Dead Still

Book 9: DCI Andy Gilchrist

by T.F. Muir

Genres: Police Procedurals; Thrillers

Synopsis

St. Andrews, Scotland: When a man's preserved body is discovered in a whisky ageing cask in the local Gleneden Distillery, DCI Andy Gilchrist and his partner, DS Jessie Janes, are assigned to the investigation. But when the dead man is identified as Hector Dunmore, the once heir-apparent of Gleneden Distillery, their investigation takes a dramatic turn, for Dunmore was reported missing 25 years earlier when his Land Rover was found abandoned on the outskirts of Mallaig, almost two hundred miles away on the Scottish west coast.

Why hide a body in a 25-year ageing cask? And who would want Dunmore dead?

Suspicion falls on Duncan Milne, the distillery manager at the time, but when Gilchrist learns that Milne died under suspicious circumstances the year Dunmore disappeared, he suspects they are looking at a double murderer. Gilchrist's efforts to resolve the murders forces him to dig deep into the Dunmore family's past, only to come up against a frightening killer who will stop at nothing to keep the darkest of family secrets from ever coming to light.

PRAISE FOR T.F. MUIR:

'Rebus did it for Edinburgh. Laidlaw did it for Glasgow. Gilchrist might just be the bloke to put St Andrews on the crime fiction map.' Daily Record

'A truly gripping read, with all the makings of a classic series.' Mick Herron

'Gripping and grisly, with plenty of twists and turns that race along with black humour.' Craig Robertson

'DCI Gilchrist gets under your skin. Though, determined, and a bit vulnerable, this character will stay with you long after the last page.' Anna Smith

'Gripping!' Peterborough Telegraph

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 100000

Sample

10.35 a.m., Monday

Gleneden Distillery, Outskirts of

St Andrews, Fife, Scotland

Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist switched off his car’s engine. Rain battered the roof in a hard drum roll, and streamed down the windscreen in sheets. He leaned forward to peer up at the thunder clouds, but it looked as if the downpour was on for the rest of the day, maybe even the month.

From the passenger seat, Detective Sergeant Jessie Janes said, ‘Not halfway through the month yet, and the Met Office is saying this could be the wettest January on record.’

‘Could be. Which at least gives us some hope.’

‘The way it’s pissing down, I’d say it gives us no hope.’

Then … just like that … the rain slackened.

‘Looks like the sun’s trying to break through,’ Gilchrist said.

‘Oh that’s really going to make a difference.’

‘You got an umbrella?’

‘Just the suntan lotion.’ Jessie tutted, and opened the door to an icy January wind. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ she said. ‘At least it’ll be dry where the body is.’

Gilchrist beeped his remote as Jessie scurried along a concrete path – head low, collar up – and into the entrance foyer of Gleneden Distillery. Glass-encased shelves, brightened by soft lighting, glowed with an array of golden malts that stood to attention on tartan-covered plinths. Padded velvet-like boxes lay opened to display sets of nosing glasses engraved with Gleneden Distillery. Pocket flasks, tops unscrewed as if to entice a quick toast for the road, stood amongst sets of sterling silver stirrup cups shaped as stag antlers, fox heads, howling hounds, wing-spread eagles.

His attention was drawn to the centrepiece, a metal-rimmed glass case that looked strong enough to withstand a hammer blow, and which housed a dark, bulbous bottle with a Victorian scroll proclaiming it to be a fifty-year-old single malt. A black tag lay next to it, with a gold-flaked inscription that priced it at £15,000. It looked inviting, he had to confess, but you would have to be filthy rich or stoned drunk – maybe both – to spend that on a bottle. Of course, at that price you wouldn’t drink it, just store it some place safe, knowing that with each passing year it would rise in price. Gilchrist wasn’t a whisky drinker per se, more of an eclectic drinker, preferring the thirst-quenching satisfaction of real ales, even the occasional mass-bottled beer if the mood took him, and now and again the odd whisky when he had one too many last ones for the road, often to his own detriment.

When he caught up with Jessie, she had her warrant card out and was challenging the receptionist, a young blonde-haired woman whose tartan outfit seemed two sizes too small and several years too old. He had a sense that she was someone who never looked polished no matter what she wore. Or maybe her bitten fingernails and a messy tattoo that peeked from the throat of her blouse in red and yellow swirls gave that impression.

‘Mrs Dunmore rarely visits the distillery,’ the receptionist was explaining to Jessie.

‘What is it about expecting us that you don’t understand?’

‘There’s nothing noted in her appointments’ diary.’

‘Get her on the phone.’

‘She’s not in her office.’

‘I don’t care where she isn’t. Phone her mobile.’

‘I don’t have her mobile number.’

Gilchrist stepped in with, ‘Is the distillery manager around?’

‘That would be Robbie Marsh.’

‘Now we know his name, is he available?’

‘I haven’t seen him this morning.’

Gilchrist smiled. ‘That’s all right. We’ll make our own way to the ageing sheds, then.’

‘You’re not allowed to go there without—’

‘Inspector Gilchrist?’

All three turned towards the voice, which came from a middle-aged woman who had entered the foyer through a door in the back wall and was now walking towards them, hand outstretched. A belted wax jacket, which matched green wellington boots, glistened with water droplets, as if she’d just stepped in from a light shower.

‘Katherine Dunmore,’ she said. ‘I own Gleneden.’ Her grip was dry and firm, and her lips twitched in a half-hearted smile.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist. St Andrews CID.’ He held out his warrant card, then introduced Jessie. ‘Detective Sergeant Janes, who’ll be assisting in our investigation.’

Jessie nodded in response, but Dunmore’s gaze darted to the receptionist, while her hand took hold of Gilchrist’s arm and steered him towards the door. ‘We’ll be with Robbie,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘In number one warehouse.’

Outside, the rain had picked up again, but Dunmore seemed not to care as she strode down a gravel pathway alongside a black wooden building that reeked of creosote and tar, splashing through puddles in her wellington boots like a child heading to school.

Inside the warehouse, silence reigned, as if the rain had stopped. A fousty smell that reminded Gilchrist of dusty dampness swamped his senses. He scanned the warehouse. Every square inch, it seemed, was taken up by wooden casks of various sizes lying on their sides on rails of wood – larger casks stacked two high, smaller casks three high.

Dunmore pulled back her hood, tucked strands of dark brown hair behind both ears, and shouted out, ‘Robbie?’

‘Yes, Mrs Dunmore.’ The voice came from behind rows of large wooden casks off to Gilchrist’s right.

‘That’s the police here,’ she said. ‘Can you show them the …’

Her voice tailed off as a man emerged from between a lane of casks, removing a pair of heavy-duty gloves. He approached Gilchrist as if intent on tackling him, then shook his hand with a steel grip. ‘Robbie Marsh,’ he said, then nodded to Jessie.

‘I believe you called it in, Mr Marsh,’ Jessie said.

‘I did, aye,’ and without further prompting said, ‘It’s over here.’

Gilchrist walked after Marsh’s slim figure, aware of Dunmore trailing behind. When they reached the open cask, Marsh stood back to let them look inside. That close to the cask, the air was redolent of an enticing whisky aroma that teased Gilchrist’s taste buds – well, for a beer drinker, who would ever have thought?

The wooden cask stood upright, metal hoops slackened, lid off – some four feet tall, three feet in diameter. When Gilchrist leaned forward, he saw that it was drained of whisky, with a fully clothed body crammed inside. He didn’t have to see the face to know it was the body of a man: checked shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal strong arms and an expensive watch with a man-sized face still fastened to the wrist; shirt collar up at the back to reveal a woollen tie, presumably still knotted; thick corduroy trousers the colour of whisky.

‘Okay,’ he said to Marsh. ‘Run it past me. How you found him.’

Marsh glanced at Dunmore, and Gilchrist had a sense that permission to speak had been sought, and granted. ‘We’re one of a handful of distillers that have their own bottling plant.’

‘That’s unusual, is it?’

‘Most use one of the major bottling plants in Edinburgh or Glasgow.’

‘Okay. Keep going.’

‘We were getting ready for our bottling run this morning, but when we rolled out this cask we could tell right away that something was wrong.’ He raised his eyebrows, puffed out his cheeks. ‘So we popped the bung to nose it, and that was that. It was off.’

‘In what way?’ Gilchrist said.

‘Just didn’t smell the way it should.’

‘So then what?’

‘We tried to insert the dog—’

‘The what?’

‘The dog. It’s a copper tube, like an oversized test tube, on a bit of string, that we use to take samples through the bunghole. But we couldn’t get it in. Something was blocking it.’

‘Did you not think of calling the police then?’ Gilchrist said.

‘What for? We thought it was a bung cloth that had worked its way in, that’s all.’

‘Does that happen a lot?’

‘Almost never, but when we tried to dislodge it with the bung puller, that’s when we knew we had a problem and that we needed to open it.’

Gilchrist nodded. ‘Keep going.’

‘Well, we rolled it out and stood it up—’

‘Bung in or out?’

‘We put the bung back in, of course.’

Jessie said, ‘It helps if you don’t miss out bits. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ Marsh scratched his head. ‘Well, we put the bung back in, and rolled it from over there to here. Then we stood it up, and drove off the top hoops so we could remove the lid. And that’s when we discovered what the problem was.’ He nodded to the body.

Gilchrist eyed the warehouse floor. Bone dry. ‘What did you do with the whisky that was already in the cask?’

‘Nothing. It’s still in there.’

Gilchrist looked into the cask again, and in the dim light saw that the lower half of the body was actually submerged. ‘You didn’t drain any off ?’ he asked.

‘No need to.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Over the years,’ Marsh said, ‘the cask absorbs some distillate. And the wood’s porous, so some evaporates. We lose about two per cent on average a year. That’s what Customs and Excise allow you, anyway.’

‘The angel’s share?’ Jessie said.

‘It is, aye. But the older the whisky, the higher the percentage lost.’

‘How high?’

‘After twenty-five years, we would expect it to be about half full.’

‘Jesus,’ Jessie said, ‘the angels should be bouncing off heaven’s walls.’

Gilchrist coughed an interruption. ‘What did you do after you found the body?’

‘I phoned Mrs Dunmore—’

‘Why do that?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You’d just discovered a body. Why not phone the police?’

‘Well, I …’ Marsh scratched his head again. ‘I … I wanted to know what to do.’

Gilchrist glanced at Dunmore, whose gaze seemed focused on some spot on the warehouse floor. ‘And what did Mrs Dunmore say?’

‘She told me to phone the police. Which I did. And now you’re here.’ Marsh seemed pleased to have that part of the conversation over. But Gilchrist had a sense of not being told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

He faced Dunmore. ‘Is that your recollection of events?’ he said.

She looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Yes, it is.’

But Gilchrist was having none of it. ‘So your manager phones you up and tells you he’s found a body, and you tell him to phone the police?’

‘Yes.’ A tad uncertain.

He looked at Marsh, who seemed more interested in the condition of the opened cask than in Gilchrist’s questions. Back to Dunmore. ‘You didn’t think to ask anything else?’

Dunmore’s resolve seemed to surrender under Gilchrist’s hard gaze. She grimaced for a moment, then edged closer to the cask. Without looking inside, she said, ‘I did ask Robbie if he thought the body could be Hector.’

But even as Gilchrist said, ‘Hector who?’ the vaguest of memories stirred – a missing person, back in the eighties, maybe nineties, the man’s name appearing before him—

‘Hector Dunmore,’ she said. ‘My brother.’

‘Who disappeared twenty-five years ago,’ he added, the logic tumbling into place.

Dunmore closed her eyes and nodded.

‘And what did you say, Robbie?’ Jessie said. ‘When she asked you?’

Marsh shrugged. ‘I told her I couldn’t say.’

Of course he couldn’t, Gilchrist thought. Marsh would’ve been in primary school when Hector Dunmore vanished. And twenty-five years ago, Gilchrist had less than half a dozen years on the force under his belt. But even though he knew the answer, he said, ‘Mrs Dunmore, can you positively identify the body as that of your missing brother?’

She pursed her lips, then said, ‘I can, yes. It’s Hector.’

‘Did you touch the body in any way?’

Her gaze shot at him.

‘To identify him, I mean.’

‘No. I knew from his clothes and his hair. And his watch.’

Gilchrist waited.

‘I bought that watch for his twenty-first. A Seiko. Hector liked the black face, and the date-window thingy. It was all I could afford back then.’

‘And the clothes?’

‘That’s what he was wearing when he disappeared.’

‘You remember what he was wearing?’ Jessie said.

Dunmore’s back straightened. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Clothes are clothes,’ Jessie said. ‘What month did he disappear?’

‘December. The twelfth.’

‘That’s the middle of winter. And he wasn’t wearing a jacket?’

Dunmore seemed taken aback by the question. ‘Well … I … No. He wasn’t.’

‘So when and where did you last see him?’

‘The night he disappeared.’

‘Keep going,’ Gilchrist said again.

‘As best I remember, George and I went round to Hector’s to drop off some shopping – fresh cuts of meat that we buy in bulk from a local farmer.’

‘And George is …?’

‘My husband.’

Gilchrist caught Jessie’s eye. They would need to talk to George, too. ‘And what time would that have been?’

‘We didn’t stay long. Got there about six-ish. Stayed less than an hour.’

‘And Hector was wearing then what he’s wearing now?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about shoes?’

‘Shoes …? I …’ She shook her head. ‘Slippers, maybe.’

If the body of Hector Dunmore was wearing the same clothes as when his sister and brother-in-law had last visited, then it seemed logical to conclude that he hadn’t gone outside that evening after they’d delivered his shopping – in the middle of winter, no jacket or cold-weather garments – and must have been killed indoors. Were the Dunmores the last people to have seen Hector alive? Rather than voice conjecture, he made a mental note to obtain the records of Hector’s misper investigation.

With that in mind, he said, ‘We’re going to have to seal off this area while we carry out our investigation.’ He looked at Marsh. ‘Can you show me exactly where the cask was stored for twenty-five years? We’ll have to seal that area off, too.’

Marsh nodded to a wall about six feet away. ‘Just over there.’

Gilchrist followed Marsh to a pair of wooden rails on the warehouse floor, nothing more than lengths of four by two on which casks could be rolled, then wedged into place.

‘It was the last one in,’ Marsh said, pointing to a spot near the wall.

Gilchrist tried to imagine the layout before the casks were moved. Rows of casks ran either side of him, stacked two high. ‘I thought you stored them bung up so you can sample them over the years.’

‘We do, aye.’

‘So how do you sample these on the lower level, if there’s a row of casks stacked on top of them?’

‘You don’t,’ Marsh said. ‘Once the top row’s stored and wedged, you’re only able to sample those on the top. Unless you started shifting the top row. Which is a lot of work for not a lot of return.’

‘So not every cask in this warehouse is sampled?’

‘No. There’s loads of casks left untouched from start to finish.’

Gilchrist frowned. ‘So whoever put the body into that cask twenty-five years ago, also knew that if they stowed it here,’ he said, and tapped the ground with his foot, ‘then it would likely never be sampled at all in twenty-five years.’

‘That’s correct, aye.’

He let his thoughts drift for a moment, as he walked back to Jessie and Dunmore. ‘So who first moved the cask?’ he asked Marsh.

‘Jimmy Mitchell. He’s the assistant manager. And that’s when he got hold of me.’

‘Where’s Jimmy now?’

‘Probably in the canteen.’

‘Take DS Janes to talk to him. We’ll need his statement. And yours, too.’ He turned to Dunmore. ‘And a statement from yourself.’

‘Of course.’

Gilchrist looked around. ‘How many doors to this warehouse?’

‘Two.’

‘Lock them both,’ he said to Marsh, ‘and make sure none of your staff can access this area until our Scenes of Crime Officers have completed their forensic examination.’ Then to Dunmore, ‘Some place warm and dry where we can have a chat?’

‘My office.’

As he followed her, he was struck by how unmoved she appeared, as if discovering the whisky-preserved body of your long-lost brother after twenty-five years was an everyday occurrence. No tears. No parting look. No backward glance. No whispered prayer for a rediscovered soul. Nothing.

Over the years Gilchrist had interviewed hundreds of bereaved individuals, and one thing he’d learned was you could never predict how someone would react when confronted with the news of the death of a family member. Most cried, some inconsolably. Many held it together in stoic silence. Others sat there with glazed eyes, as if incapable of understanding what they were being told. But one – and Gilchrist remembered the moment well – actually laughed, jumped up from her chair, and offered to open a bottle of champagne in celebration.

He’d seen how cold Katherine Dunmore could be, and wondered how she would respond to deeper questioning.

Well, he was about to find out.

Dunmore’s office was on the second floor, at the back of the distillery, with a corner window that overlooked an expanse of windswept meadow, grasses brown and flattened from the winter rain and lack of sun. Talking of which, whiter clouds on the horizon seemed to be thinning to a bright blue. For all anyone knew in Scotland, it could be the start of spring.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Dunmore said. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. I don’t intend to take up much of your time.’

‘You don’t mind if I do.’ Not a question, he knew, as she opened her desk drawer and removed a crystal tumbler and a half-bottle of whisky. ‘Gleneden Reserve,’ she said. ‘One of my favourite blends.’ She proceeded to pour herself a measure – close to a treble, as best he could guess – then dribbled in no more than a few drops from a jug of water. ‘You sure I can’t persuade you?’

Gilchrist raised his hand. ‘Positive.’

She nodded then took a sip that barely wet her lips. ‘God,’ she said. ‘That’s good.’ She reclined in her high-backed swivel chair and narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s one of the good things about owning a distillery. You’re allowed to sip whisky for lunch.’

‘Or breakfast,’ he said.

‘You don’t look like a whisky drinker, I have to say.’

‘And what does a whisky drinker look like?’

She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Trade secret.’ Then she opened another drawer and removed a couple of miniatures. ‘Here.’ She pushed them across her desk. ‘Try them. I think you’ll find them palatable, maybe even enjoyable.’

‘That’s very kind of you. But no thank you.’

‘On duty?’

‘At the start of a murder investigation.’

The mention of murder seemed to wipe all pleasure from her face. Then, as if in the huff, she leaned forward and pushed the miniatures across her desk so that Gilchrist had to catch them as they toppled off the edge. ‘I insist,’ she said.

He returned both miniatures to the corner of the desk, beyond her reach. ‘So when did Robbie Marsh call you this morning?’

‘Some time after nine.’

‘Quarter past? Five past?’

‘About that.’

‘Which is it?’

‘Quarter past. Give or take ten minutes. I mean, it’s not like I was timing him.’

‘And what did he say? Verbatim, if possible.’

‘Hah. Now you’re asking. Memory’s not as good as it used to be.’

‘Give it a try.’

She raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘He said, Good morning, Mrs Dunmore. But I could tell from the tone of his voice that something was wrong.’

‘In what way?’

‘He sounded slightly off. Nothing much. Nothing I could put a finger to.’

‘He might not’ve been feeling well. A frog in his throat. That sort of thing.’

‘No, it wasn’t that, it was just … I wished him good morning in response, then asked if anything was the matter.’

‘You asked him that, after just four words – Good morning, Mrs Dunmore?’

‘Yes.’

Silent, Gilchrist waited.

‘Then Robbie said he had some disturbing news, that they’d discovered a body, and would I like him to call the police?’

‘Exact words?’

‘Yes.’

‘To which you said?’

‘Is it Hector? And he said that he couldn’t say.’

‘How long has Robbie worked at the distillery?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Ten, twelve years, maybe.’

‘So how did he know Hector?’

‘He didn’t know him. Hector had disappeared long before Robbie joined us.’

‘Which is why I’m puzzled that he said he couldn’t say it was Hector, rather than ask who Hector was.’

‘Oh, everybody who works in Gleneden knows about Hector.’

Gilchrist let several seconds pass, but Dunmore seemed content in her answer. ‘Did Robbie tell you where he’d found the body?’

‘No.’

‘So you didn’t know he’d found it in a cask?’

‘I assumed that’s where it was.’

‘Why would you assume that?’

‘Because I knew they were doing a bottling run, and that’s where Robbie had been. I mean …’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Where else would it have been found?’

‘It could’ve been found by the roadside,’ he said, ‘before they started the bottling run. A hit and run, perhaps. Or in one of the fields. An elderly person who’d gone for a walk, collapsed, and died from hypothermia. I can think of other possibilities, but I’m intrigued as to why you presumed the body might be Hector.’ He held her gaze, and waited.

She reached for her tumbler, took a sip that drained it to the halfway mark that time, then returned the glass to her desk with slow deliberation. ‘Well … I …’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what else to tell you. That’s the first thing that came to mind. Was it Hector? He’d been missing for so long. And there’s never a day goes by that I don’t think about him.’ She dabbed a hand at the corner of her eye. ‘He was my brother, after all. The owner of the distillery until … well … until he … he disappeared.’

Crocodiles had shed more convincing tears, he thought. ‘I understand you don’t visit the distillery very often.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Not as often as I used to. No.’

‘Once a day, a week, a month, what?’

‘At least several times a month, I’d say.’

‘So how did you know they were doing a bottling run?’

‘It’s Monday. They always do bottling runs on a Monday.’

‘How did you know they were bottling a twenty-five-year-old cask this morning? And not a ten-year-old?’

‘I … eh … Robbie must have told me.’

‘When he phoned you this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t say that.’

‘As I said, memory’s a bit dodgy now.’ She hid her gaze behind another sip.

Gilchrist waited until she returned the glass to the desk. ‘How old was Hector when he disappeared?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘And he ran the distillery until then?’

‘Not only ran it. He owned it.’

‘Lock, stock and barrel, one hundred per cent?’

‘Mummy had a small share in it at the time.’

‘Tell me about the watch,’ he said.

‘I bought it for his twenty-first,’ she said, unfazed by his sudden change in tack. ‘He’d wanted a Rolex, but I couldn’t afford that, not then, anyway.’

‘And how old were you then?’

‘Nineteen. Hector was two years older. One year and nine months to be exact.’

‘Were your parents alive?’

‘Mummy only. Daddy died the year before. Mummy was so upset. She cried for days and days, poor soul.’ Another sip gave Gilchrist the sense that she had no fond memories of her father, and might have been toasting the memory of his passing.

‘He must have been young when he died, your father.’

‘He was, yes. Forty-something. Five, I think. Maybe six. About that.’

‘And his name?’

‘Edwin.’

‘Your mother’s name?’

‘Alice.’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘Oh, dear goodness, no. After Hector disappeared, she went to pieces. She was never the same. I ended up having to put her in a nursing home. I couldn’t look after her. Best place for her, as it turned out. But she never settled there. She shrank into herself, would be a good way to describe it. The poor soul then had a series of mini-strokes, micro infarctions of the brain, is the medical term. Then she passed away one night in her sleep.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ But he could have been talking to a cardboard image for all the emotion being shown. ‘Any other brothers and sisters?’ he asked.

‘No. Just me.’

‘So,’ he said, measuring his words. ‘When Hector disappeared, and your mother fell to pieces, who took over the distillery?’

‘I did.’

‘All by yourself ?’

‘George helped.’

‘Are you and George still involved in the running of the business?’

‘Very much so. You can’t find good help any more. It’s a generational thing. In my day, you worked the hours you needed to get the job done. Nowadays, it’s all mobile phones, and minimum hours for maximum wages. Free handouts is what they’re looking for.’

‘All from only several days at the distillery a month?’

A momentary pause, as if to recalibrate her thinking, then, ‘Most of our work’s done by email these days. Or phone. Business is handled perfectly well from home.’

‘What about Robbie and Jimmy?’

‘What about them?’

‘Do they expect free handouts?’

‘No. Robbie’s one of the best managers we’ve had. Jimmy’s still on probation.’

Probation seemed an odd word to use about an employee. But that aside, he did a quick mental calculation. ‘So when Hector disappeared, you would’ve been twenty-four?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you and George married then?’

‘Yes. We got married the year before.’

‘What did your father think of George?’ he said, just to throw it out there.

‘He never met him, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have liked him. He never liked anyone I brought home.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Over-possessive of his only daughter, I assume. My relationship with Daddy was … how should I say it? … fraught. He wasn’t a pleasant man at times.’

Gilchrist pulled his questions back on track. ‘Where can I find George?’

‘At home.’

‘Which is where?’

She rattled off an address, and he scribbled it down – Hepburn Gardens, St Andrews. ‘If he’s not there,’ she said, ‘he’ll be at his office. GC Publicity.’ Another address, followed by a couple of phone numbers.

‘What does GC stand for?’ he asked.

‘George Caithness. I never took his surname when we married. For business reasons.’

He mouthed an Ah, then said, ‘Did Hector attend your wedding?’

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t he?’ Irritation seemed to creep behind her eyes. She took another sip, lips tight, as if his question had soured the whisky. Then she returned her glass to her desk with a firm thud of finality. ‘I don’t particularly care for what you’re suggesting, Mr Gilchrist, that Hector and I didn’t get on with each other. On the contrary, I loved Hector more than any sister could love her brother.’

‘And your husband, George,’ Gilchrist said, just to keep the pot simmering, ‘how did he and Hector get on?’

‘Like the best of friends. How else would you expect them to?’ She slid her chair away from her desk, swivelled it around so she faced the meadows, and Gilchrist the back of her chair. ‘You’re beginning to annoy me, Mr Gilchrist. I don’t feel inclined to continue with this … this chat. I’ll be talking to my lawyer. You’ll probably hear from her before close of business. Good day.’

Gilchrist was surprised by Dunmore’s needless threat, and pushed to his feet, his eyes on her reflection in the window. But she seemed more interested on something in the distance than in a DCI preparing to leave her office. The manner in which she’d talked to him irked, and he found himself unable to resist stamping his authority. ‘When you do call your lawyer,’ he said to her reflection, ‘it would be in your best interests to tell her that you’re expected at St Andrews North Street Police Station at 8 a.m. tomorrow for a formal intervi. . .