Gilchrist dug his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. “Ronnie Watt,” he said. “He’s not one of yours. Is he?”
“You know I can’t talk about that, Andy. Is that why you called?”
Gilchrist caught the anger in Dainty’s voice. The man might be small in stature, but that did little to lessen his presence. “There used to be a time when we worked hand in hand.”
“Don’t play with words, Andy. You know the rules.”
Gilchrist stared at Leighton’s printouts on his desk. He’d been reading his way through them for the last four hours, but come up with nothing. “Watt knows Chris Topley. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“They were seen having a drink together. Does that not interest you?”
“I’ve had the odd pint with a criminal or two. So has half the force.”
Gilchrist could not argue with that. “Where did Topley get the money to start his business?”
“Topley’s clean. We’ve checked him out. He might have an eponymous agency, but it’s part of a larger holding group. Some international company with too much money.”
“Does it have a name?”
“W something Holdings International.”
“Can you find out?”
“Can do.”
“And where it’s based?”
“Can do. Why?”
He had no clear idea why his interest was piqued, other than his sixth sense telling him something did not ring true. “Just a hunch,” he said.
Dainty grunted, then said, “One other thing.”
Gilchrist caught the bite in Dainty’s voice. “I’m all ears.”
“A body was found in a farm lane on the outskirts of Castlecary, off the M80 on the way to Stirling. Male, early thirties, throat cut. Being treated as murder, obviously.”
“Anyone we know?”
“Kenneth Finnigan. Wee Kenny to his friends. But for the last two or three years was Jimmy Reid’s goffer.”
Jimmy Reid? Why was Dainty telling him this? Reid? Then Gilchrist felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stir. “Bully’s brother?”
“The one and only.”
Christ. “What does Jimmy have to say about it?”
“Jimmy’s shot the crow. We raided his house this morning, but he’s packed up and left. Spain, probably. Has a villa there. We’ve already been onto the airlines and the Spanish Police.”
Gilchrist could tell from Dainty’s tone that Jimmy’s disappearance was not the crux of the matter. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Wee Kenny’s car was discovered twenty miles away, burned to a shell.”
“A Jaguar?”
“Right first time.”
“How badly burned?”
“Nothing left of it.”
Gilchrist knew they would not be able to tell from the paintwork if the boot of the Jaguar had been patch-painted. But they might from the metalwork. “The boot,” he said. “Any damage done to it?”
Dainty chuckled. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
And neither do you, Gilchrist thought.
“Repaired pockmarks were found on the boot. Possible bullet holes. Six in total. Which might suggest an old-fashioned revolver.”
“For an old-fashioned gangland war.”
“Could be. Jimmy was involved in some turf war about eight years ago.”
“About the time Bully was put behind bars?”
“Some time after that. Rumour had it he was looking after the family business.”
Bully had been sent down on charges of manslaughter. Fifteen years, with no chance of parole-supposedly. Was it possible he was still pulling the strings from behind bars?
“Bully’s still in prison, right?” Gilchrist asked.
“Bar-L. The one and only.”
“He’s not getting out any time soon, is he?”
“He’s hired one of the top legal firms in town.”
“Meaning?”
“They’re pushing to have him out in maybe two years.”
“You’re joking.”
“Afraid not.”
The Jaguar. Burned to a cinder. Kenny Finnigan. Dead in a farm lane. Ronnie Watt. Back in Fife. Maureen. Vanished. Jimmy Reid. Gone to Spain. And Bully. Getting out in two years. Did it add up to something Gilchrist should be able to see? He hated to say it, but only one person was available to him. “I need to talk to Bully,” he said. “Can you set it up for me?”
“This afternoon do?”
“Perfect,” he said, and closed his mobile.
Gilchrist had once prayed that he would never have to face hatred like Bully’s again. Now he had arranged to meet with the psycho. Just the thought that Bully might be involved with Maureen’s disappearance had his heart racing. Christ, anyone but Bully.
But he knew Bully was involved. Bully would always be involved.
He did not need his sixth sense to tell him that.
For years he had dreaded this day coming.
Now it had, he prayed he was up to the task.
Chapter 28
GILCHRIST REMEMBERED IT as if it were yesterday.
He closed his eyes, saw spittle splutter from Bully’s mouth as he was dragged away, handcuffed, screaming a vindictive diatribe that had Sheriff MacFarlane thumping his gavel with the energy of a piecework blacksmith.
Fuck you, Gilchrist. Fuck you. I’m going to have you for this. D’you hear, you fucking cunt? You’ll regret this, Gilchrist. To your dying fucking day you’re going to regret this. D’you hear?
Gilchrist heard all right. He had turned away as Bully was led from the dock. Had he shown weakness by doing so? Should he have stared the man out, smiled and mouthed Goodbye? And here he was again, after all these years.
He pulled his Roadster into the car park that fronted the stone monolith of Glasgow’s Barlinnie Prison. He had not set foot in the Bar-L for ten years, when he had visited Donnie Crawford, a petty crook serving twenty years for murder. Accompanied by Donnie’s court-appointed solicitor, Gilchrist asked specific questions that had proven Donnie’s innocence. He remained proud of his efforts that day. Donnie had joined the Army six months later, ending his life of crime before it started in earnest. The last Gilchrist heard, Donnie had married and was now the father of two young daughters.
But Bully was a different animal altogether, animal being the operative word. Bully was beyond salvation. And had been ever since the murderous age of ten.
Gilchrist signed in and was escorted through a series of steel-barred doors, along a corridor with breezeblock walls painted prison-grey, and into a square room furnished with one table and two chairs opposite each other.
He sat.
The sour smell of urine filled his senses. He found his hands patting his pockets for his cigarettes, recalling that when he first came up against Bully he’d been smoking thirty a day. Christ, he could do with one right now. He forced himself to focus on why he was there. If Bully was somehow involved, he might be able to glean something from him, some tiny detail that could lead him to Maureen. Bully’s cockiness had been his downfall in the past. It could be again.
The door opened.
There stood Bully, six-foot-one of him, street-fighter-thin and prison-hard. He paused at the doorway before being pushed into the room, arms and legs shackled. The guard manacled the chains to a metal ring on the floor.
“Sit.”
Bully sat. Sweat glistened his brow. A yellow tint in the whites of his eyes hinted at a prison illness. Gilchrist found himself surprised by an odd reluctance to lock eyes with the man. Even after eight years.
The guard stood with his back to the door.
Bully broke the verbal standoff.
“I’ve been expecting you.” His deep voice echoed off the block walls, thick with the guttural accent of a Glasgow hard-man grown old.
Gilchrist focused on his hands on the table. He wanted to give Bully the impression that his words had slipped over his head.
But he had heard. And he understood.
I’ve been expecting you. Why?