Topley nodded. “He did.”
“What did he say about her?” Nance asked.
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“I want to hear all of it.”
Gilchrist felt a shiver tingle his spine. The thought of a convicted criminal talking about his daughter meant only one thing. Bully had been plotting his revenge for years.
Topley glanced at Gilchrist then grinned at Nance. “He told me how he’d love to tie her father down, nail him to the floor, then fuck her in front of him.”
“Anything else?”
“Then he said he would make her watch while he did him in.” Topley grinned. “He’s a bit sick that way, is Bully.”
“Charming, is he?”
“Charming isn’t what Bully’s about, darling.”
They sat tight-lipped while another waitress topped up three more champagne flutes. Liquid frothed over the rims, puddled on the tablecloth. To the side, a table-dancer straddled the thigh of a bleary-eyed businessman and bunched her breasts together, nipples as large and flat as saucers.
“He’d never seen Maureen, though,” Nance said. “Right?”
“He had a photograph of her.”
Gilchrist almost jolted. “Where did he get that?”
Topley shrugged. “You’d be surprised what you can get inside. Nude books. Porno videos. The real thing if you know who to ask and have the dosh to pay for it. A photo of your favourite Detective Inspector’s daughter is a piece of piss to these guys.”
“Would he still have the photograph?” Gilchrist asked.
“He wanked that much over it, it would have dissolved into spunk by now.”
Nance shook her head, and Gilchrist could tell she was having a tough time keeping her tongue in place. “What else did he say about my daughter?” he tried.
“That she was the way to get back at you for putting him inside, the way to make you suffer for what you did to him.”
Being beaten up by Bully was something Gilchrist could handle. It would not be the first time he’d taken a beating. But having Maureen’s life threatened was a different matter altogether. He bristled, struggled to stay calm, took a sip of champagne. It tasted sweet. He gulped a mouthful.
Topley chuckled. “Bully had it in for you. I can tell you that much.”
Gilchrist thudded his glass to the table. The champagne bubbled and fizzed. “Other than shooting his load over Maureen’s photo and nailing me to the floor,” he growled, “did he ever tell you how he would make me suffer?”
“Can’t say that he did.”
Something in the way Topley quipped the denial told Gilchrist he was lying.
“Or when he planned to do it?” Nance added.
“No.”
“He wouldn’t want to do in someone the instant he came out of prison, would he?” Nance continued. “He’d be straight back inside.”
“Bully’s not scared of prison.”
“But he likes his freedom.”
“We all do.”
“Did he tell you he wanted his brother, Jimmy, to do it?”
“No.”
“So, he told you nothing?”
“About that subject. Yes. He told me nothing.”
Nance sat back. Gilchrist leaned forward. “How about Robert Burns?”
Topley seemed puzzled by the question.
“What’s Bully’s obsession with Robert Burns?” Gilchrist asked.
“Never knew he had one.”
“Come off it,” Gilchrist snapped. “He’s got an epitaph on his father’s grave that’s a direct quote from Burns. And he did nothing but quote Burns to me. He even rewrote one of his opening lines: “Oh princess, by thy watchtower be.”
At first he thought the change in Topley’s face was anger, then realised something was working through the man’s mind. He glanced at Nance and saw she had seen it, too.
“You’ve remembered something,” Nance said.
Topley frowned, as if puzzled at finding himself in the company of two detectives. Then he said, “Bully read a lot of stuff. Jimmy would bring it in for him-books, tapes, CDs. And he was always writing poems. He let me read some of them.”
Bully as a poet did not fit Gilchrist’s image. “Can you remember what any of them were about?” he asked.
Topley shook his head. “Mostly about killing and raping and stuff like that.”
Now they were getting back on track.
“But he did mention a watchtower,” Topley added.
Gilchrist pulled himself forward. The bulging breasts on display over Topley’s shoulder shifted from his peripheral vision. “I’m listening,” he said.
“About a week before I got out.”
Gilchrist held his breath.
“Said I should keep my eyes and ears open. That one of those days I was going to read about a killing. The watchtower killing, he told me.”
“Were those his exact words?” Nance again.
“Can’t remember. Bully ranted on about a lot of stuff. His mind was getting fucked with the drink and drugs and revenge and stuff.” Topley fixed a dead-eyed stare on Gilchrist. “Told me you were going to rue the day you ever had a daughter. I remember that much. I remember thinking the two were linked. You know? Watchtower killing. Your daughter. Because he said he would send you a blank postcard and you would know it was from him.”
“Why would I know?”
“Because it would have a watchtower on it.”
“What kind of watchtower?” Nance asked.
“Like the old watchtowers in cemeteries.”
Gilchrist felt his blood turn to ice. There, he had it. He’d been right all along. But was he right about the Auld Aisle? And what did it mean? Then a thought hit him, and he wondered if he was stretching his rationale too far.
“Did he ever tell you what he would do with the body?” he asked Topley.
Topley frowned. “What body? Bully wasn’t going to kill her. He wanted to bury her alive. That’s what he told me. He wanted you to know he had buried her alive.”
Gilchrist stilled, as if every molecule of muscle and fibre and sinew in his body was about to coil in, then unfold in fury against Bully.
“And he said something else I thought was odd,” Topley added. “I never gave it a thought. Not one. Until you mentioned watchtower.”
Gilchrist’s lungs seemed to stop. His heart, too.
“He said that it was all ready, just waiting for her, as soon as he emptied it.”
“Emptied it?” Nance asked. “The watchtower?”
“The coffin.”
All of Gilchrist’s senses fired alive, as if his mind and body were acting as one. He heard the breathing of the dancer as she writhed her sexual dance to his side, the soft shuffle of her shoes as she turned and shifted across the stage. The music seemed clearer, too, as if the instruments were whispering in his ear.
Buried alive. The coffin was ready. Those were the key words.
“The drug shipment,” Gilchrist said. “When was it to be moved?”
Topley’s face deadpanned, as if his dreams of sex with a full-chested policewoman had just evaporated. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”
Gilchrist leaned closer. “I’m not interested in your drug-shipping empire,” he said, and prayed Topley would believe him. He would get down on his knees and beg if that was what it would take. “Was it soon? Were the drugs to be moved in the next couple of days?”
Topley turned away, offered his heavy-lidded gaze to Nance.
“St. Andrews,” she said. “One hundred North Street.”
Gilchrist held his breath. Would Topley recognise the address of the Office? “She could still be alive,” he urged.
Topley glanced left and right, as if to ensure no one was listening. “Rumour has it something was going to happen tomorrow night. But I wouldn’t know about that, of course.”
Gilchrist pushed his chair back and stood. The coffin. They were not supposed to find it. But they had. Which could mean only one thing.