Why had the house been allowed to fall into such a state? And why hack Chloe to pieces here? Why keep Maureen chained in the garden shed? Was Bully trying to make it look as if Chris Topley was involved in Chloe’s murder?
Chris Topley had shared a cell with Bully. Gilchrist had established that fact. And Chris Topley had employed Maureen. Chloe had dated Kevin Topley then dumped him for Jack. Was that part of a twisted plot dreamed up by Bully in the cells of Barlinnie? To set Gilchrist’s son up with his cellmate’s brother’s ex? Then kill her?
It seemed too complex by far. Or was it?
Gilchrist stepped from the hall into a darkened lounge. Heavy floral curtains were still drawn. He opened them. Light slid into the room on dusty beams. Another day was dawning. Would he find Maureen alive by the end of this day? Or was she already dead? He tried to bury that thought, and peered out the window.
Glenorra stood at the end of a narrow road lined by mature trees. The footpath opposite was edged by a privet hedge, behind which an open field rose into the daybreak gloom. Fifty yards to his left, the grey hulk of the only neighbouring house seemed to manifest in the lightening skies.
Who lived there? Had they seen anything? Heard anything?
He faced the room again. Light patches on the flocked wallpaper were ghostly reminders of removed pictures. What had these pictures shown?
Upstairs, the same questions worried away at him. Why this house? Why here? Why use the garden shed to hack up a murder victim, and why keep another one captive? But the house stood in a tranquil country setting, so why not?
On the ceiling, in an oversized cupboard off the upper landing, he found the entrance hatch to the attic. He reached up and pulled it down to reveal a sliding ladder. He waggled it to the floor then clambered up the wooden treads.
He stood with his head and shoulders in the confines of the attic. In the darkness the air smelled dry and musty. His fingers found a light-switch close to the entrance hatch, but the electricity had been disconnected. He called for a torch.
Two minutes later, Nance obliged. “See anything?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
Gilchrist ran the beam around the attic space. What was he looking for?
He guessed no one had been in the attic for years. The space was small, the angle of the ceiling restrictive to someone his height. Planks of wood ran at right angles across the roof beams, creating a floored area about ten by ten. Beyond, rafters ran into the darkness like ship’s ribbing. Two suitcases lay one on top of the other. From the hollow sound they made when he tapped them, he could tell they contained nothing. Four tea chests lined one edge of the attic flooring.
He pulled himself up and into the attic.
Nance scrambled in after him. “Looking for anything in particular?” she asked.
“Just sniffing.” From the top of the chest, he removed an item wrapped in newspaper. He unravelled it to reveal a bone-china teacup. He was not an expert in antiques but had the distinct feeling that he was holding something of value. “Why leave this stuff here?” He shone his torch across the broadsheet. “The Herald,” he said. “January 1993.”
Nance dug into the adjacent tea chest. “Has the house been deserted that long?”
“We can have it checked out.” The rest of the tea chest uncovered more crockery, but nothing of any interest. “Is this stuff expensive?” he asked Nance.
“You’re asking the wrong person. My grannie wanted to leave me her china set and got upset when I told her I didn’t want it. I prefer Mikasa.”
“Whatever.”
“Oh, shit.”
Gilchrist shone the torch at her.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Gilchrist trained the beam on an urn that gleamed like polished copper. Although it had been wrapped in newspaper, he caught the green stain of verdigris around the base.
“Betsy Cunningham Topley,” she said. “Born 5th of June 1932, died 1st of December 1997.” She looked at him. “Topley’s mother? Why keep her here?”
Gilchrist had no answer for that. His own parents were dead, and their funerals had been carried out in accordance with their wishes. Both had been cremated, and their ashes interred in a small plot in the local cemetery. It sometimes embarrassed him to think how seldom he visited.
Other tea chests revealed nothing of interest. He left the hatch open, the access ladder down, and had Nance notify the crime scene manager. Not that the stuff in the attic was relevant, he supposed.
In the back garden, SOCOs still combed the grounds. The dawn light flickered with the staccato flare of the police photographer’s flashlight.
“Has anyone interviewed the neighbours?” he asked Dainty.
“Not yet.”
Gilchrist was out of his jurisdiction, but he had a sense that Dainty was overwhelmed with the mass of evidence being gathered. “I can make a start,” he said.
Dainty poked at the pad on his mobile. “Make sure you give me a typed report,” then turned away to make the call.
The street surface was littered with potholes that glistened black with rainwater. A heavy dew painted the lawn in a transparent white. He caught movement behind an upper curtain as he and Nance approached the house, a smallholding with roughcast walls in dire need of paint. He glanced at his watch-6:15-then at the nameplate-Hutchison.
He rang the doorbell.
It took no more than five seconds for the door to crack open. An elderly woman with white hair as wild as candyfloss faced them. A blue housecoat stained from overuse covered a pink nightgown. Worn slippers warmed blue-veined feet as white as porcelain.
“Mrs. Hutchison?” Gilchrist asked.
“Yes?”
“We’re with the police. May we come in?”
“Is it to do with the Topley’s old house?” she asked.
“It is.”
“Well, thank goodness. You’d better come in.”
Gilchrist followed her tiny frame down a dark hall and into a dull kitchen that needed to be gutted. Cupboard doors hung from hinges long past their sell-by date. Woodchip wallpaper painted deep yellow was blackened with grease above the oven. A white tablecloth covered a small table in the centre of the room.
“Would you like some tea? I always have a pot brewing.”
“That would be nice,” Nance said.
“Do you live alone?” Gilchrist tried.
“For the last eleven years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Cancer done it. That’s what took my Tom. I told him to give up the smoking. But he never listened.” She smiled, an odd crinkling of her lined face. “It’s what I liked most about him,” she went on, “that he took no one’s advice but his own. Milk, love?”
Nance nodded. Gilchrist did likewise.
She handed Gilchrist a chipped cup with tea like melted Caramac and speckles of soured milk spinning in it like dandruff. He took a polite sip through closed lips, then said, “Why were you so pleased to invite us in?”
“The old Topley house has been empty for years,” she said. “Then all of a sudden it’s like Sauchiehall Street.”
“You saw someone go into it?” Nance asked.
“Two of them. Like tinkers. Scruffy they was.”
“Did you call the police?” Gilchrist asked.
“Oh, dear, no. I didn’t like to. I try to mind my own business.”
“Could you describe them?”
She gave Gilchrist’s question some thought, then shook her head. “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, you know. I need a new prescription.” She scanned the kitchen with a worried frown. “Where did I put my glasses?”
“Tall, small? Fat, thin? Male, female?”
“Oh,” she said. “One was tall and gangly.” She screwed up her face. “I’ve never liked that in a man. The other was small. With short legs. Like Tom.”
“Could you see what they were doing?” Nance asked.
“Doing, love?”
“Were they carrying anything?”