“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Mackie pulled the bag closer. The plastic almost touched his nose. “There’s some discoloration in the cut. Here.”
“Dried blood?”
“Not blood. No. It looks yellow.”
“Like an old bruise?”
“No.” Mackie swung the plastic bag towards Gilchrist and pointed at the middle finger. “See here,” he said. “It could be paint.”
“What kind of paint?”
“Couldn’t say at this stage.”
Movement to the side caught Gilchrist’s eye. Watt was stepping from the SOCO van. “Listen, Bert, I’ll leave you to it. As soon as you find out anything else, get back to me.” He turned and walked towards Nance.
“Hey.”
Gilchrist stopped on the edge of the green.
Watt was walking toward him like a lion with its eyes on a limping springbok. He waved a hand. “We need to talk.”
Gilchrist turned, stepped down the slope, and stood at the edge of the bunker. One of the SOCOs was on his hands and knees, brushing samples of sand from an indentation that Gilchrist assumed had been made by the hand. He heard Watt’s breathing behind him.
“What’s granddad saying?” Watt asked him.
“You’ll read his report when he’s finished.”
“Will he live that long?”
“You had something to say?”
“Been on the phone with Greaves.”
“Good for you.”
“And I don’t like it any more than you do.”
Gilchrist barked a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Watt twisted his head, spat out his gum. “Look,” he said. “My life’s changed. I’ve changed. I’m a different person.”
“What’re you trying to tell me?”
“I want to put the past behind us.”
“Are you asking me to forget what happened?”
Watt seemed stumped by the question.
Gilchrist caught a faint whiff of stale alcohol and knew in that instant that nothing had changed. “For the sake of the investigation,” he said, “I’m prepared to do as Greaves wants. But the instant you screw up, you’re history.” Watt continued to nod, but Gilchrist caught a current of anger ripple across his jaw. “Okay, so far?”
“Gotcha, Andy.”
Gilchrist shook his head. “You’re not listening.”
“Yeah, I got you.”
“No you haven’t.”
Watt frowned. “Oh, yeah, right. DCI Gilchrist. I got it. Yeah.”
Gilchrist turned to Nance as she approached him, notebook in hand.
“I need the two of you to talk to everyone who buys, sells, or uses paint,” he said. “Ask if they remember seeing a woman, a natural blonde, in the last several days, maybe as far back as a week. Someone slender, tending towards frail. Might be worthwhile starting at the University, students who paint as a hobby, or know someone who does-”
“That’s asking a lot.”
Gilchrist eyed Watt. “Any other suggestions?”
“Yeah. Put out an appeal on the telly.”
“And ask what? Know anyone who’s lost a hand? Get real. It’s early days for that.” Something in Gilchrist softened at that moment. Maybe it was because they now stood at the start of a major investigation. Or maybe it was the thought of the massive task ahead. If he was to solve this crime, find the killer of the young woman, put to rest the grief of her family, he needed all the help he could muster. Maybe Greaves was right. Maybe he was going to have to bite the bullet of the past. “We can try that later,” he said to Watt. “When Mackie gives us a better fix on her ID.”
Watt nodded, and Gilchrist knew from the tightening of the jaw that his reluctant agreement had been noted. “Any other questions?” he asked.
“Yes.” Nance had her notebook open and was scribbling in it. “Why paint?”
Despite Mackie’s uncertainty, Gilchrist wanted to sound positive. “Bert thinks he’s found some traces of paint.”
“What kind of paint?” Nance asked.
“What kind of paint can you get?” Watt said.
“Oil. Watercolour,” said Nance, then gave Watt a smile that failed to reach her eyes.
“Maybe even printer ink,” Gilchrist added. “But it’s too soon to say. We need to start digging while Bert does his stuff in the lab. So get going.” He stepped away. “Debriefing’s in my office at six.”
As he strode towards his car he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, felt his body give an involuntary shiver, and wondered if he was trying to shake off a chill or memories of the past. For the sake of the investigation, he heard his mind echo, I’m prepared to do as Greaves wants.
Work with Watt? As if the past did not exist? Could he really do that?
As a detective in charge of a murder investigation, perhaps.
But as a father, that was asking for the impossible.
Chapter 4
THE REMAINDER OF the day consisted of meetings and phone calls. After debriefing, which turned up a list of one hundred and twenty-seven students who had an interest in painting, or knew someone who had, Gilchrist found himself stepping into Lafferty’s.
“Pint of Eighty, Eddy, and a couple of sausage rolls.”
He cocked an eye at the television set in the corner of the bar. The Old Course Hotel in the background swelled as the camera zoomed in on the seventeenth green, closer still until it slipped from view and the Road Hole bunker filled the screen.
“There you go, Andy.” Fast Eddy glanced at the television. “That one of yours?”
“Afraid so.”
“Was on earlier. That plonker, the one you had the run in with years back, he was on. Chewing gum like some big-shot. Should’ve heard Marge.” Fast Eddy’s eyes glistened. “Wetting her knickers for the guy. God knows what the women see-”
“Sausage rolls?”
“On their way.” Fast Eddy slipped from the bar and headed to the kitchen.
Gilchrist took a sip of his Eighty-Shilling, removed his mobile from his jacket, and dialled Nance. It barely rang.
“Where are you, Nance?”
“Just leaving the office.”
“Care to join me?”
“What for?”
“A pint.”
“I meant, for what reason?”
“Come and join me and find out.”
A pause, then, “Let me guess. Lafferty’s?”
“Sherlock Holmes the second.”
“Sherlock was a man. I’m not sure if that was an insult or a compliment.”
“I would never insult you, Nance. You know that.”
She chuckled in response, said, “Give me ten,” then hung up.
By the time Nance arrived, Gilchrist had finished his plate of sausage rolls.
“Well, hello, darling,” said Fast Eddy, his eyes lighting up. “My most favourite Detective Sergeant on the entire planet.”
“The answer’s still no.” Nance pulled up a stool beside Gilchrist.
“You’re breaking a lonely Irishman’s heart, my lovely.”
“Give it up, Eddy. My knickers are cuffed to my bra.”
Fast Eddy laughed his staccato chuckle. “How do you know I’m not a Houdini in disguise?”
“Houdini got out of tight places,” Nance said. “Not into them.”
“Ah, but a man can live on dreams for only so long.”
Nance rolled her eyes. “Keep this up, and I’ll have to charge you with indecent-”
“Exposure?”
She shook her head. “I’ll have what Andy’s having. And make it two.”
“Ah, you’ve cut me to the core.” Fast Eddy pulled the first of two pints, letting one settle as the other swelled. “And I’ll never know how you manage to keep that lovely figure so slim drinking all this real ale.”
“I get plenty of exercise running away from hard-ons like yours.”
Fast Eddy snickered.
“Anyway, I’m far too young.”
“Not at all. I think we’d make a grand couple.”
“I think they should change your name to Past Eddy.”