Gilchrist almost expected the petrified lions to spring to life. ‘Is there some problem?’
‘Routine enquiry.’
‘We’re running late.’
‘I won’t keep your wife long.’ Gilchrist wondered if they could see through his alcoholic glaze and know he had been pretty much legless the night before. He chewed his gum, but the fur persisted like moss in grass. Then, with a speed that almost made him start, Pennycuick removed a mobile from his suit pocket, a gesture at which his wife stepped back as if in resigned agreement.
As Gilchrist followed her into the front lounge, he heard her husband bark into the phone that all his appointments should be pushed back one hour. Just how late were they running anyway?
The front lounge looked and smelled of money. Cornicing bordered the high ceiling. The walls were dark, papered in a rich burgundy. A Bechstein grand piano stood in the corner by the curved bay window, cleared of clutter and glistening with the fresh sheen of varnish. Side tables, four in total, dark wood and polished, accompanied the seating, their tops littered with framed family photographs.
Jeanette held out her hand, directing Gilchrist to a sofa close to the piano. As he sat, she took the chair opposite, conjuring an image in his mind of her listening to her husband playing.
Gilchrist nodded to the piano. ‘Do you play?’
‘No.’
‘Your husband?’
‘The children.’
On the table to his left, a gallery of framed photographs stood like a phalanx of some two-dimensional army. He eyed the closest frame. ‘Is this them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Names?’
‘Penny and James.’
The boy looked frail and tired, barely smiling at the camera. Beside him stood a young girl, more attractive than beautiful, and he wondered what kind of parents would dare name their daughter Penny Pennycuick.
‘Gone to school already, have they?’
‘They’re both through university.’
Pennycuick entered the front room, stuffing his phone into his inside jacket pocket. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I have a busy day ahead. What’s this about?’
Gilchrist rested his elbows on his knees, tempted for a moment to ignore him. ‘I’m here to talk to your wife,’ he replied. ‘So don’t let me keep you from your office.’
‘Hospital. I’m a consultant at the Western. And I drive my wife to the city centre. Who did you say you were with?’ he ordered.
‘I didn’t. But I’m with Fife Constabulary.’
‘Fife?’ He frowned. ‘Are you not out of your jurisdiction?’
Gilchrist pulled himself to his feet. At six-one, he stood a couple of inches shorter than Pennycuick. ‘I can obtain a warrant, if that would make you feel more comfortable. Then we could talk at Police Headquarters in Glenrothes in a day or so.’ He let his words settle. ‘Or we can talk now. Informally.’ He smiled at both of them in turn. ‘Whichever way’s fine with me.’
‘How can we help?’ It was Jeanette.
Gilchrist decided to remain standing. He explained about the skeleton, and how the police were now tasked with identifying the woman they guessed had been in her late teens, early twenties when she had died. Both Jeanette and her husband listened in silence.
‘You were at St Andrews University in ’69.’
‘Yes. I graduated in ’71 with a first in English Lit.’
He asked her where and when she was born, where she lived as a child, what her parents did, why she chose St Andrews, and all the while her husband shuffled around in the background with barely masked impatience. Gilchrist strode past the piano and looked out of the bay window. On the opposite side of the street, a row of terraced houses staggered up the shallow incline. ‘Nice view,’ he said. ‘A bit different from life as a student.’
‘In what way?’
He turned, surprised by her question. ‘Living the life of penury,’ he said, and let his gaze drift around the room. ‘This is a palatial home.’
‘My parents are wealthy,’ she explained. ‘I’ve
‘Routine enquiry.’
‘We’re running late.’
‘I won’t keep your wife long.’ Gilchrist wondered if they could see through his alcoholic glaze and know he had been pretty much legless the night before. He chewed his gum, but the fur persisted like moss in grass. Then, with a speed that almost made him start, Pennycuick removed a mobile from his suit pocket, a gesture at which his wife stepped back as if in resigned agreement.
As Gilchrist followed her into the front lounge, he heard her husband bark into the phone that all his appointments should be pushed back one hour. Just how late were they running anyway?
The front lounge looked and smelled of money. Cornicing bordered the high ceiling. The walls were dark, papered in a rich burgundy. A Bechstein grand piano stood in the corner by the curved bay window, cleared of clutter and glistening with the fresh sheen of varnish. Side tables, four in total, dark wood and polished, accompanied the seating, their tops littered with framed family photographs.
Jeanette held out her hand, directing Gilchrist to a sofa close to the piano. As he sat, she took the chair opposite, conjuring an image in his mind of her listening to her husband playing.
Gilchrist nodded to the piano. ‘Do you play?’
‘No.’
‘Your husband?’
‘The children.’
On the table to his left, a gallery of framed photographs stood like a phalanx of some two-dimensional army. He eyed the closest frame. ‘Is this them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Names?’
‘Penny and James.’
The boy looked frail and tired, barely smiling at the camera. Beside him stood a young girl, more attractive than beautiful, and he wondered what kind of parents would dare name their daughter Penny Pennycuick.
‘Gone to school already, have they?’
‘They’re both through university.’
Pennycuick entered the front room, stuffing his phone into his inside jacket pocket. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I have a busy day ahead. What’s this about?’
Gilchrist rested his elbows on his knees, tempted for a moment to ignore him. ‘I’m here to talk to your wife,’ he replied. ‘So don’t let me keep you from your office.’
‘Hospital. I’m a consultant at the Western. And I drive my wife to the city centre. Who did you say you were with?’ he ordered.
‘I didn’t. But I’m with Fife Constabulary.’
‘Fife?’ He frowned. ‘Are you not out of your jurisdiction?’
Gilchrist pulled himself to his feet. At six-one, he stood a couple of inches shorter than Pennycuick. ‘I can obtain a warrant, if that would make you feel more comfortable. Then we could talk at Police Headquarters in Glenrothes in a day or so.’ He let his words settle. ‘Or we can talk now. Informally.’ He smiled at both of them in turn. ‘Whichever way’s fine with me.’
‘How can we help?’ It was Jeanette.
Gilchrist decided to remain standing. He explained about the skeleton, and how the police were now tasked with identifying the woman they guessed had been in her late teens, early twenties when she had died. Both Jeanette and her husband listened in silence.
‘You were at St Andrews University in ’69.’
‘Yes. I graduated in ’71 with a first in English Lit.’
He asked her where and when she was born, where she lived as a child, what her parents did, why she chose St Andrews, and all the while her husband shuffled around in the background with barely masked impatience. Gilchrist strode past the piano and looked out of the bay window. On the opposite side of the street, a row of terraced houses staggered up the shallow incline. ‘Nice view,’ he said. ‘A bit different from life as a student.’
‘In what way?’
He turned, surprised by her question. ‘Living the life of penury,’ he said, and let his gaze drift around the room. ‘This is a palatial home.’
‘My parents are wealthy,’ she explained. ‘I’ve
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