot close to the Jigger Inn. Beyond the stone dyke that bounded the course, a white Transit van spilled Scenes of Crime Officers in white hooded coveralls-six in total. The putting green was encircled with yellow tape that trailed to the walls at the side of the road for which the Old Course’s Road Hole was infamous.
Nance caught his eye as he cleared the dyke. Behind her, the stooped figure of Bert Mackie, the police pathologist, was slipping into the bunker, his assistant, Dougie Banks, helping him down. Nance signalled to Gilchrist as she walked across the green, away from the bunker and the SOCOs.
Puzzled, he followed her.
When she stopped, he said, “You look worried.”
“Ronnie’s here.”
“Ronnie?” Then the name slotted into the tumblers of his mind with a surge of disbelief. “Ronnie Watt?” He eyed the green, settling on the back of a broad-shouldered man in a dark blue suit, felt his legs move as if of their own accord-
Something clamped his arm.
“He’s not worth it.” Nance tightened her grip. “He’s Crime Scene Manager.”
“Not on my shift, he’s not. Alan can take over.”
“No he can’t. Greaves has assigned Ronnie.”
Gilchrist shook his arm free. “Is Greaves out of his bloody mind?”
“Andy. Don’t. It’s in the past.”
But Gilchrist was already striding away.
Chapter 3
“GREAVES SPEAKING.”
“It’s Andy Gilchrist, Tom.”
“Andy. I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”
I bet you were, you blundering old maniac. “I’ve got a complaint.”
“Certainly, Andy. Let’s have it.”
Chief Super Greaves’ politeness almost threw him. So, rather than struggle with fake diplomacy, Gilchrist pulled the trigger. “What the hell’s Ronnie Watt doing here?”
“He’s on temporary assignment from Strathclyde-”
“You do know about Ronnie and me?”
“I do, Andy.”
“Well, surely you must appreciate-”
“Watt is back with Fife Constabulary and assigned to the St. Andrews Division of the Crime Management Department, as are you. Part of my remit is to assign officers to solve crimes as I see fit. And with the shortage in manpower I’m bloody grateful for experienced overload relief-”