The Murder List

Book 10: DCI Andy Gilchrist

by T.F. Muir

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

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

St. Andrews, Scotland: When an elderly woman's naked body is found in her home, crucified to the floor, DCI Andy Gilchrist and his associate, DS Jessie Janes, find themselves in a hunt for a brutal serial killer. As the body count rises, suspicion falls on Tap 'Dancer' McCrear, a career criminal recently released from prison after serving fifteen years for a murder he swore he never committed.

As Gilchrist begins to uncover the terrifying truth behind each of the killings, his worst fears are realised when he learns that McCrear is killing everyone involved in his murder trial... for it was Gilchrist who arrested McCrear all those years ago.

High-flying Detective Superintendent Rommie Frazier, who leads the multi-constabulary task force searching for McCrear, clashes with Gilchrist over the detail of the investigation, and demands his removal. But Gilchrist won't leave without a fight, for he knows it is up to him to find Tap McCrear... before his own name is struck off the murder list.

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

'DCI Gilchrist gets under your skin. Tough, 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

6.38 a.m., Monday 17 March

West Sands, St Andrews, Fife, Scotland

DCI Andy Gilchrist’s breath fogged the air in thick clouds that burst from his lungs in painful gasps. A quick glance at his Fitbit monitor showed a pulse rate of 112 – higher than he would’ve liked. But he gritted his teeth and pressed on. About 800 metres to go, as best he estimated – half a mile in old money. He concentrated his gaze on the Macdonald Rusacks Hotel in the distance or, more correctly, a patio window that overlooked the balcony above the Rocca Restaurant, glowing yellow from a bedroom lamp within—

His mobile vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket – ID Jessie – slowed down as he made the connection, his logic warning him that Jessie wouldn’t call at that hour in the morning unless it was serious. He drew to a halt, and gasped, ‘Yeah?’

‘We’ve got another one,’ she said, without introduction.

Gilchrist sucked in lungfuls of air, unable to speak.

‘You all right?’

‘Yeah,’ he managed. Two more deep breaths settled the pounding in his chest enough for him to say, ‘Another … as in … you think it’s … the same killer?’

‘Yes. No doubts. None at all.’

He’d never known Detective Sergeant Jessie Janes to be indirect, but something in the rush of her voice warned him that this recent murder was one of the worst she’d seen. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

‘Margaret Rickard. Sixty-three. Employed with Santander for fifteen years as an HRD assistant. Retired two years ago. Lived alone. Never married. One brother. Older. Tom. He called it in.’

‘Tom found her?’

‘Took his dogs for a walk this morning. Popped into her home in Kincaple to make her a cup of tea. Said he and Margaret have been early risers their whole lives. Said they were close and kept in touch mostly every other day. He’s a wreck, the poor sod.’ She let out a pained sigh. ‘No bloody wonder.’

Gilchrist felt that familiar frisson shiver his spine, a sensation he always felt at the start of an investigation. Of course, as he was presently signed off from work, this wasn’t his investigation per se. Still, he and Jessie had kept in contact over the last four weeks, she on the pretext of asking how he was keeping; he to keep up with Office matters – you could only take so much of not being part of a working unit—

‘It’s early days,’ she said, ‘but as best we can tell there’s no connection between Rickard and Soutar.’

Adam Soutar, this killer’s first victim. ‘Was Soutar a customer of her bank?’

‘No. RBS.’

‘How about Tom? Maybe he knew Soutar?’

‘No. According to Tom, the name Adam Soutar means nothing to him.’

Gilchrist didn’t want to give up on the idea that Rickard and Soutar somehow knew each other, but his team would uncover a connection if one existed. His breath had settled, his thoughts seemed clearer. ‘Where did he find his sister?’

‘In the living room.’

‘So how did he get in? Does he have a key?’

‘He does. Said he rang the bell, but Margaret didn’t answer. She’s usually up and about at that time. So he let himself in.’

‘When did he last speak to her? Did he say?’

‘Saturday afternoon. Last time he visited.’

‘He hadn’t phoned her since?’

‘Haven’t checked that yet. But there’s no reason for him to lie.’

Probably not, although Gilchrist knew from experience that you never could tell. ‘Any sign of forced entry?’

‘None.’

‘So how did the killer get in?’

‘Maybe he knew her?’

He pressed the phone to his ear, preparing for the brutal stuff. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s have the details.’

‘Tom found her on her back, on the living-room floor. Naked. Spread-eagled. Hands and feet nailed through the carpet.’

‘Post mortem?’ he asked, more in hope than curiosity.

‘Too much blood. She was definitely alive when the nails were hammered in.’

‘Dear God.’ He closed his eyes. How anyone could do that to another human being didn’t compute. He didn’t think that nailing someone to the floor in a crucifixion-like form was intended to send any kind of anti-religious message. No, not at all. He thought he knew the psychopathic mindset well enough to know that this MO was the work of someone who needed to experience ultimate domination, control of life over death, and to inflict unbearable pain – and humiliation, of course. Let’s not forget humiliation.

He opened his eyes. ‘She was naked. Where were her clothes?’

‘On the settee.’

‘Neatly folded?’

‘Yes.’

Well, there he had it. If ever he had doubts that it was not the same killer, they were quashed right there. And in his mind’s eye, he ran through the scenario preceding this latest killing: Margaret Rickard, a retired woman in her sixties, shaking with mind-numbing fear as she is instructed to strip naked – Take them off. The lot. That’s it. To the buff – her killer-to-be gloating with psychopathic satisfaction as she peels off her bra with hesitant shame, then with a final shiver of resignation steps out of her underwear to stand before him …

Now why him? Why not her?

But he cast off that thought. Too much strength needed to overpower a man as big and as fit as Adam Soutar – six two, eighteen stone, known to be a serious hill climber, someone who would not be overpowered by gentle force. No, this killer was male. Strong. And fit. He had to be. So …

He pulled his thoughts back … she stands before him.

Naked. Trembling. Terrified of what is about to happen.

Then what?

Her soon-to-be killer watches with grim-faced impatience, eager now to get on with his murderous task, as she follows his next instruction. Struggling in vain to hide her nudity, she folds her clothes one by one, piece by piece, taking care to press each garment flat – just as Soutar had done – before placing them on the settee in a neat pile.

Then came the part that Gilchrist struggled to comprehend.

‘Any signs of resistance?’ he asked.

‘None.’

‘So she lies down on the floor, stretches her arms and legs wide, and lets herself be nailed to the floor?’

‘That’s what it looks like.’

Just like Soutar, a powerful man who appeared to have simply spread himself out on his bedroom carpet without objection, and let himself be nailed to the floor. It didn’t make sense. Doctor Rebecca Cooper, Fife’s foremost forensic pathologist, confirmed no drugs in Soutar’s system, other than a mild level of alcohol equivalent to a couple of glasses of wine, which Soutar had been known to favour, more or less on a daily basis.

‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

‘That makes two of us.’

‘Where’s Soutar’s body now?’

‘Still at Bell Street with her Royal Highness.’

Bell Street Mortuary was where Cooper performed postmortem examinations. If she had unresolved concerns over cause of death, she wouldn’t release the body until she’d ticked all the boxes. On hearing about Soutar’s murder on the news, then phoning Jessie for details, Gilchrist had resisted the urge to visit the mortuary – after all, he’d only been signed off that week. But he made a mental note to talk to Cooper later that morning, and felt a bitter wave of resolve sweep through him as he prepared for the question he barely had the nerve to ask.

He faced the sea, focused on a light on the horizon, and steeled himself. ‘Any other injuries to the body?’

‘Her tongue’s been cut out.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ He emptied his lungs, then sucked in air for all he was worth. He struggled to block out the horrifying image, shifted his gaze to the Eden Estuary, and forced his mind to recall a recent photograph he’d taken from the West Sands – black sea lightening under a heavy-clouded dawn sky, Tentsmuir Beach a sliver of white on the other side of the estuary. It looked as if he’d printed the photo in black and white, but that February morning had been so dull the world could have been devoid of colour.

But it was no use.

Unsummoned images flickered into his mind in blood-red flashes. You couldn’t pull out a tongue with your fingers – too slippery – and the body’s natural reaction would retract it into the mouth. No, you needed some tool to grip it and stretch it long enough to remove it with a scalpel. He felt certain it had to be a spiked tool of sorts to pierce the tongue and grip it with no fear of slipping – like a carpet fitter’s knee kicker. But knee kickers were hefty pieces of equipment, and too big to squeeze into—

‘You still there?’

‘Yeah, I’m just …’ He shook his head and turned from the estuary, found his gaze returning to the Rusacks as his fear of the next question grew. Even so, he had to ask. ‘Was she alive when her tongue was cut out?’

‘Looks that way. Fair amount of blood on her face, neck, and carpet.’

‘And the tape?’

‘Yes.’ Jessie let out a sigh. ‘Mouth taped. Nose, too.’

Just like Soutar.

He closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose until he felt pain. Nailed to the floor, staked out naked and helpless, unable to breathe, the stump of your tongue bleeding profusely, it would take less than a few minutes to drown in your blood – not to mention the pain that would surely push you to the brink of unconsciousness as your body writhed in agony against the nails in a futile struggle to stay alive …

He opened his eyes, and realised he hadn’t asked the obvious. Soutar’s body had gone through one final act of humiliation – a single vertical cut through his left nipple, confirmed by Cooper to have been done post mortem. No one could explain why the killer had cut through Soutar’s nipple, other than to suggest it was some act of depravity from which he took sickening satisfaction, God only knew why.

‘Any post-mortem cuts?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Jessie said.

Her hesitancy had him asking, ‘Through her nipple?’

She let out a heavy sigh, warning him that worse was yet to come. ‘Again, it’s early days, Andy, but I don’t think Soutar’s nipple was cut just for the hell of it. The killer was leaving us a message.’

‘A message? What sort of message could a sliced nipple leave?’

‘He was cutting a number.’

‘Ah,’ he said, as his sense of logic gave him the answer. The single slice through Soutar’s nipple could mean only one thing. Number one. Soutar was his first victim. ‘And you know that now,’ he said, ‘because the number two was cut into—’

‘No, Andy. Try four.’

His breath clogged in his throat. Four could mean only one thing. Dear God, surely never. ‘So there are two more victims—’

‘Correct—’

‘Nailed to some floor in some building—’

‘Correct—’

‘And no one has a bloody clue where.’

‘None whatsoever,’ she added.

The difficulty facing the investigation team struck him with such overwhelming force that his immediate thoughts were of certain failure. Victims one and four had been found in the Kingdom of Fife; Adam Soutar in his home in Cupar, Margaret Rickard in her home in Kincaple on the outskirts of St Andrews. But it didn’t necessarily follow that victims two and three had also been killed in Fife – provided, of course, that one and four referred to the order of the killings, and not to some obscure numerical code known only to the killer. But with nothing to go on, he said, ‘I need to see Soutar’s files.’

‘Already on your desk. As soon as I saw the number four, I knew you couldn’t resist. Besides,’ she added, ‘we could really use some help.’ A pause, then, ‘Where are you? Want me to pick you up?’

‘How soon can you get to the Office?’

‘Fifteen minutes, give or take.’

‘Make it twenty, and bring the coffees.’

She chuckled. ‘Want to share a muffin?’

But Gilchrist had already ended the call, and was jogging back to his car.

When Gilchrist entered the North Street Police Station for the first time in four weeks, it felt surreal, as if he wasn’t there at all, but was recalling memories through anxious dreams while he convalesced at home like Dr McAuley – his local GP – insisted he should. Take it easy, and put your feet up for once in your life. But being signed off for eight weeks due to ill health – even though he had the toughest time acknowledging that exhaustion could in any way be termed ill health – was more than he could be expected to handle.

Upstairs, he entered his office and was overcome by the oddest sense of stepping into the room for the first time, or perhaps more correctly, the uneasy feeling that his position of Detective Chief Inspector of St Andrews CID had long been forgotten. Gone were walls that once held tattered corkboards crammed with highlighted memos, dog-eared reports, scribbled Post-its, spiked to the cork with more pins than a hedgehog has spines. Gone, too, was his whiteboard that traced a history of past investigations, older case notes visible only as wiped-out ghostly images over which more recent timelines, places, names of suspects, had been circled, boxed or linked with arrowed lines that swept with investigative certainty from one to the other. Instead, in their place hung two whiteboards, pristine clean, magnetic markers and a row of coloured pens neatly positioned in the boards’ trays.

The wall by the side of his desk, on which he’d Sellotaped handwritten to-do lists or blue-tacked crime scene photographs, had been stripped clean, too, patched up and painted. In fact, as he took his seat at his desk he saw that the entire room had been painted. He tried to remember what shade of cream the walls had been – lighter or darker? – but his thoughts were distracted by a loose-leafed folder that sat squarely on his uncluttered desk.

He opened it and forced himself to study the crime scene photographs.

Adam Soutar’s unseeing eyes stared out at him, wide and petrified, as if he’d peered over his taped nose and died from shock. Gilchrist flipped onto the next image – another of Soutar’s face, not as close-up – which showed trails of blood over his bare chest. He flipped to the next image – more of the same – then the next, and the next, and again until he was turning over the photos like a card shark searching for a missing ace.

Even so, it was no use. He pushed to his feet, reached for the window, and opened it wide. He sucked in clean, cold air. His head spun, his peripheral vision darkened, and for one moment he wasn’t sure if he was having a panic attack, or suffering from the exertion of his early morning jog. He found himself placing both hands on the window sill, closing his eyes, and lowering his head until the dizziness passed—

‘Got a blueberry muffin to share,’ Jessie said. ‘Your favourite.’

He turned from the window, tried to give her a smile, but failed.

Jessie frowned for a moment, then caught sight of the opened folder. ‘Bloody horrific, isn’t it?’ She held out his Starbucks. ‘Your usual latte. That’ll get rid of the foul taste in your mouth.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, and took a welcoming sip.

She grimaced, nodded to the crime scene photographs. ‘I won’t challenge you with details of where I’ve just come from. But I’m sorry to say it’s more of the same.’ She tore off a chunk of muffin, threw it into her mouth, and downed it with a slug of coffee. ‘I was doing well with my diet until this morning. No chocolate. No muffins. Now I know you’re to blame.’ Another sip, then, ‘You not having any?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll stick with this for the time being.’

‘Are you sure?’ Her hand hovered over the muffin.

‘Positive.’

‘Your choice.’ It didn’t take her long to devour the rest of the muffin, three bites as it turned out. She dabbed a tissue at her lips, then grinned. ‘I’d forgotten how good these are.’ She nodded to the folder again. ‘You get a chance to read any of that?’

He shook his head. ‘Just the photographs.’

She reached for the folder, flipped through the photos one by one. She stopped at a close-up of Soutar’s bare chest, then pulled the image closer. ‘You know, I hadn’t noticed until now, but that cut’s sliced right through the centre of his nipple as if he’s measured it precisely.’

Intrigued, Gilchrist leaned forward and, with a sense of purpose that time, managed to study the image with professional dispassion. Sure enough, the skin above and beneath the nipple appeared to have been sliced in equal lengths. The open cut went through the centre of the nipple with almost surgical precision. He thought it odd, but said nothing.

‘Now I’ve noticed that,’ Jessie said, ‘it makes sense of the mess this morning.’

‘What do you mean?’ It was all he could think to ask.

Jessie removed a pen from her pocket and opened her notebook. She drew a small circle, and crossed two lines through it – left to right, and top to bottom – forming the shape of a cross. Then she drew a diagonal line to create the number four. She held the notebook out to him. ‘That’s how Margaret Rickard’s nipple was cut,’ she said. ‘With precision.’

‘And equally spaced?’

‘As if he’s measured it.’

‘So we’re looking for a psychopathic killer with OCD tendencies?’

Jessie shrugged her shoulders. ‘All I’m saying is, that it’s odd. Don’t you think? But now I think about it …’ She flicked through more images of Soutar’s body until she found what she was looking for. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take a look.’

Gilchrist stared at Soutar’s face, his mouth taped with duct tape, his nose, too. It took several seconds before he thought he saw what Jessie seemed excited about. ‘It’s as if he’s placed the duct tape across his mouth and nose with care,’ he said.

‘Try precision,’ she said. ‘See? The tape’s been cut with scissors, not ripped.’

‘It’s duct tape. You can’t tear it off like masking tape. You have to cut it.’

‘But do you have to line it up?’ She pulled the photo closer. ‘He puts the tape over the mouth first, then stretches another strip over the nose, so that the ends match up.’

Gilchrist had to agree. Soutar’s nose had been flattened to one side by the tape being stretched to line up the ends. But something still wasn’t right. ‘He couldn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Think about it. He’s cut the tongue out. Soutar’s alive and kicking, about to drown in his own blood, and the killer takes time to place the tape over his nose and mouth with precision? I don’t see how that’s possible.’

Jessie stared at the image, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘You have a point.’

He took the photo from her, and pulled it close. He studied the image and came to see what he thought everyone, including himself, appeared to have missed. ‘Have another look at Soutar’s face,’ he said. ‘And tell me what you see.’

Jessie eyed the photo for a few seconds. ‘He looks terrified?’

‘Other than that.’

It took five more seconds before she squinted a look at him. ‘Is this you back to your old tricks, or what?’

‘Your tongue’s just been cut out, and you’re drowning in your own blood. You’d be coughing and spluttering and spattering blood all over the place.’

She frowned at the photo. ‘You’re right. There’s some blood, but not a lot.’

‘Cooper’s PM report concluded that Soutar died by drowning in his own blood. So was the tape placed there post mortem? Or not?’

‘Post mortem, I’d say. It’s too precise to be done when he’s alive.’

‘Agreed.’

‘So he waits until he’s dead, then tapes him up with precision.’

Gilchrist nodded, as other thoughts filtered through his mind. ‘I’m assuming we still have the tape,’ he said.

‘We do.’

‘If both strips of tape were placed post mortem, then I’d imagine the other side would show minimal blood, rather than being awash in the stuff.’

‘I’ll get onto that,’ Jessie said, then smiled up at him. ‘It’s good to have you back, Andy.’

He gave a wry smile, and closed Soutar’s folder with a finality he longed for. Then he walked from his desk to the window, all of a sudden overwhelmed by his return to the Office. Until that moment, he’d thought he’d been more than ready to get back to work, that he was taking unfair advantage of being signed off for eight weeks, being paid for taking the time to get into shape again; change of diet – less of the starchy stuff, and more fish and chicken; and a composite fitness regimen – light weights, take it easy with the trunk curls, timed jogs along the West Sands. But now he was back at the Office, looking at images that would be cut from triple X-rated horror movies, was he really ready for it?

He let his gaze drift over the old familiar scene below. Beyond the boundary walls, to the backs of the buildings on Market Street, in winter window boxes that sat on kitchen sills, he could just make out the faintest hints of colour – hyacinths, crocuses, winter aconites, past their best. In drab back lawns, daffodil stems poked through frosted soil as if to insist that winter really had passed, and spring was here at last. He found his thoughts drifting to his garden in Windmill Road, before his late wife, Gail, had left St Andrews and pissed off to Glasgow, both kids in tow, before he sold up and bought a cottage in Crail. He remembered how Gail used to spend hours tending bulbs in readiness for spring – one of the many things he liked about her – which had his thoughts returning to Margaret Rickard, retired, living in her cottage on her own, lonely, harmless, her life snuffed out for seemingly no reason. What had her thoughts been that morning? Now they were gone. She would never again see the heart-warming colours of spring, or smell the promise of summer on westerly breezes—

‘What’re you thinking, Andy?’

He kept his back to Jessie, and said, ‘Can you give me a few minutes?’

‘Everything all right?’

‘Just a few minutes, please.’

Without a word, she left the room.

He waited until he heard the lock click before he lifted a hand to his face and wiped it dry.

Despite his better judgement, Gilchrist instructed Jessie to make sure that Margaret Rickard’s body was not moved to the mortuary before he had a chance to inspect the crime scene. He wanted to do so with her body in situ, so to speak.

Now he was there, an almost overpowering sense of regret swamped his mind. He closed his car door and looked around him. The SOCO transit van was parked by the garden gate, doors open, as if abandoned. Metal plates, on which Scenes of Crime Officers and other members of the investigation team were obliged to walk – to preserve whatever forensic evidence might be available – were evenly spaced along the garden path. Cooper’s Range Rover, polished and shining good as new, stood parked at the end of the dirt driveway. He removed a packet of coveralls from the boot and pulled them on with thoughtful silence, taking care to tuck in loose strands of hair, all the while fighting off the urge just to turn around and drive home.

‘I’ll wait for you here,’ Jessie said.

He grimaced beneath his mask, thankful that it hid the hard set of his jaw, and hoped she hadn’t seen the uncertainty in his eyes.

At the entrance to the cottage, he hesitated, took one last look around him, like a prisoner taking a final look at life before stepping into the hanging chamber, then entered the kitchen area and walked to the living room …

He drew to a halt in the doorway, pressed a hand against it for support.

On the floor by the window lay the puce-skinned body of a naked woman, spread-eagled, supine, callused feet pointing to the ceiling. The heads of two six-inch nails protruded from just below her ankles, at the point where the foot’s smaller bones made the hammering less difficult. Twin trails of congealed blood painted her skin and ran to blackened pools on the carpet. The calves of her legs were loose-muscled, her heavy thighs, too, flattened and cratered with cellulite. Her pubic hair, greying and thinning, trailed to a stomach scarred with stretch marks that suggested childbirth or major weight loss. A pair of breasts drooped either side of her chest like empty saddlebags, and her arms, soft-muscled and folded in dimpled fat, reached out to the tell-tale glint of nail-heads in wrists striped with blood.

He swallowed a rising lump in his throat as he forced himself to study her face.

In the flesh, death looked different, the impossible stillness of the body difficult to take in. No ticking of blood pulsing beneath blood-striped skin. No flutter of eyelashes at the slightest movement of wind. No hint of warmth from an already stiffening body. He moved closer in a determined effort to view the victim’s face with professional dispassion.

Blood spatter ran over her chin, trailed across her chest. He didn’t have to peel back the tape to know that it marked the route her tongue had taken as it was removed from her mouth and deposited in … ? He couldn’t say, could only surmise that it had been taken as a trophy, put in a glass jar, or a plastic container. A tremor took hold of his legs as he imagined blood swelling from the stump of her tongue – an intensely vascular organ – to settle in her throat as she fought against the choking flow and the terrifying sensation of drowning. What must she have felt when the need to breathe or swallow was overcome by the horrifying realisation that she was about to die? But even so, her eyes seemed to lack that look of terror he’d picked up from Soutar’s photographs, as if at some point – perhaps at the exact moment of her dying – she had just given up, and succumbed with resolute calm to the inevitable.

Beads of sweat tickled his brow, and he realised he was breathing hard. He pulled himself upright, forced himself to take long breaths, then focused on the furnishings in the room, the often overlooked details of t. . .