feelings, heard his mind whisper, Focus on work. It’s how you’ve coped over the years. Cut everything else out and focus. On work . So he called Stan and asked him to track down anyone recently released from prison, who had been put away by Gilchrist years ago. But only those who had killed before, on the theory that revenge by itself was not reason enough to kill for the first time.
Or was it? Well, it was as good a place as any to start.
He walked from the seafront, back to DC Bowers. “Who’s checked in at the scene?”
Bowers opened his book. “Right here.”
Gilchrist scanned the signatures. His own was not there because he had arrived before Bowers, although a note had been added by Lambert that DCI Gilchrist arrived at the scene at 5:27 and thereafter identified the body part as a left leg . Gilchrist calculated that by the time he had donned his coveralls and carried out a preliminary inspection it had probably been close to 5:35, 5:40,when he left the scene. Nance’s signature was first after Lambert’s at 5:44, then Watt’s at 5:48.
Gilchrist thanked Bowers and walked past the R&A Clubhouse.
He reached his Mercedes and called the Office. “When was DS Ronnie Watt informed of the body part at the Golf Museum?” he asked.
“That would be, ah, here it is. 5:46, sir. You asked that we didn’t inform him before 5:45.”
Not quite, he wanted to say, but chose not to get into it. “Did you make the call?”
“I did.”
“How did he respond?”
“He just said he would be on his way, sir.”
Gilchrist snapped his phone shut.
Watt had arrived at the scene two minutes after the Office called, which meant he must have been on his way when they rang. Why would he be out and about at that time in the morning? He had guessed the correct body part. Had he also known when and where? It seemed that Watt knew more about the body parts than he should. Had someone called him before the Office had? If so, who? And why was Greaves hell-bent on having Watt on Gilchrist’s team when he knew about their past?
Too many questions. Too few answers.
Gilchrist promised himself he would change that.
Chapter 13
“M ARTIN . A NDY HERE . Any luck?”
“It’s just come in. Like me to post it to you?” Gilchrist accelerated out of Golf Place. “I’ll pick it up.” He confirmed Coyle’s home address and assigned the directions to memory.
Twenty-five minutes later, after taking a wrong turn, he drove up to Coyle’s home, a detached stone mansion that sat on the outskirts of Cupar. Coyle met him at the front door, wearing a dressing-gown that looked as if it should be binned. White legs as bare as sticks dangled to a pair of scuffed slippers. He smiled at Gilchrist. “Stop in for a cuppa?”
Gilchrist found it impossible to resist Coyle’s gormless charm. “Why not?”
Inside, Coyle led him along a hallway with high-gloss doors that seemed out of character with the stone structure, and into a kitchen with grimy linoleum tiles centred by a beaten pine table. The room was redolent of coffee and toast, tainted by a musty fragrance that seemed to come at him from his side.
Two ageing dogs, a clot-haired collie and a matted wire-haired terrier, looked up at him with hound dog eyes, then rose from battered wicker baskets and kowtowed towards him, tails brushing the tiles. He leaned down, dug in his fingers behind the collie’s ears, and said, “Names?”
“Jack and Jill,” Coyle replied.
“Which is which?”
“Basket.”
Both dogs skulked to their baskets, leaving Gilchrist to wipe his fingers on his trousers. As they stepped up and over the wicker edges, he could not help but notice how both of them were hung.
He raised an eyebrow at Coyle. “Jill?”
“They can’t speak English.” Coyle shrugged. “Linda’s idea. Don’t ask.” Then he reached for a large envelope on the shelf and held it out. “This what you’re after?”
Gilchrist thanked him, was about to open the envelope when the
Or was it? Well, it was as good a place as any to start.
He walked from the seafront, back to DC Bowers. “Who’s checked in at the scene?”
Bowers opened his book. “Right here.”
Gilchrist scanned the signatures. His own was not there because he had arrived before Bowers, although a note had been added by Lambert that DCI Gilchrist arrived at the scene at 5:27 and thereafter identified the body part as a left leg . Gilchrist calculated that by the time he had donned his coveralls and carried out a preliminary inspection it had probably been close to 5:35, 5:40,when he left the scene. Nance’s signature was first after Lambert’s at 5:44, then Watt’s at 5:48.
Gilchrist thanked Bowers and walked past the R&A Clubhouse.
He reached his Mercedes and called the Office. “When was DS Ronnie Watt informed of the body part at the Golf Museum?” he asked.
“That would be, ah, here it is. 5:46, sir. You asked that we didn’t inform him before 5:45.”
Not quite, he wanted to say, but chose not to get into it. “Did you make the call?”
“I did.”
“How did he respond?”
“He just said he would be on his way, sir.”
Gilchrist snapped his phone shut.
Watt had arrived at the scene two minutes after the Office called, which meant he must have been on his way when they rang. Why would he be out and about at that time in the morning? He had guessed the correct body part. Had he also known when and where? It seemed that Watt knew more about the body parts than he should. Had someone called him before the Office had? If so, who? And why was Greaves hell-bent on having Watt on Gilchrist’s team when he knew about their past?
Too many questions. Too few answers.
Gilchrist promised himself he would change that.
Chapter 13
“M ARTIN . A NDY HERE . Any luck?”
“It’s just come in. Like me to post it to you?” Gilchrist accelerated out of Golf Place. “I’ll pick it up.” He confirmed Coyle’s home address and assigned the directions to memory.
Twenty-five minutes later, after taking a wrong turn, he drove up to Coyle’s home, a detached stone mansion that sat on the outskirts of Cupar. Coyle met him at the front door, wearing a dressing-gown that looked as if it should be binned. White legs as bare as sticks dangled to a pair of scuffed slippers. He smiled at Gilchrist. “Stop in for a cuppa?”
Gilchrist found it impossible to resist Coyle’s gormless charm. “Why not?”
Inside, Coyle led him along a hallway with high-gloss doors that seemed out of character with the stone structure, and into a kitchen with grimy linoleum tiles centred by a beaten pine table. The room was redolent of coffee and toast, tainted by a musty fragrance that seemed to come at him from his side.
Two ageing dogs, a clot-haired collie and a matted wire-haired terrier, looked up at him with hound dog eyes, then rose from battered wicker baskets and kowtowed towards him, tails brushing the tiles. He leaned down, dug in his fingers behind the collie’s ears, and said, “Names?”
“Jack and Jill,” Coyle replied.
“Which is which?”
“Basket.”
Both dogs skulked to their baskets, leaving Gilchrist to wipe his fingers on his trousers. As they stepped up and over the wicker edges, he could not help but notice how both of them were hung.
He raised an eyebrow at Coyle. “Jill?”
“They can’t speak English.” Coyle shrugged. “Linda’s idea. Don’t ask.” Then he reached for a large envelope on the shelf and held it out. “This what you’re after?”
Gilchrist thanked him, was about to open the envelope when the
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