“Your client’s lying.”
Foster turned to Topley. “Are you lying?”
“On my mother’s grave.”
Foster looked at Gilchrist. “On his mother’s grave.”
“His mother doesn’t have a grave. Her ashes are in an urn in the attic. Ask him.”
“I don’t think that’s-”
“Your client’s lying. Now ask him.”
“As I said-”
“Ask him.” Gilchrist was surprised to find he had almost crossed the table.
Foster pushed his chair back. Sweat glistened on his balled face. “I don’t intend to have my client sit through-”
“Why did you have your mother cremated?” Gilchrist shouted. He had pressed so far forward that his face was inches from Topley’s. “Why not have her buried with her husband? Why not grant an old lady her dying wish?”
Topley grinned at him.
Gilchrist pushed back and stood. “I’m having a coffee.” He glared at Foster. “And when I come back I expect your client to be more forthcoming.”
Foster fingered the knot in his tie.
At the coffee machine Gilchrist felt something touch his elbow. He turned. “What?”
Nance tried a weak smile. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Andy.”
“I’ve never had a daughter missing before.”
“Go easy. Will you?”
“Milk and sugar?”
Nance strutted off, her legs as stiff as a mannequin’s.
Gilchrist felt the beginnings of a headache and wondered if it was all too much for him. Was Nance right? Was he out of control? But how the hell was he supposed to behave when that bastard smiled at him and whispered in his solicitor’s ear? Dainty had taken some persuading before agreeing to provide an interview room. And Greaves, too, he had blown a fuse. Why all the fuss about jurisdiction and protocol? Could no one see the connection? In despair, he patted his pockets for his cigarettes, and gave a silent curse. Christ. Habits were hard to beat. Habits were things that made men behave like boys. Habits could-
Not habits. Agreements.
Silent compliance? Between Topley and Bully?
Was that it? Had Topley been compliant, agreed to do as Bully asked, so he could score a few more Brownie points for his hero? It seemed so simple he wondered why he had not thought of it sooner. Dainty had told him of Topley’s early life, of how he had to prove his worth to Bully. Topley had been one of the tougher kids, who thought nothing of slicing off an opponent’s ear to drop at his master’s feet, a token of his worthiness.
And of Bully’s parents, a father who ran away from a beaten life and a beaten wife, leaving her to raise six girls and two baby boys-Bully and Jimmy. What little money she mustered came from doing turns in tenement closes. She groomed her daughters, too, for the oldest profession, so that when Maggie reached twelve, money started to come in. Bully was only nine when Maggie and two other sisters ran off to London. He never heard from them again, and that seemed to signal the start of Bully’s hatred of all things feminine.
Bully had been serving time when his mother passed away, and turned down a day on the outside to attend her funeral, a cremation at Daldowie. Which struck Gilchrist. Daldowie was the same crematorium where Topley had his mother cremated.
Was that the connection? A crematorium? And why Daldowie?
The closest crematorium to Glenorra was Maryhill. Not Daldowie. If Glasgow was a circle, Daldowie was more or less diametrically opposite Maryhill. So why would Topley have his mother cremated in Daldowie?
Because Bully told him to? Because they had an agreement?
In Bully’s world, he was the leader, everyone else a follower-sheep herded to the cliff edge and ordered to jump. Or rob. Or murder. Or cremate your mother?
Bully the leader, the man of words, the poet.
Oh princess, by thy watchtower be.
Then it struck Gilchrist with a clarity that stunned him. He threw his coffee away.
He asked a young sergeant at the front desk to check out something for him as a matter of urgency, and the instant, the absolute instant he had the result, to let him know.
“I’ll be in Interview Room Two. Just say yes or no.”
Gilchrist almost exploded into the room.
Topley stiffened, mouth frozen in the act of a whisper to Foster.
Gilchrist stepped past Nance, swept around the table, hauled Topley to his feet.
Foster pushed his chair back. “This is-”
“Shut up.”
The chair hit the floor with a hard clatter.
“I have to warn you that-”
“And I’m warning you,” Gilchrist turned on Foster, “that if you are in any way responsible for letting this piece of shite keep information from me that could save my daughter’s life then I’ll hold you personally responsible.”
“You can’t do-”
“Do you have children?”
Foster’s lips tightened. His throat bobbled.
Gilchrist secured his grip on Topley’s suit lapels, pulled the man’s muscled bulk up and over so the tips of their noses almost touched. Topley’s arms dangled by his side, as if to tell Gilchrist that he knew he would not hit him. How wrong could he be?
“Why is your father buried in the Auld Aisle?” Gilchrist hissed.
“Where?”
“You heard. The Auld Aisle Cemetery. Why?”
“Why not?”
“The rest of his family’s not buried there.”
“So?”
“So why only him?” Gilchrist felt Topley shrug. “Did Bully tell you to do that?”
“Bully?”
“Yeah. Bully. You know, the guy who pulls the strings of puppets like you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh I’m just about to fuck you, don’t you worry about that.” He thrust Topley back onto his seat, turned to Foster. “I’m upping the charges.”
“On what grounds?”
Gilchrist faced Topley. “I’m charging you, Christopher Topley, as an accessory in the murder of Maureen Gillian Gilchrist-”
“This is outrageous, a violation of my client’s rights.” Foster’s colour had returned along with his power of speech. Anger danced like madness in button eyes. “What murder? Maureen Gilchrist isn’t…” He halted then, like a hunter realising he was about to set off his own baited trap.
“Maureen Gilchrist isn’t dead?” Gilchrist said. “Is that what you wanted to say?” He felt his eyes blaze. “You forgot to add yet.”
Foster looked away, as if law was something he no longer wanted to practise.
“You’re a loopy one, that’s for sure,” Topley quipped.
“Loopy or not, you’re going to jail.” Gilchrist leaned towards him, fought off the almost overpowering urge to head butt the man. Topley’s silvery suit looked out of place, as if he’d turned up at the wrong fancy-dress party. “And d’you know what Bully’s going to do to you when you get back inside?”
Topley’s eyes flickered.
That got your attention, thought Gilchrist.
“Me and Bully are mates.”
“I thought you hadn’t spoken to him in a year.”
“Yeah, well, mates is mates.”
“Bully’s not well. He’s ill.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. I saw him.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Gilchrist felt cheered by Topley’s slip up. “Thought you didn’t keep in touch.”
“Yeah, well, someone in the pub told me.”
“Got that, Nance?” Gilchrist shouted over his shoulder. “Someone in the pub told him.” He eyed Topley. “Which pub?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Which someone?”
“Can’t remember.”
Gilchrist looked at Nance and nodded to the door. She frowned and stepped from the room, leaving the three of them. Topley ran his hand across his top lip, and Gilchrist leaned closer, almost kissed a scarred ear. “Just you and me,” he whispered.