The Killing Mood

Book 12: DCI Andy Gilchrist

by T.F. Muir

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Mid-winter, St. Andrews, Scotland: When a university lecturer fails to turn up for class, he is found dead at home, with evidence of having committed suicide. A female student reports to the police that she was having an affair with him and knows he would never commit suicide. Toxicology results turn up Class A drugs in his system, and DCI Andy Gilchrist and his associate, DS Jessie Janes, are called in to investigate.

The initial enquiry soon turns into a murder investigation, and when Gilchrist and Jessie dig deep into the man's background they uncover a criminal past, a history of romance scams, and several bank accounts containing hundreds of thousands of pounds. A forensic search of the man's computer hard-drives reveal a lengthy trail of heartbroken women tricked into parting with their savings in a futile search for love.

Did one of those scorned women seek revenge and kill him? Or did his criminal past finally catch up with him?

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

Release date: November 9, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 347

Sample

8.15 p.m., Wednesday, Early DecemberFisherman’s Cottage, Crail, Fife, Scotland

Rain battered the windows with blasts as hard as hailstones. Outside, the back garden lay as dark as the deepest pit, black enough to force an involuntary shiver down the spine. A good night to stay in, put your feet up, pour yourself a solid half, and watch the telly. At least that’s what Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist was looking forward to on the lead up to Christmas. Which was why he eyed his mobile phone on the dining-room table with hostile suspicion as it vibrated as if coming to life. A lifetime of answering calls had him reaching for it to squint at the screen – ID Jessie.

‘Nice of you to phone and wish me goodnight,’ he joked.

‘Yeah, you wish.’

He fingered the curtain, peered into the black night at rain streaming down the glass in glimmering sheets, and with solemn resignation, said, ‘I’m listening.’

‘Sorry, Andy. Just in. Suspicious death. Supposed to look like suicide—’

‘Supposed to? What does that mean?’

‘Exactly that. At least, that’s what I’m thinking.’

‘You’re at the scene?’

‘Didn’t want to disturb you, with all your Christmas shopping still to do. Have you started yet, by the way?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Right. Anyway, thought I could take care of it myself, but now I’m here, I think I need a second opinion.’

‘Where’s here?’ he said, and listened to her rattle off an address that cast up an image of the outskirts of St Andrews, somewhere on the road to Strathkinness if his memory served him.

‘You want me to have someone pick you up?’ Jessie said.

‘That’s kind of you, but I think I can manage.’

‘You haven’t been drinking, is what I mean. It’s absolutely bitter. Black ice and threatening snow. Wouldn’t want to invalidate your insurance if anything happened.’

Not like Jessie to be so overprotective, he thought. He eyed his tumbler, its contents golden, two cubes of ice still visible. Who had once told him in a fit of disgusted pique that whisky’s a warm drink? He couldn’t remember. But over the years he’d learned to have a drink any way he liked – white wine with meat, red with chicken, whisky with ice, or like his son, Jack, vodka with anything. Not that any of it mattered, of course. For Gilchrist, the end result was the same – a mellowing of stress, a softening of character, unless that last one for the road tilted the odds, of course.

‘I’ll be with you in twenty,’ he said, and ended the call.

He gulped a mouthful that emptied the glass, then walked to the hallway for his winter jacket and his scarf and car keys.

* * *

Jessie had been right. The roads were dreadful, sparkling with sheets of ice now the rain had ceased and changed into the tiniest of snowflakes that grew in size as he drove on. He marvelled at Scotland’s ability to throw another of nature’s elements his way, his car’s headlights now little more than two weak beams that reflected flakes that fluttered onto his windscreen like fledglings’ feathers. But he kept his speed steady, the sensible side of the limit, and followed the directions on his satnav.

He found the address, a semi-detached stone villa, curtained windows glowing a false welcome, front garden already blanketed in deepening snow. He parked half-on half-off the pavement, behind Jessie’s car. No sign of the SOCO van, which told him that she really was in need of a second opinion. Obvious signs of murder, and the Scenes of Crime Officers would be one of the first to call and secure the area. Still, suspicious deaths necessitated forensic examination, so why the delay?

The front entrance was unlocked, and he entered without announcement.

Several doors lay off a darkened hallway brightened only by a single lamp that stood on an antique nest of tables next to an old-fashioned telephone, coiled lead twisted around the table’s legs like ageing vine. A door at the far end lay open, from which he thought he caught the sound of whispered conversation. As he neared, he realised it was more sobbing than talking, and without a word he stood in the doorway.

A young woman was seated with her back to him, clearly in distress, facing Detective Sergeant Jessie Janes who caught his eye, shook her head, and signalled for him to enter the room behind him.

He did as instructed, turned, and entered what he took to be the front lounge, only to find it was smaller than expected, and seemed more storeroom than living room. Every shelf and flat surface overflowed with books, magazines, bound paperwork. Newspapers stood in three-foot-high piles, wrapped in string, and formed a pathway of sorts that led to the only furniture in the room, an oversized hand-carved wooden coffee table on which stood a closed laptop surrounded by handwritten notes. Facing the table was a solitary armchair in which sat the upright body of a man, eyes shut, as if he had simply closed the laptop, sat back, and gone to sleep.

Gilchrist slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and set about the task of providing Jessie with that requested second opinion. And as he studied the body, he came to see that she had been right to call him. Not that it was obvious that a murder had been committed. Rather, it was the little things that didn’t quite seem to fit – the way the body was propped upright on the armchair, hands neatly placed on the chair’s arms as if to prevent them from falling off, eyelids closed, as if pressed shut with care, open-neck linen shirt tucked into belted jeans, turtleneck undershirt, trainers – not slippers – on sock-covered feet spaced apart just so. And it struck him then, that without realising, he’d already determined it to be an unnatural death – everything was just too neat. But were these quantum leaps in logic, prompted by Jessie’s concerns?

He took a step back, and looked at the laptop and the mess on the table.

Again, it was the little things that didn’t quite add up. A space seemed to have been cleared around an A4 page to the left of the laptop, with the single word SORRY handprinted on it. Which looked like no suicide note he’d ever come across. A pen lay across the page, positioned so that it lay parallel to the edge, as if it had been placed there with care. Other than the laptop, paper and pen, the rest of the table seemed like discarded detritus, as if the contents of a file had been tipped onto it. None had fallen to the floor though, which could be the assigned storage area for piled newspapers.

He resisted the urge to open the laptop, and was taken by the sense that it appeared out of place with the rest of the room – twenty-first century meets nineteenth. A careful flick of gloved fingers through the papered mess confirmed no charger, no lead, no mouse, no dongle, which had him thinking that the laptop had been put there for show, and worrying that he was trying to force-fit a crime into the scene. Was that what he was doing?

Back to the body. He leaned closer.

The face belonged to a man in his late forties, early fifties, perhaps? A handsome face, he’d have to say, with short dark hair neatly trimmed, greying around the temples. Square chin recently shaved, skin soft to the touch with no signs of dryness. Closer still to confirm the fragrance of aftershave, perhaps moisturiser. Shirt fresh with an ironed seam down both arms. Cuffs buttoned. Fingernails neat, a tad overlong, he thought, but no signs of ever having been bitten. The hands, too, felt soft, as if they’d never experienced a single day’s grafting.

His thoughts were interrupted by Jessie saying, ‘Ian Howitt. Forty-one years old. Born and raised in York. Single. Never married. Part-time lecturer in psychology at the uni. St Andrews, that is. Took up the position after the summer break. So he’s a newbie.’

‘All this from . . .?’ Gilchrist said.

Jessie nodded behind her. ‘Hollie Greenwood-Moy,’ she said. ‘That’s with a hyphen.’

Gilchrist glanced over her shoulder, at the open doorway to the room in which Hollie Greenwood hyphen Moy sat, presumably still sobbing. ‘And how does Hollie know all this?’

‘She’s shagging him. Or he’s shagging her. I can never work it out any more. Against all the rules, of course.’

‘What rules?’

‘She’s one of his students.’

Gilchrist mouthed an Aahh.

‘Denied it at first. Shagging him. But she called it in. Said she’d an appointment with him to discuss one of his lectures. But when she turned up, he didn’t answer the door, so she let herself in, and hey presto. There he was. Sitting like a dummy.’

He looked down at Howitt. ‘So how did she know he was dead?’

‘Earth to Andy . . . Hello . . .?’

He cleared his throat. ‘She didn’t touch the body, is what I’m asking. Did she?’

Jessie frowned. ‘Apparently not.’

‘Apparently?’

‘So she said.’

‘Was the door locked?’

‘What door?’

‘The front door. Howitt didn’t answer, so she let herself in, you said. Did she have a key? Or was it unlocked?’

Jessie grimaced for a moment, then said, ‘Sorry, Andy. Shit.’

‘Let’s go and ask her, shall we?’

She nodded, and walked from the room, somewhat disheartened, he thought.

As they entered the room opposite, Gilchrist was struck by the contrast. No expense seemed to have been spared in this room’s furnishings. The air was redolent of flowers and polish, with an underlying scent of having been recently wallpapered. Table lamps brightened ornaments that glowed. Photographs shone. Cornicing ran around the ceiling, and not a crack or rain-stained patch in sight. Paintings that could be masterpieces, for all Gilchrist knew, splashed the walls in blues, reds, yellows, colours that reminded him of the last trip he’d taken to the Caribbean, many years ago now, it seemed. Bold yellow and blue curtains hung from ceiling to floor, in a fabric that was a match for the seating – three sofas and a single armchair – all of which surrounded a glass-covered table that looked as if it had been made from a carved antique travel case.

A young woman, a teenager if he had to guess, sat on the closest sofa, her feet curled beneath her, blonde hair tied in a long ponytail that dangled over one shoulder. The darkest of eyebrows told him her hair was dyed, and the quality of her clothing – fine woollen cardigan, silk collarless blouse, needle-corduroys – that she had money; or at least her family had.

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist,’ Jessie said to her. ‘The boss.’

She looked up at Gilchrist with mascara-run eyes that glistened with tears.

He held out his warrant card, and offered a sad smile. ‘Hollie?’ he said.

She nodded, and sniffed into a tissue.

‘Greenwood-Moy?’

Another nod.

He took the armchair, and leaned forward. ‘Are you able to tell me what happened?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in a soft English voice that hinted of elocution and expensive boarding schools. ‘It’s such a shock. I never would’ve . . .’ She pressed the tissue to her nose again, squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head.

He gave her some time to recover, then said, ‘You never would’ve what?’

‘Expected it,’ she said. ‘I never would’ve expected Ian to have died so young. He was so . . . so energetic, so . . . so full of life. That’s what made him such a brilliant lecturer.’

‘And can you tell me . . . how long have you known Ian?’

‘Since the start of the term.’

‘And you and he became . . .?’

Her gaze sliced in a nervous glance at Jessie, then she nodded, as if in defeat. ‘We fell in love. As simple as that.’

‘How old are you?’

She glared at him, as if angered by the question. ‘True love is oblivious to age difference.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ he said. ‘So how old are you?’

‘Twenty,’ she relented. ‘Next January.’

‘And you said you’d arranged to meet Mr Howitt . . . Ian . . . this evening?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time?’

‘Seven-thirty.’

‘So, tell me what happened. Take your time. Talk us through it. Don’t miss out a thing.’

She sniffed again, dabbed the tissue at her nose. ‘I rang the doorbell—’

‘Did you walk here?’ he interrupted. ‘Get a taxi? Or . . .?’

‘Sorry. I got a taxi.’

‘Where do you live?’

She told him.

‘Carry on,’ he said, and focused on her eyes.

She ran her hand over her ponytail, then said, ‘I’d ordered a taxi for seven-twenty. It arrived five minutes late. So I got to Ian’s just after seven-thirty.’

Gilchrist glanced at Jessie, pleased to see she was scribbling in her notebook – she would look into the taxi firm’s call logs, interview the driver. Had he seen anything out of the ordinary? Was tonight the first time he’d driven Hollie – or anyone else, for that matter – to this address?

‘I rang the doorbell,’ Hollie said. ‘And when Ian didn’t answer, I let myself in.’

‘Was the door unlocked?’

‘No.’

Gilchrist said nothing, let silence ask the question.

‘I have a key. Ian gave it to me a month or so ago. He trusted me.’

Start of the term would be early September. A month or so ago would put giving her a key close to early November, maybe sooner. Which was a bit quick to be granting someone open access to your home. At least, that’s what Gilchrist thought. ‘You let yourself in,’ he said. ‘Then what?’

‘I knew right away that something was wrong.’

‘Why was that?’

‘The silence, I think. Anytime I’d been to Ian’s, he always had music on. He loved his music. He was so intellectual in that respect.’

‘What type of music?’ he asked, just to keep the interview relaxed.

‘Modern neoclassical.’ She returned his gaze, as if expecting him to ask what modern neoclassical music was. Thankfully he didn’t embarrass himself before she said, ‘You know, Sebastian Plano, Misha Mishenko, Natasha Nightingale. All the well-known ones.’

He didn’t have it in him to admit he’d never heard of them, and gave a vague nod as he cast his gaze around the room, searching for a music stack, or CD player, even a record player – wasn’t vinyl back in fashion? – but couldn’t find any. Maybe Howitt played music on his phone. That seemed to be the modern way. Back to Hollie.

‘And when you didn’t hear any music, what did you do?’

‘I called out his name, of course.’

‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘Then . . .?’

‘I walked through to the kitchen, to see if he was there.’

Gilchrist felt his gaze being pulled to the hallway. Walking from the front door to the kitchen, which he guessed was at the rear of the house, you would have to pass this lounge, and the other . . . storeroom, for want of a better word. ‘And did you enter the kitchen?’

‘Yes.’ She frowned as if puzzled. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘I take it that the door to the . . .’ he struggled for the proper word, then said, ‘. . . the door across the hall, where Ian was found, was closed.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes. It was.’

‘And to this lounge?’

‘No. It was open, but I could see he wasn’t in here. He seldom is.’

He nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘When I couldn’t find Ian in the kitchen, I went through to the bedroom.’

Gilchrist caught Jessie giving the tiniest of smirks at that.

‘But he wasn’t there either. Nor in the other bedroom. Nor the bathroom. I checked my mobile to see if I’d missed a message from him. But I hadn’t. I tried calling him, but got his voicemail.’ She pressed her hand to her mouth. ‘That’s when I went through to the front room and . . .’ She closed her eyes and her body shivered as tears spilled down her cheeks.

Gilchrist glanced at Jessie, who rolled her eyes in disbelief. He waited for Hollie to recover, before saying, ‘I need to ask you only a few more questions. Are you able to continue?’

She nodded, sniffed, brushed a finger under each eye. ‘I’ll try,’ she whispered.

Another roll of Jessie’s eyes had Gilchrist giving a slight shake of his head to prevent her from stepping in. She pursed her lips, and returned her attention to her notebook.

‘When you called Ian from your mobile,’ he said, ‘where were you?’

‘Back in the kitchen.’

‘And when he didn’t answer, did you hear his mobile ringing?’

‘No,’ she said, a tad puzzled.

‘Does he ever switch his mobile off?’

‘No.’ Another puzzled frown. ‘Why would he?’

‘Have it set on vibrate?’ he asked, ignoring her question.

‘I don’t think so.’

A quick glance at Jessie to pass on his unspoken instruction – we need to find that mobile – then, ‘Let me back up a touch here. So, Hollie, once you’d exhausted all options, and you couldn’t find Ian, and you didn’t know where he was, and he wasn’t answering his mobile, only then did you try the door to the room opposite. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

He held her gaze. ‘Why?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why leave that door to the last?’

‘I’d never been in that room before.’

‘Why not?’

‘Ian never allowed it.’

‘Didn’t allow it, or you were never invited to enter?’

She frowned, as if confused, then shrugged. ‘Never invited to enter, I suppose.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I think he just didn’t want me to see it.’

‘Did you never think to ask why?’

‘No.’ She flicked her ponytail as if to say it was a silly question. ‘I wasn’t interested in being shown around his house. I was only interested in being with Ian.’

He gave a tight smile, pleased to see her defiance was helping to push aside her tears. ‘So I’d like you to tell me what you did when you opened that door to the room. Step by step, Hollie, please. Take your time. This is important. Start off by standing in the hall.’

She nodded. ‘I knocked on the door, and called out his name a couple of times.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Ian? Ian? Are you there? And when I heard nothing, I turned the handle and pushed the door open, just a little. It was dark. So I called out his name again. He didn’t answer, so I opened the door wider, and switched on the light. That’s when I . . .’ She closed her eyes for a couple of beats. ‘That’s when I saw Ian sitting there. It was so unnatural. He was so still that I knew right away he was dead. So I switched off the light, pulled the door shut, and called the police.’ She looked at him then, and jerked a quick smile. ‘And here we are.’

Here we are indeed. So many flaws in her account that he wondered if he just plucked at one, then her whole story might come apart at the seams. But not now. Later.

He pushed himself to his feet, a sign that he had no more questions – for the moment, anyway. ‘We’ll need a written statement from you. And a sample of your DNA.’

‘My DNA? Why?’

Jessie said, ‘Standard protocol.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Not long.’ Jessie again. ‘Forensics should be here any minute.’

Gilchrist said, ‘And while you’re waiting, you might as well make a start on that statement.’

Hollie nodded. Gone was the pained disbelief of moments earlier, and in its place recovered defiance. She wasn’t being fully truthful, he knew. She was hiding something. But what, he couldn’t tell. Not at that moment. But he’d make a point of getting it out of her, sooner, rather than later.

By midnight, Howitt’s body had been removed to the Bell Street Mortuary in Dundee, accompanied by Sam Kim, the youthful and somewhat over-enthusiastic forensic pathologist who’d been appointed as the intended temporary replacement for Rebecca Cooper. Although with Cooper having been out of sight and sound for four months now, temporary was looking to become more permanent. Gilchrist was still undecided as to whether he missed the cut and thrust of his and Cooper’s relationship, or just relieved to interact with an energetic new face, and a mind as quick and sharp as his own.

He was seated in Howitt’s kitchen, reading Hollie’s statement, when Jessie burst in and said, ‘Andy. You’ve got to see this.’

He followed her through to the front room in which Howitt’s body had been found, surprised to see an opening in the far wall – not a door per se, but what looked like a false bookshelf that had been pulled open to reveal a cupboard of sorts. Or so he thought.

Colin, the lead SOCO, wearing full forensic attire, stood at the entrance. ‘Couldn’t figure out why this room seemed so out of proportion with the rest of the house,’ he said, ‘until I found this.’ He stood back to let Gilchrist enter.

The first thought that hit him was that it was some kind of secret den, a place that a devious man might have in which to keep his real persona hidden from others. Some ten feet wide by twelve feet long, the room contained little more than a desk with drawers at one end, and a wall at the other, which was taken up with what looked like a projector screen rolled down from the ceiling. A magnifying mirror stood on the desk at one corner, and a few cables lay abandoned across the desk, their USB connections telling him that Howitt must have set up his laptop, or some other computer, in here. Maybe this was where he came to search the internet for porn in secret. But if he lived alone, what was the point of secrecy?

He opened one of the drawers, and frowned at the contents. ‘What’s this?’ he said, lifting out what looked like someone’s furry scalp.

‘A wig,’ Colin said. ‘One of many. Check the drawers below.’

Gilchrist did, touching none of the contents, one drawer at a time, noting numerous mascaras, foundation compacts, blusher brushes, beauty accessories a woman might use to make herself more attractive, and came to understand the reason for the magnifying mirror. He closed the drawers, reached for a switch on the wall, and turned it. The room dimmed. A glance overhead confirmed two rows of spotlights inset into the ceiling. He brightened the room again, and looked first at Jessie, then Colin. ‘What is this place?’

Colin gave a knowing smile, pressed a remote fob that Gilchrist hadn’t noticed, and turned his attention to the back wall. Gilchrist frowned as the screen came alive to a blank wall, then shifted with an audible click to an image of the inside of a room with a window through which a still-life mountain scene formed a snow-covered backdrop.

‘What is it?’ he said. ‘A photograph?’

‘One of many.’ Colin clicked the fob again.

The screen changed to another image, another room, this time of a patio window with a vibrant green backdrop and blue sea in the distance. A cloudless sky gave the impression that he was looking out of some Caribbean hotel window, a first-class hotel at that.

Another click, and the scene changed to a panorama of sun-parched walls and red-tiled rooftops, reminding Gilchrist of a photograph he’d once seen as a young boy, of a resort in Yugoslavia before the country was hacked to independent pieces by the Yugoslav wars. He walked to the desk, took a long look at the screen, then sat on the swivel chair with his back to it. ‘So,’ he said, ‘if you’re sitting here with your laptop on, and you’re on FaceTime or Zoom or whatever other digital channel you choose, the person you’re talking to sees you sitting in front of whatever background you want.’ He swivelled the chair around so that he faced Colin and Jessie. ‘Right?’

Colin nodded. ‘And the image is positioned far enough back from the screen that the person you’re talking to sees it slightly out of focus.’

‘Meaning that you can’t tell if it’s real or not?’

‘Precisely. And it’s more likely to fool someone than the fake backgrounds you get on Zoom.’ Colin clicked the fob again, and the sand-coloured expanse of a mesa and butte desert swamped the room, the image so clear, so close, that Gilchrist felt he could step through the wall into the American southwest.

Jessie said, ‘The sneaky bastard. He chats up whoever he likes, wearing his wig of the day, pretending to be someone he’s not.’ She glanced at the screen. ‘And somewhere he’s not. See that? It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just needs to be a scene that someone sees over his shoulder in the background.’ Then she stared hard at Gilchrist, and a shadow of anger seemed to settle behind her eyes. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

He wasn’t sure what Jessie was thinking, but his own thoughts shifted to the tearful Hollie Greenwood-Moy. Howitt had trusted her enough to give her a key to his home. But how well did she know him? Well enough to know about this secret den, even though she denied that? Well enough to know of his mysterious side, that darker persona of his that he preferred to keep hidden? Somehow the manne. . .