The Last Grave

Book 14: DCI Andy Gilchrist

by T.F. Muir

Genres: Police Procedurals; Mystery

Synopsis

Glasgow: When a body is pulled from the River Clyde, DCI Andy Gilchrist can't understand why he's been dragged from his St Andrews patch to investigate. But the victim didn't jump, he was pushed, and his disposal has the hallmark of a gangland killing.

Fearing this may be just the beginning, Gilchrist and DS Jessie Janes race to get the lowdown from old contact Arletta Shepherd, matriarch of an infamous crime family. But she's gone deep underground, hiding from a threat far worse than the police: a murderous conspiracy to shift the balance of power in the criminal underworld in Scotland and beyond.

A hair-raising game of cat and mouse uncovers sudden disappearances, brutal killings and a funeral parlour fronting the bloodiest of activities. Gilchrist and Janes are hot on the trail of the power-hungry gangsters, but they won't come quietly. They set in motion ever-more sadistic acts of retribution, and their sights are set on Gilchrist.

Can Gilchrist and Janes outsmart the most ruthless criminal minds in Scotland, or are they just pawns in a brutal power play, destined to add to the body count?

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Readers and reviewers love the DCI Andy Gilchrist thrillers!

'DCI Andy Gilchrist is a real copper, flaws an' all... I read it one sitting' - Amazon reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Thrilling... first page, a suspicious death, and we're off!' - Amazon reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Fascinating storylines... police procedural at its best' - Amazon reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

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

'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

'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

Release date: November 20, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 306

Sample

8.15 a.m., Tuesday, late November Dumbarton, Glasgow

‘According to the satnav,’ Jessie said, ‘we’re nearly there.’

Detective Chief Inspector Andy Gilchrist slowed to a crawl. In the eerie gloom of a winter morning’s fog, his car’s headlights were as weak as candlelight. Homes either side offered glimmers of light and life through curtained windows. Ahead, at the foot of the hill, where the road opened up to the dark waters of the River Clyde, the world seemed to sink into deeper darkness. Mist swirled and shifted in the riverside winds, one moment lifting as if about to clear, the next thickening to a damp haar.

He’d taken the call from Dainty two and a half hours earlier – I need you to see this, Andy. I’ll explain when you get here – after which he’d contacted Jessie; Detective Sergeant Jessica Harriet Janes, formerly of Strathclyde, now his trusted associate at Fife Constabulary, and back at work only a month earlier, after being hospitalised from a violent assault. At that time in the morning, traffic had been sparse on the drive down from St Andrews, until they hit backup on the M80 on the outskirts of Glasgow. From then on, it had been slow going. But once on the Clydeside Expressway the commuter plug speeded up as if puzzled by the earlier hold ups, only to revert to a stop–start drive between traffic lights. They’d followed the satnav through Dumbarton town centre, across the River Leven, then onto Clydeshore Road where the windscreen wipers now jumped to life, sweeping the glass clear on automatic.

‘Don’t tell me it’s started raining,’ Jessie said.

‘It’s the Clyde. Cold air over water, meets warm air over land.’

‘You make it sound like a love story.’

‘No love story, believe me.’ He slowed down to negotiate a sharp left turn into a road appropriately named Clydeview, and parked behind a dark-red Volvo that he recognised as belonging to Strathclyde Police Detective Chief Inspector Peter Small, more affectionately known as Dainty.

Outside, he clicked his key fob and stepped onto a stretch of weed-riddled grass that lined the riverside road. He gripped the cold metal railing that ran the length of Clydeview, and stared across the black waters of the Clyde. On the opposite shore, lights from the village of Langbank danced like scattered stars. At his feet, it seemed, waves brushed the shoreline, nothing more than a narrow length of sand and gravel and grass that bordered the bottom of the seawall.

Jessie stood next to him. ‘Not quite the French Riviera.’

‘We’re missing the sun.’

She chuckled at that. ‘And the glamour. And the seaside cafés. And everything else, come to think of it.’ She clapped her hands, and shivered. ‘Jeez, it’s bloody freezing.’

‘Cold.’

‘What?’

‘It’s cold. It’s freezing in the Arctic. Here, it’s cold.’

‘Oh excuse me Mr Attenborough. I stand corrected.’ Her gaze drifted down the Clyde, as if following the path of abandoned flotsam. ‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘I could do with another coffee to heat me up.’ She looked around her. ‘Where’re we supposed to be meeting Dainty, anyway?’

Gilchrist removed his mobile, tapped the screen, and got through on the second ring. ‘That’s us here,’ he said, without introduction. ‘We’re at the end of Clydeshore Road. Where are you?’

‘Follow the footpath down the river,’ Dainty said. ‘Half a mile or so. You can’t miss us.’

Gilchrist returned his mobile to his jacket pocket, and pulled up his collar. ‘This way.’ As he strode off, Jessie by his side, he thought she might not have exaggerated the chill after all. His breath puffed in the frigid air like steam. It really was bloody freezing.

The asphalt footpath ran along the side of the Clyde, a great place to have an early morning jog, he thought. He shrugged off a cold shiver, or maybe it was a sense of guilt – he really had to get back to running along the West Sands. But with all that was going on in his personal life, jogging and exercise of any kind had to take a back seat for the time being.

As if reading his thoughts, Jessie said, ‘How’s Irene keeping?’

He grunted, and said, ‘Putting a face on it, is about the best way to describe it. I don’t know how she does it.’

Jessie grimaced, tightened her lips for a moment, then said, ‘Still on medication?’

‘Painkillers. Lots of them.’ He didn’t want to explain that despite his best attempts to persuade Irene to go into a hospice, she’d steadfastly refused. Home is where I live, and home is where I’ll die. So, home it was, although the lounge now looked more like a hospital ward than a family living room. He’d organised nurses to visit four times a day – first thing in the morning, then midday, again in the early evening, then back for the final dose of pills and a tuck into bed. And throughout it all, Irene continued to smile. Christ, if he could only be half as upbeat—

‘Jeez, Andy, I don’t know what to say. It’s so …’ She shook her head. ‘It’s all so bloody sad.’

He grimaced in silent agreement. At times it felt so much worse than bloody sad. It felt so bloody unfair, as if the God he didn’t believe in was playing a brutal joke on the world, punishing the good, instead of the bad.

‘Looks like that’s them,’ Jessie said, nodding ahead.

Despite the footpath being blocked from vehicular access, a white transit van straddled the walkway. The SOCOs – Scenes of Crime Officers – must have driven in from the other end of the path, he thought. Crime-scene tape flapped like bunting from riverside gusts, guarded by two uniformed officers assigned to prevent the gathering of inquisitive dog-walkers and pretend joggers from interfering in what Dainty had already pronounced a murder investigation.

On the other side of the seawall, the Incitent was set up by the water’s edge, looking oddly natural in that location, as if some holidaymakers had chosen to camp on the banks of the river. The sun had risen above the horizon – dawn, if you could call it that – and cast a weak light over the scene. Even from a hundred yards distant, Gilchrist could make out Dainty in a group of three, his small stature giving the uninformed the impression of a boy among men. How wrong could they be?

As Gilchrist approached, Dainty had his back to him, and put his mobile to his ear as the other two parted; one strode off along the footpath, the other walked to the SOCO van and removed a mobile, at which point Gilchrist recognised DI Annie Melton. Several years ago, he’d heard rumours that Dainty and Annie were having an affair, which was dispelled by the quick transfer of two detectives to Northern Constabulary, about as far from Glasgow as the Scottish Police Force could finagle. You messed with Dainty at your own risk.

Dainty caught sight of Gilchrist as he and Jessie were signing in. Without a word, he slipped his mobile into his pocket, nodded to the forensic tent, then vaulted the metal railing and jumped down to the river’s edge.

‘Looks like Spider-Man’s had his porridge this morning,’ Jessie said.

A set of aluminium ladders had been set up by the SOCOs, which Gilchrist used to help Jessie over the wall and down onto the narrow stretch of sandy gravel. He followed, and met Dainty at the entrance to the tent.

Dainty nodded to each in turn. ‘Andy. Jessie,’ then said, ‘Either of you heard of Mike Elgin?’

‘Isn’t he a reporter?’ Jessie said. ‘One of the broadsheets. Can’t remember which.’

Dainty grimaced approval. ‘Was a reporter. Freelanced for the last two years as an investigative journalist. Does true crime podcasts. Turns out he’s been missing for three days. Pulled out of the Clyde this morning.’

Jessie nodded to the tent. ‘I take it he didn’t drown.’

‘Which is why I phoned you.’ This to Gilchrist, as if she hadn’t spoken.

Gilchrist held Dainty’s hard gaze for a moment, before saying, ‘Turns out, you said. Turns out he’s been missing. So no one called it in?’

Dainty grunted. ‘Got it in one.’

‘And this is where his body was pulled from the river?’

Dainty nodded. ‘An early morning dog-walker called it in. Said a body was lying at the edge, looked like it had been washed ashore.’

Gilchrist let his gaze drift across the river. On the opposite bank, houses, trees, cars, seemed to stir alive as dawn pulled them out of the night’s gloom. The Clyde had to be at least a kilometre wide where they stood. The power of all that water flowing seawards was incalculable. He turned back to Dainty. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Three days in the Clyde would have the body out to sea. Not turning up here. Unless it ended up in the Clyde yesterday.’

‘Not according to Cooper,’ Dainty said.

Something fluttered in Gilchrist’s stomach. ‘Cooper …?’

‘The one and only. She’s back. Used to work in Dundee,’ he added, as if to make sure Gilchrist hadn’t forgotten her. ‘Took up her new post a couple of months back. Already been and gone this morning. According to her, the body’s been submersed in water for three days at least. No doubts about it.’

Jessie said, ‘Well if Queen Becky says three days, then three days it is.’

Dainty ignored Jessie’s quip. ‘The body could’ve snagged on an underwater piling or something. Currents can be fickle. With activity up and down the river. Another way to look at it is …’ He shrugged. ‘We got lucky. Really lucky.’ He paused, as if giving Gilchrist time to gather his thoughts. ‘But that’s not what’s troubling me.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Four weeks ago, Leila Hazazi was reported missing. Last seen leaving a pub in town, heading for the subway. She never made it. No one’s heard from her since. No phone activity. No credit card, bank, or social media activity. Nothing. At first we thought she’d maybe just pissed off out of it. Worst case, taken her own life.’ He shook his head. ‘But we’ve now escalated it to a murder investigation.’

Gilchrist said, ‘And Leila Hazazi is …?’

‘Mike Elgin’s partner. In life, and in work. Another investigative journalist.’

‘So the two deaths are linked?’

‘I don’t think it’s coincidence. Do you?’

Gilchrist grimaced. ‘Anything to do with whatever story they were working on?’

‘Don’t know that yet. But yeah … it’s more than a possi-bility.’

‘Where did Hazazi and Elgin live?’

‘Glasgow. West End.’

‘So …’ Gilchrist said, letting his thoughts come together. ‘If they worked and lived in Glasgow, and were murdered or disappeared in Glasgow, what does this investigation have to do with us, or more specifically, Fife Constabulary?’

‘Get kitted up, have a look at the body, then tell me what you think. His wallet and phone have been removed and taken to the Office. Phone’s buggered from the water, of course. But our IT guys’ll do what they can with it, although I’m not holding my breath.’

With that, Dainty walked off, mobile back to his ear.

The first thing that struck Gilchrist was that Mike Elgin appeared much younger than he’d imagined – somewhere in his late twenties, early thirties. The second, that he was better dressed than expected. Somehow, the thought of a newspaper reporter eking out a living as a freelance investigative journalist conjured up an image of older-man beer bellies, scraggly beards, dog-eared wallets needing topped up, and an altogether scruffy appearance.

But the man who lay on his back at his feet was none of that.

A three-piece suit, with gold pocket watch and matching fob-chain, spoke of sartorial extravagance. Soft hands and manicured fingernails told him that Elgin had never worked a hard day’s night in his life. Slim waist, broad shoulders, suggested he’d kept himself fit, or at least watched his weight. Trimmed beard and a neat back and sides added to the image of someone who took pride in his personal appearance.

‘What is he?’ Jessie said. ‘A model for Gentleman’s Journal?’

Gilchrist kneeled by the body. It struck him that Dainty hadn’t mentioned cause of death. Jessie’s comment about not having drowned had been left somewhat unanswered. This was a murder investigation, per Dainty. So how had Mike Elgin been killed? Of course, all he had to do was speak to the forensic pathologist, Doctor Rebecca Cooper, who would no doubt have her own opinion on cause of death. But he knew from past experience that she would be reluctant to speculate until she’d completed a full post-mortem examination, which required the body to be relocated to the mortuary.

No, Dainty had kept cause of death to himself because he wanted a second opinion. Which is why he’d phoned Gilchrist. But Cooper was the best forensic pathologist Gilchrist had ever worked with. So why would Dainty need a second opinion from him? He seemed to be finding too many questions, and not enough answers, although as he stared at the body it was becoming clearer that Dainty wasn’t interested in a second opinion on cause of death, but of something more pertinent to the murder investigation.

But what?

He leaned forward, placed the palms of his hand on Elgin’s chest, and applied some pressure. The chest sank, which caused a flutter of bubbles at the nostrils. He pressed firmer, and a whitish froth foamed at the man’s lips.

‘Shit,’ Jessie said. ‘He drowned?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘So why does Dainty think he was murdered? He could’ve tripped and fallen into the Clyde. An accident. Or taken his own life. Jumped from a bridge. What’re we missing?’

‘Clearly something.’ Gilchrist let his gaze drift the length of the body. Shoes intact, brown leather, handmade, barely a scratch on their leather soles. Socks striped all the colours of the rainbow – a sartorial slip, or personal statement? Heavy woollen suit, dark blue checks, burgundy lining, matching trim at the pockets and buttons – clearly handmade. White button-down shirt – Egyptian cotton? Silk burgundy tie, half-Nelson knot. Silk handkerchief in the top pocket to match. Gold cufflinks in the shape of the letter B. Double cuffs with burgundy embroidery stitched in the letters MPE – Michael middle-name Elgin, he thought.

‘What’s the letter B stand for?’ Jessie said, toying with the cufflinks.

Gilchrist frowned. He’d seen that shaped letter before. ‘Could be Bentley,’ he said.

‘As in Bentley car? Jeez, is this guy loaded? Are we in the wrong job?’

‘It’s just a guess, Jessie. Settle down. We’ll check it out.’ He glanced at her. ‘Here. Have a look at this.’ He peeled back the sleeves on the right arm, as far as they would go, then the left. ‘What do you see?’

Jessie frowned, shook her head.

‘How about … what don’t you see?’

‘No watch?’

‘He has a pocket watch.’

She shrugged. ‘No bracelets? No rings?’

‘No jewellery of any kind,’ he agreed.

‘Don’t cufflinks count?’

‘That’s not it. There’s something else. Might not be important.’

She leaned closer, frowned, then shook her head again.

‘Tell-tale stubble?’ he tried.

‘What?’ She leaned closer. ‘He shaves his arms?’

He slid the sleeves back down. ‘And no tattoos. At least, as far as we can tell.’ He patted the suit from top to bottom – nothing in the pockets – then slipped a hand into the inside jacket pocket. Empty. No wallet, no mobile, just as Dainty had said. He avoided the urge to scratch his head in comic puzzlement. If this was a murder victim, he was missing something. But what, he couldn’t say at that moment.

‘What’s this?’ Jessie said, her fingers brushing the man’s beard at his jawline. ‘Is it a birthmark? Or …?’

He pressed his hand to the man’s face, rubbed his fingers through the beard. No raised skin, only what looked like a couple of red marks an inch or so apart, that were neither raised nor open. He peered closer, parting the facial hair as best he could. Was this what Dainty was wanting him to confirm? Could this be the reason Mike Elgin, investigative journalist, male model about town, had found himself in the Clyde and consequently drowned?

He pulled back, pushed to his feet, and faced Jessie.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

He nodded. ‘He’s been tasered.’

‘So … someone attacked him.’

Gilchrist tried to picture the scene in his mind’s eye.

Had Elgin been meeting someone, perhaps by the River Clyde? On the landscaped walkway? Or on one of the bridges that spanned the river? If so, and it was a big if, would an experienced journalist like Elgin have agreed to meet out of range of CCTV cameras? If he’d had any suspicions or fears for his life, Elgin would surely have met where his meeting could be recorded on CCTV. On the other hand, the meeting might have been arranged by his killer-to-be, or killers-to-be – now why had he thought there might be more than one killer? – then it might have been set someplace beyond the reach of CCTV cameras. But Scotland, particularly within city limits, had to be one of the most CCTV-ed countries on the planet. All they had to do was examine recorded CCTV footage, and they would find who tasered Mike Elgin. Of course, trying to work out where the meeting could have been held in a city of over a million people – if there even had been a meeting – was an impossible task. But if you focused on footage by the River Clyde, surely that would improve the odds—

‘Earth to Andy?’

He turned to see Jessie frowning at him. ‘What’s that?’

‘I was saying, before we jump to any conclusions that might result in us looking kind of foolish, we should turn the body over. Check it out more thoroughly. Just in case.’ She placed a hand under the body’s shoulder. ‘Help me. He’s a dead weight, excuse the pun.’

He nodded, his thoughts not fully back to the present. But he assisted Jessie in rolling the body over onto its side, just enough to permit her to search for signs of obvious wounds. He said nothing while she ran her fingers over the back of the head, then leaned closer as if she’d noticed something.

‘You see this?’ she said, more to herself than Gilchrist. ‘Looks like a cut. More graze than cut. It’s not open. Could’ve happened before the attack, or after. Who knows. But it’s not severe enough to knock him unconscious, I’d say.’

Gilchrist said, ‘Tasered. But not accurate enough, so it doesn’t immobilise him. He stumbles. Falls into river. Hits the back of his head on the way down. But only a graze.’ He paused, letting his mind work the scene, then said, ‘If he’s still conscious, couldn’t he swim?’

Jessie squinted up at him. ‘Fully clothed. Shoes on. Even if he could, it might’ve been a struggle just to stay afloat. Or maybe where he fell in he couldn’t pull himself out for some reason.’

Just then, the side of the tent flapped, and Dainty said, ‘Got a minute?’

Not a question.

Gilchrist eased the body onto its back again, leaving Jessie to finish up whatever she felt she had to do, then followed Dainty from the tent.

DI Annie Melton stood facing them,

‘Tells us what you think,’ Dainty asked.

‘Could Elgin swim?’

‘How the fuck would I know?’ Dainty grumbled.

‘We need to find that out. Could be important. Because he drowned. Which you knew, of course.’

Dainty raised his head and eyed him as if suspicious. Then he tightened his lips, and nodded. ‘And …?’

‘I’d say he’s been attacked. Tasered. Then either fell into the Clyde, or was pushed.’

‘So not suicide.’ A statement, not a question.

‘Not if he’s been tasered.’ A pause, then, ‘It’d be man-hour intensive, but if we could approximate time and place we might find CCTV footage of the actual incident.’

Again, Dainty nodded.

Gilchrist pressed on. ‘What did you find in his personal effects?’

Dainty’s mobile appeared in his hand as if from nowhere. He nodded to DI Melton. ‘Annie’ll bring you up to speed.’ Then he turned and walked off, mobile to his ear, just as Jessie exited the forensic tent.

‘He seems reluctant to give much away,’ Gilchrist said to Melton.

‘There’s a reason for that,’ she said, her accent Glaswegian-hard with the rough rasp of sixty-a-day. Then she added, ‘Where’re youse parked?’

‘Behind Dainty’s Volvo. Clydeview.’

‘I’ll talk. You drive.’

The walk back along the footpath was done at a leisurely pace, like a group of walkers out for a carefree morning stroll. The river haar had cleared, a breeze had picked up, and the sun was doing its best to break through the clouds, but not quite succeeding.

‘What did Dainty tell you about Leila Hazazi?’ Melton asked.

‘That she disappeared four weeks ago. And her case has been escalated to a murder investigation.’

Melton nodded in agreement, then said, ‘I’m the SIO for that investigation, and we’ve been working day and night on it for the last three and a half weeks. Ten of us. And it’s not enough. The way things are going, we’d still get nowhere with a hundred of us working our arses off.’

‘And you believe Mike Elgin’s murder is linked?’ Gilchrist said.

‘Bet my life on it.’

‘So the discovery of Elgin’s body could give you new leads, and be seen as a potential break in the case.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘And another way?’

‘The stakes are rising.’

He looked at Melton, waiting for her to expand, but like Dainty she seemed reluctant to share her thoughts. ‘Look,’ he said, struggling to contain his frustration, ‘I got a call from Dainty before six this morning, asking for my help. So, here I am … here we are,’ he added, just to make it clear that Jessie was part of the team.

Melton glanced at Jessie, as if considering whether or not to include her, then said, ‘Dainty said you were well in with Jock Shepherd.’

A blast from the past. Big Jock Shepherd, once Glasgow’s and many might say Scotland’s crime patriarch, a name he hadn’t expected to hear again. But here it was. A bolt from the blue. But big Jock was long dead, so what was Dainty going on about?

‘I wouldn’t say I was well in with Jock, but I met him from time to time.’ A glance at Jessie. ‘We both have.’

‘His daughter, Arletta, now runs the family business.’

‘I’d heard. But in her defence, I believe she’s trying to make a legitimate go of it.’ He and Jessie had taken a few more steps before he realised Melton had stopped walking.

‘In her defence …?’ she said. ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

He was surprised by her anger, the speed with which it had risen, but just as puzzled by the scowl on her face, as if she’d sipped a spoonful of Bitrex and was deciding whether or not to spit it out. He returned her hard gaze with a steady one of his own, and forced himself to keep his tone level – no need to fall out with anyone. Well, not until he knew what was going on at least. ‘That she’s no Jock Shepherd, is what it means. Nothing more.’

That seemed to do the trick, for Melton nodded. . .