laundry basket and samples of her hair from a hairbrush in the bathroom. They also took tubes of oils from her studio and lifted a perfect set of fingerprints from a coffee mug on a table by her easel.
By 10:45, and back in St. Andrews, Gilchrist had done all he could, and drew his day to a close. He drove to Fisherman’s Cottage, and arrived home this side of midnight to find Jack crashed out on the settee, TV still on, and a half finished bottle of Glenfiddich standing upright on the coffee table. He decided not to waken him, and went to bed, his heart torn for Chloe and hurting for Jack.
He slept in confusing fits and sweating starts, his mind firing images of Gail in tears, only to morph into a waif-like Chloe who turned away to swirl paint onto an upright canvas with handless stumps. He pulled himself from bed at 5:00 and checked on Jack, pleased to see he had made it to the spare bedroom, and the bottle of Glenfiddich still at half-mast.
On the drive to the Office, he called Forensics who confirmed the fingerprints from the coffee cup matched those of the amputated right hand, and an appeal for information on Chloe’s whereabouts went out on the national and local news that day. Strathclyde Police had a young PW put on Chloe’s clothes—black jeans, top, shoes, jacket—and walk from Jack’s flat down to Byres Road then on to Great Western. Without knowing which route Chloe might have taken, they tried several. By the end of the day no one had come forward. It seemed as if Chloe had stepped from Jack’s flat and vanished in broad daylight.
To make matters worse, Bertie McKinnon, a local hack with a pathological distrust of Fife Constabulary, and Gilchrist in particular, stirred up local discontent with a passion. The incompetence of the Crime Management Department was spread across the front pages for all to see, with photographs of Gilchrist, the hapless SIO, in an assortment of unflattering poses. One inflammatory photo showed him standing alone on the sixteenth fairway, looking at his feet, scratching his head, under the headline WHAT TO DO ? Another caught him stepping out of Lafferty’s with the caption MURDER’S THIRSTY WORK .
In support of Strathclyde’s efforts, teams of plain-clothed detectives and uniformed constables from Fife Constabulary were dispatched throughout the east coast. Farms on the outskirts of St. Andrews were searched. Gardens, outhouses, sheds, huts, barns, stables, even pig sties and a child’s tree-house were all turned over.
But they found nothing.
And nothing could be made of the two notes. It was a mathematical impossibility to find a sequence from only two words. No fingerprints were evident, as if the notes had been first cleaned then slipped between lifeless digits. Only Watt’s fingerprints were found on the scrap of paper pulled from under his windscreen wipers. And Watt still maintained that he removed it withoutthinking, believing it to be nothing more than an advertising flyer.
By the end of the third day, the investigation appeared to be stalling. All they seemed to have was a list of names and addresses of artists and students, parents and cousins, shop owners and paint suppliers.
But no suspects. Not even close.
Although Gilchrist would never say it, he was praying the killer would feed them another body part with another note, just so he had something to go on. So, when Greaves called him into his office, he expected the worst.
Newspapers lay scattered across the surface of Greaves’ desk.
Gilchrist closed the door with a firm click.
“What the hell’s wrong with this bloody fool, McKinnon?” Greaves slapped the back of his hand across a front page photograph of the SOCO van on the sixteenth fairway. Three SOCOs, coverall hoods pulled back to reveal smiling faces, sipped tea from a silver flask and ate sandwiches. The caption TEE BREAK summed it up.
“He hates the local police,” Gilchrist said.
“But you in particular, Andy.” Greaves lowered
By 10:45, and back in St. Andrews, Gilchrist had done all he could, and drew his day to a close. He drove to Fisherman’s Cottage, and arrived home this side of midnight to find Jack crashed out on the settee, TV still on, and a half finished bottle of Glenfiddich standing upright on the coffee table. He decided not to waken him, and went to bed, his heart torn for Chloe and hurting for Jack.
He slept in confusing fits and sweating starts, his mind firing images of Gail in tears, only to morph into a waif-like Chloe who turned away to swirl paint onto an upright canvas with handless stumps. He pulled himself from bed at 5:00 and checked on Jack, pleased to see he had made it to the spare bedroom, and the bottle of Glenfiddich still at half-mast.
On the drive to the Office, he called Forensics who confirmed the fingerprints from the coffee cup matched those of the amputated right hand, and an appeal for information on Chloe’s whereabouts went out on the national and local news that day. Strathclyde Police had a young PW put on Chloe’s clothes—black jeans, top, shoes, jacket—and walk from Jack’s flat down to Byres Road then on to Great Western. Without knowing which route Chloe might have taken, they tried several. By the end of the day no one had come forward. It seemed as if Chloe had stepped from Jack’s flat and vanished in broad daylight.
To make matters worse, Bertie McKinnon, a local hack with a pathological distrust of Fife Constabulary, and Gilchrist in particular, stirred up local discontent with a passion. The incompetence of the Crime Management Department was spread across the front pages for all to see, with photographs of Gilchrist, the hapless SIO, in an assortment of unflattering poses. One inflammatory photo showed him standing alone on the sixteenth fairway, looking at his feet, scratching his head, under the headline WHAT TO DO ? Another caught him stepping out of Lafferty’s with the caption MURDER’S THIRSTY WORK .
In support of Strathclyde’s efforts, teams of plain-clothed detectives and uniformed constables from Fife Constabulary were dispatched throughout the east coast. Farms on the outskirts of St. Andrews were searched. Gardens, outhouses, sheds, huts, barns, stables, even pig sties and a child’s tree-house were all turned over.
But they found nothing.
And nothing could be made of the two notes. It was a mathematical impossibility to find a sequence from only two words. No fingerprints were evident, as if the notes had been first cleaned then slipped between lifeless digits. Only Watt’s fingerprints were found on the scrap of paper pulled from under his windscreen wipers. And Watt still maintained that he removed it withoutthinking, believing it to be nothing more than an advertising flyer.
By the end of the third day, the investigation appeared to be stalling. All they seemed to have was a list of names and addresses of artists and students, parents and cousins, shop owners and paint suppliers.
But no suspects. Not even close.
Although Gilchrist would never say it, he was praying the killer would feed them another body part with another note, just so he had something to go on. So, when Greaves called him into his office, he expected the worst.
Newspapers lay scattered across the surface of Greaves’ desk.
Gilchrist closed the door with a firm click.
“What the hell’s wrong with this bloody fool, McKinnon?” Greaves slapped the back of his hand across a front page photograph of the SOCO van on the sixteenth fairway. Three SOCOs, coverall hoods pulled back to reveal smiling faces, sipped tea from a silver flask and ate sandwiches. The caption TEE BREAK summed it up.
“He hates the local police,” Gilchrist said.
“But you in particular, Andy.” Greaves lowered
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