Hand for a Hand (20 page)

“Yeah.” And with that, Jack hung up.

Gilchrist sat his mobile phone in the centre console. What the hell was he doing? Have a chat with Dad and ruin your day? When was the last time he had spoken to Jack without picking his brain?

“Do you ever feel you’re losing control?” he said to Nance.

Nance placed her hand on his thigh and squeezed. “You give the impression of always being in control.”

He eyed the road ahead. Always in control? Of what? His family? His career? His life? That was a laugh. He felt as if he was hanging on by his fingernails while the stallion of life galloped off like some untamed beast. And Nance’s hand on his thigh had his thoughts reverting to other problems. If Greaves found out, he would—

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Gilchrist gave a defeated shrug.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “No one’ll find out about last night.”

Gilchrist eased the Merc through a sweeping corner. “And here was me thinking I was the one with the sixth sense.”

“I can read you like a book, Andy.”

“What am I thinking right now?”

“About how much you enjoyed last night, but don’t know how to tell me you don’t want it to continue.” Her hand gave a quick squeeze. He glanced at her, but she was staring out the side, into the darkness of the passing fields.

“It’s not that I don’t want it to continue,” he said. “It’s … I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship.”

“A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“In what way?”

“That I would want us to have a relationship.”

“Isn’t that what this is about?”

“This?”

Gilchrist twisted his hands on the steering wheel. Why do women have the ability to flip the simplest of comments? “Well, isn’t it?” It was all he could think to say.

Nance eyed the road ahead.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for being presumptuous.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, “for making you sweat.”

“Who’s sweating?”

She laughed, a long chuckle that let him know the air was cleared. “I think that’s what I’ve always liked about you,” she said. “Your honesty.”

“It’s nice to know someone thinks I’m telling the truth.”

“Aren’t you?”

It seemed as if their convoluted conversation was some form of verbal foreplay. And he found himself wanting to move on. “So, tell me. What are you looking for?”

“In a man?”

“In a relationship.”

Nance turned her head to the side window again. Beyond, the countryside passed by unseen, like grey shadows shifting through the night. She stared out the window for what seemed like a minute, and Gilchrist was thinking he had offended her, when she said, “Affection,” then added, “and kindness.”

“Anything else?”

“And sex.”

“That sounds undemanding enough.”

“Especially the sex?”

“The affection.”

Nance slapped his thigh. “You smarmy bugger.”

“What about trust?” he asked.

“Kindness covers trust. If you’re kind to someone, you
wouldn’t want to do anything to upset them. Therefore you can be trusted.”

“Touché.”

“Is it a deal?”

A deal?
Gilchrist was on the verge of reiterating the bit about presumption, when he heard her chuckle. With women, he could never be unkind, which he supposed satisfied one of the criteria. “Let me think about it,” he tried.

Nance shook her head. “Men and commitment. Never the twain shall meet.”

“That sounds like a quote.”

“It is.”

“Who said it?”

“Detective Constable Nancy Wilson.”

Gilchrist gave a chuckle of his own. “I thought you didn’t want commitment.”

“Only to affection, kindness, and sex. The rest will follow.”

“The rest of what?”

“You’ll have to be affectionate and kind to find out.”

“What about the sex?”

“You’ve already passed that test.”

Gilchrist stared at the road ahead as an odd tranquillity settled over him. Nance was under his skin. She was under his skin from the moment she entered his bedroom last night. She had known he would not say no. And he had known that, too. But he could also see she had the ability to control him sans sex, twiddle him around her tongue with barely a flicker.

As they drove towards St. Andrews, he wondered if that was how he had behaved with Gail. Back then had he been as malleable? Was that why his marriage had failed? How was it possible to be so wrapped up in a career that more important issues slipped by? Was that the reason Maureen had drifted away from him? Had he spent too much time concentrating on issues of lesser import?

Family mattered. Family had always mattered.

Jack mattered. Maureen mattered. He just had not paid enough attention to that basic tenet. God, he prayed he was not too late to change that.

Maureen meant so much to him, he would die for her.

And he realised that without his children in his life he was dead anyway.

Chapter 23

T
HEY FOUND
L
EIGHTON’S
terraced house at the end of the lane, bordered by a six-foot stone wall draped in branches of clematis as twisted as shrivelled veins. A brass coach lamp, polished like new, hung by a gleaming door. Tiny flies, tricked into life by the warmth of the sheltered spot, orbited the lamp like minuscule satellites. In the lambent light the windows glistened spotless.

The doorbell chimed from deep within.

Ten seconds later the door opened with a sticky slap.

Leighton frowned down on them, a crimson cravat stuffed into the neck of a starched white cotton shirt. Black trousers covered thighs joined at the knees, it seemed, and a shiny black leather belt with a silver buckle circled a fifty-plus waist.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Traffic,” Gilchrist offered.

“We had to cancel our dinner reservation.”

“Sorry.” Gilchrist held up Maureen’s computer. “This is the laptop I mentioned. And some CDs.” He pushed the lot into Leighton’s hands. “I haven’t looked at all of them, but I think they’re mostly manuscripts.” He pulled a folded A4 sheet from his pocket, on which he had printed the names of some files. “You’ll find this useful to start with. Get on the Internet and go to Hotmail. I’ve given you an email address and password. Print out every email in the account.”

“When do you need this?”

“As soon as.”

“We haven’t discussed payment,” Leighton said. “I would propose hourly, same rate as last time, plus moderate expenses. Paper, printer cartridges, delivery, etcetera.”

“Don’t bother with delivery. Call me when it’s ready. I’ll pick it up.”

“Why me?”

It was Gilchrist’s turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

“Fife Constabulary has its own computer experts. Why not use them?”

Gilchrist nodded to the laptop. “Some of the files may be personal in nature.”

Nance stepped in. “What DCI Gilchrist is omitting to tell you, Mr. Leighton, is that the laptop belongs to his daughter. He doesn’t want anyone at the Office to read his daughter’s private writings.”

“She’s missing,” Gilchrist added. “Her files might help us locate her and solve an ongoing murder investigation.”

Leighton’s eyes widened. “The body part case?”

Gilchrist nodded, disappointed that it had to take the notoriety of a murder enquiry to arouse interest.

Leighton pulled the laptop to his chest. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

The lane slipped into darkness as the door closed.

When they reached the Mercedes, Nance said, “Where to?”

“It’s almost ten.” Gilchrist pressed the remote. “I’ve got an early rise and a busy day ahead of me. If you’d like, I could drop you off.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“Jack’s at my place,” he said. “It’s not a good idea.”

“There’s that presumption again.”

Gilchrist drove through the back streets in silence and pulled to a halt in front of a row of three-story terraced apartments. Parked cars lined both sides of the street.

Nance gripped the door handle. “You needn’t worry,” she said. “Your secret’s safe.”

In the dim light, he thought she might not see his smile, so he said, “Thanks,” and before he could stop himself added, “For last night.”

She hesitated, as if reconsidering whether to stay or leave. “No commitment,” she said. “Just affection, kindness, and the occasional session. That way no one gets hurt. How does that sound?”

Impractical? Impossible?
“Impressive.”

She chuckled and stepped into the night. A cold breeze brushed his face. Before he could say, “Goodnight,” she closed the door.

She skipped up a short flight of steps. The key must have been in her hand, or the door unlocked, for she seemed to vanish without missing a beat or giving a backward glance.

I
NSIDE
, N
ANCE THREW
her jacket over the back of the sofa, and ran a bath.

Water drummed in the background as she removed a bottle of Cava from the fridge and poured herself a large glass. The wine tasted chilled and fresh and mellowed her senses, like water in whisky, smoothing the rough edges off a hard couple of days.

She smiled, unbuttoned her blouse, took another sip.

Affection, kindness.…

And the occasional session.…

To most women she knew that Gilchrist seemed an enigma—distant, but friendly; all work, but approachable; and never one to mix business with pleasure.

Until last night.

Last night she had caught him in a moment of weakness. But the echo of his hard words that morning came back to her. She had let the sensual torrent carry them along, with herself at the rudder. She had done nothing to stop it, just taken advantage of the situation, taken advantage of him. And she saw in the gathering of her thoughts how unprofessional she had been. His daughter was missing, and here she was, coming on to him.

She resolved to change her attitude. She had a murder to solve, was a member of its investigation team, and needed to push personal feelings aside until.…

Until later.

G
ILCHRIST’S THOUGHTS HAMMERED
back to Maureen as he accelerated down Abbey Walk on his way to Crail. It was his helplessness that hit the hardest, the fact that he could do nothing to ensure her safety. Where was she? Was she all right? Christ, he didn’t even know if she was alive or.…

She was alive.

She had to be. He had to believe that.

He had to, because he would not let her die.

He reached Crail and parked in Castle Street. Although the rain had stayed off, the wind had risen, carrying with it an icy chill off the sea. By the time he reached Fisherman’s Cottage he brushed off the cold with a shiver.

Inside, the heat hit him. The thermostat had been adjusted to thirty. When good old Dad was paying, cost did not matter. A goal-scoring roar came from a half-opened door off the hallway. When he entered the lounge, Jack twisted in his seat. Even from one glance, Gilchrist could tell he was well on his way.

“Heh, Andy. Didn’t hear you come in.”

“I wonder why.”

“Liverpool and Man U.” Jack pointed the remote at the TV, and the noise dropped. “Giggs’s just been booked.”

“Good game?”

“Seen better.” Jack held up a glass of whisky, swirled it about. “Afraid your Johnny Walker’s taken a beating.”

“The Black?”

“Of course.”

It pleased Gilchrist in some paternal way that Jack drank his whisky. Jack’s life as a freelance artist-slash-sculptor did not pay well, and he could not hold a grudge if his only son overindulged
when he visited. But demolishing a bottle of Walker Black did not suggest a sober face-to-face, so he decided not to mention Maureen’s flat.

Defeated, he said, “I’m for a Sam Adams.”

“I’ll join you.”

“That took a lot of persuasion.”

“You know me,” Jack said. “I’m fussy what I drink. It’s got to be liquid.”

Even though he had heard Jack cough out that phrase a thousand times, he smiled. It always irritated Maureen, and an image of her frowning at Jack entered his mind with such clarity that he caught his breath. He cleared his throat. “Frosted glass?”

“By the neck’ll do.”

He strode along the hall and into the kitchen, thankful that Jack seemed to have put the horror of Chloe behind him, if only for the evening. The television was back off mute, and he closed the hatch. The previous owner had done away with the door between the kitchen and the front room, and several other ill-advised modifications had enabled Gilchrist to buy the cottage at a knock-down price with the intention of making improvements of his own. But for the last five years he had lived in the cottage just as he had bought it.

When Gail left, Gilchrist stayed in the family home for almost eighteen months. But with his children gone the place lost its heart, no longer a home, just somewhere in which to sleep. He replaced none of the furniture Gail had taken with her, and he felt as if his life was stagnating until he woke up one Sunday morning to find a woman in his bed, a friend of a friend, who had taken pity on him the previous drunken night.

“Are you just moving in?” she had asked him.

“No,” he replied. “I’m just moving out.”

Decision made, he put the family home on the market the following month, bought Fisherman’s Cottage and moved ten miles down the coast to Crail. The lengthened commute was not
a problem, the only downside being that he could not spend as long in the pub after work. But now and again he paid a fortune for a taxi home.

He removed two bottles of Sam Adams from the fridge and carried them through to the front room. He handed Jack one and took a seat opposite the fireplace. The microbrew tasted cold and soothed the fire in his throat from some bug. Or maybe he was just burning out. He was getting too old for all this shit anymore. He tried to redirect his thoughts by asking Jack, “How long do you intend to stay? I mean, stay as long as you like. It’s great that you’re here.”

Jack tipped his Sam Adams at him. “Cheers. But I’m not sure how long. I’m kind of keen to start on something new.”