Then her eyes filled as Gilchrist buried his head in his hands and cried.
Chapter 32
“I’M SORRY, JACK, but Chloe’s body won’t be released until Bert’s done.”
Jack stared out the windscreen in silence, while Gilchrist brought him up to date with the rest of his investigation. But he mentioned nothing of Maureen’s note.
Deep in his own misery, Gilchrist drove through the back streets of St. Andrews. Jack confirmed that Bully’s bastardised line was the opening line of Robert Burns’ poem “Mary Morison.” Instead of, Oh Mary, at thy window be, Bully had changed it to, Oh princess, by thy watchtower be, which told Gilchrist that Bully was responsible for Maureen’s disappearance, and that somehow, somewhere, a tower had something to do with it. Or maybe not.
Gilchrist pulled the Roadster off the road, switched off the engine. He opened the door, turned to Jack. “You offered to help? Well, here we are.”
Leighton looked tired. His jowls shivered with irritation. “It’s taken me longer than I thought it would,” he grumbled. “Even with three printers. But I’ve finished it now.” He lumbered down the hallway and into the front room.
Gilchrist and Jack followed.
Five stacks of printed paper stood on the carpet.
Gilchrist picked up two, while Jack took the rest. As they walked back outside, Gilchrist said, “Send me the bill.”
That seemed to please Leighton, for he smiled and tugged at his belt.
Driving back to Crail he said to Jack, “I’d like you to go through Maureen’s stuff. Put a Post-it at anything that references Watt, Glenorra, Topley, and anyone or anything else you don’t understand, or that seems suspicious.”
“I was dreading you asking me to do that.”
“You did offer.”
“Yeah, I suppose I did.”
GILCHRIST DID NOT find Maureen by the end of that day.
Nor by the end of the next.
Strathclyde’s Forensic teams confirmed that the discarded clothes belonged to Maureen. Blood, bone and skin tissue recovered from the butcher’s bench confirmed that Chloe had been dismembered in the shed. Chris Topley, registered owner of Glenorra, was grilled in person by Dainty for four hours, but denied being within ten miles of the house. Alibis were presented and checked, and Topley walked away as clean as his laundered suit.
Gilchrist’s search of towers in towns along the east coast-Crail, Anstruther, Pittenweem to the south, and as far as Newport-on-Tay to the north-had offered him nothing more except late nights and less sleep. At his frantic persistence Dainty had finally relented and organised a small team to investigate towers in Glasgow, beginning in Easterhouse, where Bully last lived, then stretching farther in a widening circle. But nothing came of it.
Bully was interrogated in Barlinnie by Strathclyde’s top negotiators for ten straight hours. They even hinted at the possibility of a deal. Just tell us what you know, where you’ve instructed the body to be hidden, and we’ll look to get you a pardon.
But Bully said, “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bastard,” after which he refused to utter another word. And for ten straight hours, he sat and smiled at them.
By the morning of the following day Gilchrist had come to realise that no one would find Maureen. That was Bully’s revenge. It mattered not that he had murdered a family of six, including a five-year-old child. A typical psychopath, Bully had no conscience, moral or ethical, no sense of remorse or compassion, took no responsibility for his actions, and could therefore suffer no emotional consequences for his misdeeds.
It was now clear to Gilchrist that Bully had planned to frighten him into believing Maureen was about to be served up to him in bits, and if he solved the clues he could ride in on his white stallion and save his princess. But he had not reckoned on Bully’s trump card, that he had never planned to hack Maureen into pieces, but to have her kidnapped and killed, and her body buried where it would never be found. Gilchrist thought of interrogating Bully once more. But doing so would let Bully see his pain, give him another opportunity to taunt him with his secret knowledge.
So, he decided against it.
Hammie could offer nothing more than Gilchrist already knew. Bully’s reference to Burns’ words contained nothing mystical. The message was clear for all to see in Bully’s bastardised line, Oh princess, by thy watchtower be.
According to Hammie, Bully was telling Gilchrist he knew where Maureen was, and his lips would be sealed until the day he died. And the use of the poem “Mary Morison” was significant as it was generally understood that the Mary Morison in Burns’ poem was Alison Begbie, whom Burns dated when he was in his early twenties, but who refused to marry him. The psychological parallel being that where Burns had failed in his quest for a wife, so too would Gilchrist fail in his search for his daughter.
The other verses were nothing more than smokescreen.
Gilchrist had a different opinion, convinced that Bully had given him a clue, strong in his own twisted belief that he was smarter than everyone. But Gilchrist knew that Bully’s ego would be his downfall. That was the flaw in his miserable scheming.
So, he went to see Chris Topley again.
Nance came with him.
Topley entered the room in a suit that looked like silver shards of herring-bone. It glittered like foil when he walked by the window. He stood on the opposite side of his desk, and gave Gilchrist a gold-toothed smile. “Nice jacket,” he said. “Leather suits you.”
“Wish I could say the same about your suit,” Nance said.
Topley smiled at her. “Want me to throw you out now? Or fuck you later?”
“Try throwing me out now.”
Topley widened his gold smile. “Maybe we’ll just fuck later.”
“You wouldn’t get past Go.”
Topley lowered his eyes and stared at Nance’s crotch.
“Now we’ve got the foreplay out of the way,” Gilchrist said, “I’d like to ask a few more questions.”
Topley lifted his prurient gaze. “I don’t feel like answering any questions today.”
“Like us to arrest you instead?”
“I’d be interested to hear the charge.”
“Attempted rape.” Nance again.
“Do what?”
Nance stepped forward. She stood a couple of inches taller than Topley. “Believe me,” she said, “my story will stick. If DCI Gilchrist hadn’t arrived in the nick of time and pulled you off me, I do believe you might have scored.”
“You wouldn’t fucking dare.”
“You’d better fucking believe it. Now answer the nice man’s questions, or you’re going back to your cage in the Bar-L zoo.”
“Maybe I should call my solicitor.”
“That’s your prerogative,” Gilchrist said. “But we can be out of here in a few minutes, or we can take the long road. Your choice.”
“I’m clean,” Topley sneered. “Let’s have it. Anything to get rid of you lot.”
“You shared a cell with Bully Reid,” Gilchrist said. “For how long?”
“About a year.”
“I heard eighteen months.”
“If you know the answer, why ask the question?”
“To make sure you’re telling no lies.” Gilchrist caught a flush of anger wash across the hard face. “What did you and Bully talk about?”
“Are you joking, or what? How the fuck would I remember what we talked about?”
“Try.”
“It was a while ago.”
Gilchrist moved closer to the desk. “Did Bully ever mention my name?”
“Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”
“Did he ever mention my daughter’s name?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me. I don’t like it.”
Topley narrowed his eyes. “He never mentioned your daughter’s name.”
“Did he mention any woman’s name?”