HAND FOR A HAND

Chapter 1

Seventeenth Hole, Old Course

St. Andrews, Scotland

Tam Dunn watched the golf ball take a hard kick left and slip into the infamous Road Bunker, a sandy-bottomed pothole that fronted the seventeenth green. 

Bud Amherst, one of an American four-ball that teed off at seven o’clock that morning, first on the ballot, threw his five-iron to the ground and turned to face Tam.  “Goddammit,” he shouted.  “Course’s nuthin but sand traps.  Why the hell didn’t you tell me it was there?” 

The way Bud played golf it would have made no difference if Tam had first led him by the hand and stood him in the bunker.  But Tam the caddy, always hopeful of an American-sized tip, bit his tongue, and said, “My mistake, sir.” 

Close to the green, the Road Bunker looked like a hole in the ground, its seven-foot face a vertical wall of divot bricks that even the pros struggled to overcome. 

“Whaddaya think?” Bud asked Tam.

“Sand-iron, sir.”

“I know that, goddammit.  But when it lands on the green, which way’s it gonna break?” 

“About three feet from the left.”

“As much as that?”

“At least, sir.” 

Tam kept tight-lipped as he watched Bud take a few clumsy practice swings.  The only way Bud was going to get the ball onto that green, he thought, was to lift it and place it.  He watched Bud turn to the bunker, prepare to step into it, then stop and stumble backwards. 

“Aw God, aw God, aw God.”

“Sir?” 

Bud slumped to his knees.  The sand-iron slipped from his grip.  Hands pressed the grass to take his weight.  One of the Americans, the tall one called JD, trotted across the green, his face tight with concern. 

“Hey, Bud, you okay?”

Bud stretched an arm out behind him, flapped it at the bunker like a single-winged bird. 

Tam stepped to the lip of the bunker and stared down at the hand, at skin as white as porcelain, bony fingers clawed like talons.  Even from where he stood he could tell it was a woman’s hand, a fine hand, he thought, except the wrist looked butchered and bloodied, like a cut of meat hacked, not sliced, the bone glistening like a white disc smeared with blood. 

And all Tam’s hopes for an American-sized tip evaporated in the cold Scottish air. 

Chapter 2

“You’d better get down here, Andy.”

“Where’s here, Nance?”

“Seventeenth green.  Next to the Jigger Inn.”

Gilchrist drew his Mercedes SLK Roadster to the side of the road and pressed his cell-phone hard to his ear.  It had been a while since he had heard DC Nancy Wilson as breathless.  Not since they had run the length of the West Sands chasing what’s-his-name.  Blake.  That was it.  Murray Blake.  Rapist, serial shagger, petty thief.  How some people thought they could get away with it, never failed to amaze him. 

“What’s got you fired up?” he tried.

“Severed hand found in a bunker.  Chopped off at the wrist.  Victim’s in her early twenties, late teens¾”

“Her early twenties?”

“Sorry.  Yes.  It’s a woman’s hand.”

Gilchrist tugged the steering wheel hard right, floored the pedal, felt the tail-end throw out as the Merc spun in a tight circle.  “Any rings?” he asked.  “Moles?  Scars?”

“Nothing obvious.  Fingernails are short.  Not varnished.  Skin on the palm’s a bit rough.”

“Could the hand have been cut from a body in a grave?”

“Not a chance, Andy.  She’s been murdered.”

“Get onto the University, Nance.  Ask if any students have gone missing, called in sick, not turned up, whatever.”

“Got it.”

“Has Mackie seen it yet?”

“Just arrived.  Along with the SOCO’s.” 

“Estimated time of...”  He wanted to say, death, then chose, “...amputation?”

“Too early to say.”

“How about the other bunkers?”

“We’ve got a team walking the course.”

“Has the course been closed?”

“Can we do that?”

“Yes, Nance.  We can.  Get on with it.”  He listened to Nance call out an order, then knew from the fumbling on the mouthpiece that she was back.  “Who found the hand?” he asked.

“The day’s first four-ball.  All Americans.”

“Statements?”

“As we speak.” 

“Any thoughts?”

“Nothing definite.  The sand was smooth, which might suggest someone placed the hand in the bunker.” 

“As opposed to dropping it in?”

“Odd, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”  Gilchrist listened to the shudder of Nance’s breath and was again struck by the undercurrent of excitement in her voice.  “What’re you not telling me, Nance?”

“She, I mean, the hand, was holding a note.”  A pause, then, “Addressed to you.”

A frisson of ice touched the nape of Gilchrist’s neck.  He booted the Merc to seventy.  “What’s it say?” 

“Murder.”

“Murder?  Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“So,” Gilchrist said, “whoever severed the hand and placed it in the bunker is sending me a message.”

“Looks that way.”

“How was the note addressed?”

“Printed on the outside of the envelope.  Your name.  DCI Andrew Gilchrist.”

Andrew.  Not Andy.  Was that significant?  “Typed?  Or hand-printed?”

“Looks like a computer printer.  The ink hasn’t run.  So maybe a laser printer.”

Gilchrist eyed the road ahead and eased back.  Something tugged at his mind.  “I thought you said note.”

“I did.”

“Inside the envelope?”

“Yes.”

“Someone opened the envelope?”

“It wasn’t sealed.”

Although the envelope was addressed to him, found in the clutches of a severed hand, he supposed it made no difference who opened it.  Still, it niggled him.  “Why use an envelope to put a note inside?” he asked.  “I don’t get it.  Why not just the note?  Why the envelope, then the note?” 

“To keep the note dry?”

“Maybe.”

“Greaves wants to assign you as SIO.”

Senior Investigating Officer.  Gilchrist laughed.  “I would have thought a severed hand clutching a note addressed to me would make it obvious that I should be SIO.” 

Hearing those words made something slump to the pit of his stomach.  He had always dreaded this moment, the day when he would be targeted by some sick pervert.  And the pervert who severed the hand had asked for Gilchrist to be involved.  No, more than that, wanted Gilchrist to be involved.  But why?  Was the woman someone he knew?  And at that thought, a surge of fear jolted his system.  He struggled to keep his voice level.  “Describe the hand to me again, Nance.”

“Left hand.  Skin’s flawless, except for the fingernails.  They’re cracked.”

“Split, you mean?”

“No.  Cracked.”

“Not bitten?”

“No.”

Gilchrist felt relief power through him.  It was every policeman’s fear that their family would be the victim of some crime, their lives threatened by some criminal bent on getting even for some long-forgotten score.  The thought that the hand could have been his daughter, Maureen’s, had hit him with the force of a kick to the gut.  Maureen lived seventy miles south of St. Andrews, in the city of Glasgow, but thankfully, she bit her nails and picked the skin.  Although Gilchrist nagged her to death about it, she had never been able to kick the habit.  Despite the gruesome task ahead, he almost smiled. 

“The nails look as if they’ve been trimmed,” Nance went on.  “But the cracks still show.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not sure.  But it might help in identification.”

Ahead, Gilchrist saw he was fast approaching a tailback.  He eased his foot off the pedal.  “Listen, Nance, I’ll be with you in ten minutes,” he said, and disconnected. 

Would it ever end, the muggings, the rapes, the killings?  And now this.  A young woman’s hand.  What had happened?  Had her hand been severed in the course of torture?  Could she still be alive?  He almost shook his head.  She was already dead.  He just knew that.  But if so, where was the rest of the body? 

He gripped the steering wheel, pulled out, floored the pedal, overtook three cars, and pulled back in.

But why a hand?  And why leave it in a bunker where it was sure to be found?  Simple.  Because whoever had committed this crime wanted the hand to be found. 

Hence the note.  For him. 

Dear God.  What a way to make a living.

At the age of forty-seven, Gilchrist did not know too many young women.  His daughter, Maureen, of course.  But she had never invited him to meet her flat-mates or friends.  Not that she hid them from him, but she lived away from home, and had done ever since Gail left him.  And then there was Chloe, his son’s girlfriend.  And that was about it as far as contact with young women was concerned. 

Still, he needed to put his mind at rest.  He poked in Memo 6, Maureen’s number, felt a flush of irritation shiver through him as her answering machine cut in.  He left a curt message, ordering her to give him a call.  He poked in Memo 5, Jack’s number, and listened to it ring.  It was a wild thought.  But better to be sure. 

“Hello?”  Jack’s voice sounded tired, heavy.

“Did I waken you up?”

“What time’s it?”

“Almost eleven.  The day’s nearly done.”

“Hey, Andy, it’s you.”

“Who did you think it was?”

Jack coughed, a harsh sound that seemed to come from his chest and make Gilchrist think he had started smoking again.  “And to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”

“Isn’t a father allowed to call his son and ask how he is every now and then?”

“Come on, Andy.  First thing in the morning?”

Gilchrist let out a laugh.  Jack was a freelance artist whose creative side seemed to flourish only on the other side of midnight and sobriety.  Midday could be an early start for him.  “How’s Chloe,” Gilchrist asked.

“Fine why?”

Gilchrist thought Jack’s answer was too quick.  “I’d like to talk to her,” he said.

“Why?  What’s up?”

Because we’ve found a severed hand up here and I’m scared to death it might belong to Chloe.  “I might be interested in buying one of her paintings,” he said.  “Can I talk to her?”

“Yeah, sure.  I’ll get her to call when she gets back.”

“Out shopping, is she?”

“Something like that.”

Gilchrist pressed the cell-phone to his ear.  Jack had a cavalier attitude about most things, but his voice sounded lifeless.  “Everything all right?” he tried.

“Sure.”

“What’re not telling me, Jack?” 

A sigh, then, “We had a lover’s tiff.” 

“And?”

“And she’s stomped off to cool down.”

“Sounds serious.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“Good.”  And Gilchrist meant it.  Chloe was the best thing that had happened to Jack.  An artist, too, she had a calming effect on his wild son, even assuring him that Jack no longer smoked cigarettes or any other substances.  He almost hated to say it, but he trusted Chloe more than he did his own son.  He held on, expecting Jack to continue, but it seemed as if the topic of Chloe was packed and parcelled.

Gilchrist decided to change tack, and felt a flicker of annoyance that he had to bring the subject up.  But he needed to know.  “How’s Mum?” he asked, and grimaced as he listened to the slow intake of breath followed by a rush of release. 

“Not good, Andy.  Not good at all.”

“How long?”

“End of the month.  Maybe end of the week.”

“Jesus.”

“She’s on a morphine driver.”

“Is she still at home?”

“You know Mum.”

Gilchrist pulled to a halt behind a backup that trailed past the Strathtyrum golf course to his left and seemed to end at the town of St. Andrews.  Ahead, the grey silhouette of St. Salvator’s spire and those of the Abbey ruins lined the dark skyline.  By the University buildings, black rocks fell sixty feet to a blacker sea.  Gilchrist closed his eyes, dug in his thumb and forefinger. 

Gail.  Sometimes he felt as if he still loved her.  Other times he was not sure if it was being betrayed that had given him the right to wallow in self pity.  He never understood why he still cared for her after six years.  Was it his hurt of her infidelity?  Or her utter rejection of him once she had left?  Or was it jealousy at her having found someone else?  And now she was dying and there¾

“Andy?”

Gilchrist looked up.  “Sorry, Jack.  Stuck in traffic.”

“It’s a bind.”

“Is Maureen still helping out?”

“I guess.”

“Have you heard from her?” 

“About a week ago.”

“I’ve left three messages on her answering machine.”

“That’s Mo for you.”

“It runs in the family.”

“Heh, we’re talking.  Right?”

Gilchrist chuckled.  “If you talk to her, Jack, could you ask her to give me a call?”

Jack grunted, which Gilchrist took to mean a yes.  The Citroën in front of his Mercedes stalled then lurched forward with a burst of grey exhaust.  “Listen, Jack.  I’ll catch you later,” and hoped he had not come across if he was pleading for his son to keep in contact.

“Talk to you, Andy.”

And with that the connection was killed.

Gilchrist followed the trail of cars.  He thought it odd how different his children had become.  Maureen and Jack were growing apart, had grown apart, professionally, politically, socially and, even though he hated to say it, financially.  Maureen was self-reliant and careful with money, taking part-time jobs for extra cash.  Whereas Jack could go months on end without selling a sculpture or painting, and no commissioned work in sight.  Gilchrist often wondered how Jack survived, then ditched that question for fear of the answer. 

But Maureen was different.  A young woman with definite views on how to run her own life, with no mercy for those who seemed to struggle.  If Gilchrist could barely cope with his relationship with his own daughter, what chance did Jack have? 

He pulled onto the road that led to the Eden Course and the Driving Range, and powered towards the Old Course Hotel.  He found a parking spot close to the Jigger Inn.  He saw the white Transit van and white coveralls of the Scenes of Crime Officers.  Six in total.  The putting green was encircled with yellow tape that trailed to the walls at the side of the road for which the Old Course’s seventeenth hole, the Road Hole, was infamous. 

DC Nancy Wilson caught his eye as he cleared the stone dyke that bounded the course.  Behind her, the stooped figure of old Bert Mackie, the police pathologist, was slipping into the bunker, his assistant, Dougie Banks, helping him down.  He watched Nance signal to him and step across the green, away from the bunker and the team of SOCOs. 

Puzzled, he followed her. 

They met as she stepped onto the tarmac road surface and gave a quick glance to the side.  Gilchrist felt his own gaze darting that way, too.  “You look worried,” he said to her.

“Ronnie’s here.”

“Ronnie?”  Then the name slotted into the tumblers of his mind with a surge of disbelief.  “Ronnie Watt?”

Nance nodded.

Gilchrist faced the green.  His gaze glanced off the SOCOs and settled on the back of a broad-shouldered man in a suit.  He felt his legs move as if of their own accord¾ 

Something clamped his arm.  Hard. 

He glared into Nance’s eyes. 

“Don’t,” she said.  “He’s not worth it.”  She tightened her grip.  “He’s the Crime Scene Manager.”

“Not on my shift, he’s not.”

“Too late, Andy.”

“Jeff can take over.”

Nance shook her head.  “No he can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Greaves has assigned Ronnie.”

“Is Greaves out of his bloody mind?”

“Andy.  Don’t,” she said, then released her grip, like a mother uncertain if her child will stay or run.  “It’s in the past,” she tried.  But Gilchrist was already striding away.

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