“I don’t think so. They were just going in and out. Making a nuisance of themselves. Slamming car doors. My sight might not be as good as it used to be. But there’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”
“And when did all this going in and out take place?”
“Last week.”
“And before that?”
She shook her head. “Oh, dear. Not for a while.”
“Did they come by car?” Nance asked. “Yes, love.”
Gilchrist was sure he was about to waste his breath. “Did you get the number plate? The make of car?”
“Goodness gracious me. No. Tom was the man for the cars. Not me. He always used to say he would buy me a big car so he could drive me to the shops-”
“Can you remember the colour?”
“Shiny. Like metal.”
Gilchrist remembered the Jaguar with the paint repair on the boot. “Silver, perhaps?”
“I think so.”
“Did it have any scratches or dents? Blotches of paint a different colour?”
“Oh, dear. I couldn’t say. I’ve no idea about that.”
Gilchrist and Nance continued to grill Mrs. Hutchison in a gentle round-about fashion, getting nowhere, learning nothing, until Gilchrist asked about Topley Senior.
“He was a strange one.” She twisted her lips as if she had bitten into a rotten apple. “And a loud drunk. Singing and shouting all those religious songs. But Betsy was nice. I don’t think John done her any harm. But I never understood why she went and married him. I think it was the children that done her in in the end.”
“Done her in?”
“Wore her out.” She shook her head. “A disappointment to her, they was. Two boys. But that was two too many, if you ask me. Poor Betsy. She lost their first child, you know. A girl. She died at birth. She’s buried in the family plot in Maryhill. Betsy used to place flowers by her grave every year. November the eighth.”
“You have a good memory.”
“I used to. I remember it well because it was three days after Guy Fawkes.” She smiled. “Remember remember, the fifth of November.”
“What were the two boys like?”
Her smile evaporated. “Horrible.”
That would certainly describe Chris Topley, Gilchrist thought.
“Cheeky cheeky cheeky. They used to break the heads off my roses. And when they kicked their football into my garden, they would just run in and pick it up. They never asked permission.” She bit into the apple again.
“And what about their father? Did you see much of him?”
“No. He died from a heart attack.”
“When would that be?”
“Ten years ago.”
“You remember it, do you?”
“It was the year after Tom. But Tom had been ill for a while.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Gilchrist.
“It was so sad when Betsy passed away.” Her face seemed to fail her then. “I went to John’s funeral. But I didn’t go to hers. Never even got a chance to pay my last respects.”
“Why not?” Nance asked.
“The boys didn’t want me to.”
“Kevin and Chris?”
“Not so much Kevin. But that Chris. Horrible, he was. He swore at me.”
“Why?”
“Called me an old cow. It was terrible what he done.”
“What did he do?”
“Betsy wanted John to be laid to rest in the family plot in Maryhill. But he wouldn’t have none of it, that Chris. He had John buried somewhere else. Betsy was in a terrible state about it. But she could never stand up to those boys. And when she died, I couldn’t believe it. They had her cremated at Daldowie.” Tears welled in her rheumy eyes. “Betsy didn’t want that. She wanted the family to be laid to rest together.”
Gilchrist decided not to mention the urn in the attic. “Do you know why he did that?”
She shook her head, tears close to the surface.
“Where’s John buried?”
“In a cemetery in Kirkintilloch. His home town.”
Gilchrist had never heard of the place, but made a mental note to check with Dainty. Not that it mattered, he supposed, but he said, “Do you know which cemetery?”
“The Auld Aisle,” she said. “I remember thinking it was a nice name for a cemetery.” Then she frowned. “But I never understood why there.”
“You said Kirkintilloch was his home town.”
“But that was years ago. When he was a little boy. Betsy told me. They moved to Milngavie at first, then bought the house up the road. All his family are buried in Maryhill. His mother and father. His brother, too. And little Betty.”
Gilchrist watched reminiscence cross her face then fade to a look of loss. For her own family, or her past, he could not say. He reached inside his jacket, felt his lips tighten as he held out Maureen’s photograph. “Have you ever seen this woman before?”
The old lady looked around her, and Nance walked to the window ledge and picked up a pair of spectacles. “Are these what you’re looking for?”
“Yes, dear. Where did you find them?” She slid them over her ears then peered long-armed at the photograph. “What a beautiful face,” she said. “Such lovely eyes. Tom always wanted a girl. It’s funny that, don’t you think? Most men want boys.”
“Have you seen her before?” Nance nudged.
She shook her head.
Gilchrist then showed her a photograph of Chloe.
“She reminds me of my sister Aggie. Such lovely eyes. I miss her, you know.”
Gilchrist retrieved the photographs and pushed himself to his feet. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Hutchison.”
“Stay for another cup of tea,” she said. “Please?”
“We really must be going.”
At the door the old lady said, “My, that was a strange kafuffle last night.”
“Pardon?”
“With that car parked outside. I thought he was up to no good.”
“He? Can you describe him?”
“It was too dark, dear. But I think it might have been the tall skinny one.”
Gilchrist’s mobile rang, and he excused himself.
“What time last night?” Nance asked.
“After midnight. When I looked out later, the car was gone.”
“Was it the same silver-coloured car?”
“I don’t think so. It looked darker. I’m not very good with cars.”
“Don’t worry,” Nance said. “And thanks for the tea.”
When Nance turned she could tell from the look on Gilchrist’s face that the last body part had turned up. She ran after him as he jogged towards his Mercedes, and caught up as he jumped into the driver’s seat.
“It’s Chloe,” he said to her, and jerked the ignition key.
The engine started with a hard roar that had two constables looking their way. But he did not shift into gear, just sat there, eyes glazed, staring straight ahead.
After thirty seconds, she leaned across and switched off the engine.
“What’s wrong, Andy?”
Gilchrist looked away from her then. “I haven’t the faintest idea where Maureen is,” he whispered. “I hear her voice in my head. I close my eyes and I see her. But I can’t reach her. I can’t help her. I feel helpless.”
“You said it was Chloe.”
He faced her. “They found her head.”
Nance pressed her hand to her mouth. She had seen only one dacapitated head before, and the memory still stuck with her. She reached out, touched his arm, and he looked down at it, as if surprised to see it there. She wanted to ask if the final note had been found, what it said, but dreaded being told how it had been sent. Surely not branded onto Chloe’s face. Or cut into her skin like scars. No one could be that cruel.
Instead, she squeezed his arm, and waited.
“The final word is vengeance,” he finally said. “And just in case we couldn’t work it out, he had Maureen sign the note. Stuffed into Chloe’s mouth.”
Nance felt her eyes burn as her mind cast up that image. She struggled to hold back her tears. She could not cry. She had to be strong for herself. And strong for Andy.
“The bastard had Maureen sign it. Mo,” Gilchrist gasped.