The mournful sound of some unfamiliar hymn swelled from the organ as Chloe’s parents strode down the aisle, not holding hands, her mother’s face tired and defeated, her father’s tight and bitter. They did not wait at the entrance to accept condolences, but slipped into a glistening black limo that laid twin contrails of white exhaust in the still April air.
In the car park, Jack surprised Gilchrist again.
“I’m giving up sculpting,” he said.
The unimaginable thought of Jack not working at what he lived for hit Gilchrist like a blow to the gut. “Is that what you want to do?” he asked.
Jack sniffed. “I’ve finally realised I’m no good at it, that my ideas are not original, that I’ve nothing to say that has not been said before.”
“But your work…”
“I’m going to concentrate on oils instead.”
“So you’re not getting a job,” Gilchrist said, then chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
Jack seemed unfazed by Gilchrist’s gaffe. He stared off to the dark grey walls of the crematorium. “Chloe always liked my stuff,” he said. “She thought I was a better artist than sculptor.” His breath clouded in the cold air. “I wish I’d listened to her. Now I feel it’s the least I can do for her. For her memory.”
Gilchrist could only nod.
“She bequeathed me all of her canvases,” he continued. “Her parents’ solicitors have already challenged my right to have them.”
Gilchrist did not like the sound of that. “Do you know why?”
“Money.” Jack’s gaze locked on his father’s. “Can you believe that? They want to sell her paintings.” He scowled. “They never supported her, you know. They never called to ask how she was getting on, or asked about her work. In the end, Chloe just closed the door on them. It upset her.”
“I’m sorry.” It was all Gilchrist could think to say.
Jack shrugged. “I’ve had a word with a friend who’s eager to exhibit Chloe’s work. None of her paintings will be up for sale, of course, but she’s encouraged me to exhibit some work of my own. Oils and stuff. So I’ll see how it goes.”
Gilchrist gripped Jack’s shoulder. “That’s great news, Jack. I’ll be rooting for you.”
They stepped to the side as a stream of cars fled the crematorium grounds. When the final car passed, Gilchrist shielded his eyes from a burst of sunlight as he stared at the solitary figure at the far end of the car park, just about the last person he expected to see. The day was overflowing with surprises, he thought.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Back in a tick.”
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and strode across the car park. As he approached, he thought the beard suited Watt. It hid most of his face.
Watt offered his hand.
Gilchrist ignored it. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.
“Thought I’d pay my respects.”
“You knew Chloe?”
“Our paths crossed way back. When she dated Kevin.”
“Kevin Topley?”
Watt nodded. “She knew nothing of Kevin’s background. Didn’t know he was dealing drugs. Just let herself be lured by his masculine charm. Kevin could be like that.”
“Like his brother, Chris, you mean.”
Watt shook his head. “Different animal altogether,” he said, then seemed to sense Gilchrist’s unasked question. “Maureen and Topley were never an item. It was just a story put around to give Maureen cover and a bit of credibility about the office. It gave her access to places that might otherwise have been closed.”
“And Topley went along with that?”
“Topley was on a tightrope, walking the fine line between keeping Bully and his mob happy, and feeding us crumbs. He’s a pro, so he knew how to handle everyone.”
“And if he stepped off the tightrope on the wrong side?”
“He would lose it all. The business. The money. The underworld respect he craved. Topley lives in a bit of a fantasy world. Sees himself as Glasgow’s next Mr. Big. So he does as he’s told, and keeps his ear to the ground.”
Gilchrist shuffled his shoulders. “Did you never worry that Topley might take a dislike to being ordered about and try to snuff you from the picture? He has the pull.”
Watt smirked. “Then he would be taken out. I told him that.”
“And he believed you?”
“He believed me.”
Something in the way Watt uttered these words had Gilchrist working through the rationale. Watt would have Topley killed if he didn’t toe the line? Things might be different in Glasgow, but Gilchrist felt certain that Strathclyde Police would not entertain their officers threatening the life of any citizen, good or bad.
And then he thought he saw it.
“Kevin’s death was no accident,” he said.
Watt shrugged. “Some said he was getting too big for his boots. That Chris wanted to move in, take over. Who knows?”
“Chris had Kevin killed?”
Watt faked a smile.
And at that instant Gilchrist saw Watt for what he really was. “Not Chris,” he said. “But you. To let Topley know the same thing could happen to him, if he ever misbehaved.”
Watt narrowed his eyes.
“And Chloe?”
“Jimmy Reid,” Watt said. “But we’ll never know for sure.”
Gilchrist worked through the logic. Bully wanted Jimmy to make Gilchrist believe he would kill Maureen and serve her up to him in pieces, but had him do Chloe first, so to speak, probably because he could never be sure how much Chloe knew of Kevin Topley’s drug business and its connection to his own. It seemed as good an answer as any.
He eyed the crematorium gardens, settling on the skeletal branches of some vine or clematis, and felt sadness surge through him. Chloe would never see another flower bloom, another tree blossom, never enjoy the simplest pleasures of life. Her death seemed such a waste, such a needless act of cruelty. Someone other than the Reid brothers should pay.
“Chris Topley’s not being charged,” he snarled. “Why?”
“Bigger fish to catch.”
“Don’t tell me you’re letting him off the hook.”
“Topley doesn’t know it yet, but he is the hook. And the bait.” Watt chewed his gum. “He’ll get what’s coming to him in the end. I promise you. But we need to keep the status quo for a few more months.”
Now Gilchrist was beginning to understand. Strathclyde’s reaction to Watt’s almost criminal activities had him baffled up until that moment. The answer seemed so simple he wondered why it had taken him so long to figure it out.
Watt was not with Strathclyde. He never had been. Watt was some undercover agent battling the influx of drugs to the country. “I never believed your assignment to the London Met was for real,” Gilchrist said. “That’s cover, too.”
“You’re always digging, always looking for a reason. You never give up.”
“I heard a rumour that MI5 and 6 had combined to bust some European drug cartel. Is that why you’re moving to London?”
Watt stared off to some point in the distance. “Time to move on,” he said. “There’s nothing here for me.”
Gilchrist needed more. “Define nothing.”
Something in the way Watt returned Gilchrist’s look told him he was about to hear the truth. “You know what I mean,” Watt said.
“Nothing with Maureen?”
Watt breathed in the cold air, let it out in a white cloud. “I never knew her age,” he said. “I met her in the pub. Thought she was eighteen. She said she was. And I believed her.” He stared at Gilchrist for several long seconds. “If I had known, nothing would have happened. I’m sorry.” He removed a hand from his pocket and offered it to Gilchrist.
This time Gilchrist took it.
“I’ll miss her,” Watt said. “Another time, another place.”
“I’ll make sure she never visits London.”
Watt shook his head. “She wants to write about you. She admires you.”
Admire was not the word Gilchrist would have used.