Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Leith
It may be Sunday, but that doesn’t mean shit when you work for the Syndicate. My taking a five-day honeymoon means I’m five days behind. On the Lowing case, on my defense in the Wylie Annand murder case, and on locating Phyfe MacGilson.
Not that I regret a second of those five days.
This afternoon I work in my office in the city center, so as not to get distracted by my delectable wife.
So far, every hour I’ve spent in my home study has been plagued with thoughts of bending her over my desk, tying her up with ropes from the drapes, and taking a curtain rod to her creamy backside.
Then forging deep into her with my cock.
This is regardless of whether she’s in the room or not. Knowing I can text her and demand she report to me at the drop of a hat disrupts my focus.
While we were in London, I told myself I could afford a little time to use her for my own pleasure.
Revenge could wait while we went after her assailants.
Then her biological father went missing, and I excused my delay in avenging Aaron by saying I don’t like mysteries.
But now I worry I’m getting too attached to my prey.
I’m growing obsessed with the colors of her hair in different lights, her intense expressions, and the infinite shapes of her mind.
Truth be told, my reasons for pursuing MacGilson are personal.
He holds the answer to who really assaulted Iona and Grizel that night.
If I can prove it wasn’t Aaron, I can kill Iona with a fully clear conscience.
Finding the real perpetrators will serve the double purpose of teaching her the fallibility of eyewitness testimonies like hers.
She’ll die knowing she wronged an innocent man.
All this assumes her memory is correct, that she really saw MacGilson and heard him call off the assault.
I spring from my chair and stalk to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city center.
The glare of the afternoon sun on the office building opposite forces me to shield my eyes.
If I were MacGilson and I’d gone into hiding to escape the repercussions of my experiment from four years ago—possibly knowing it was my own daughter I experimented on—what would induce me to come out of hiding?
Immunity. Protection. Security. Possibly even a new identity.
He’d want to save his name and reputation at all costs. He may even be shielding the two assaulters from Iona and me, fearing they’ll spill too much.
The way I see it, I can take one of two approaches.
The first is to offer MacGilson protection and provide it through the Syndicate.
The second is to promise him immunity, then not give it.
But if he’s hiding from me particularly, it’ll be harder to get him to trust me.
I’ll need to give him collateral, show him I have skin in the game and stand to lose if he gets hurt.
A tap on the door frame reminds me Galiene came in today too.
“Come.” Stuffing a hand in my pocket, I turn as she waltzes in with her laptop under one arm. “Have a seat.”
She folds herself into a chair and crosses her legs, opening her computer. “I found plenty of info on Irving.”
“Anything damning?” I sit on the sofa, resting an ankle on the opposite knee.
“After a year as an army reservist, he failed to report for duty and was given an administrative discharge. But that was in his early twenties.” She reviews the notes on her screen.
“Ten years ago he received a ticket for crossing the double white lines to overtake a slow-moving truck. Five years ago, as a landlord, he had a crew sand a few of the walls on one of his apartments, letting out toxic dust from the lead-based paint. Tenants lived above and below the floor where he had the work done. Though he eventually sealed off the area, the tenants above sued him and won damages in the amount of six thousand four hundred pounds. He had to pay out the same to the tenants below.”
I let out an impatient sigh. “Nowt that would impugn his character?”
“He divorced his wife a year after she was diagnosed with breast cancer,” Galiene supplies, looking up.
“Did she survive?”
“Aye. After several brutal bouts of radiotherapy.”
I pass a hand over my scruff. “That could be something. Have the writers interview her.”
Galiene has lined up several journalists keen to paint the other side of the story, as they call it.
She nods. “I could also have them play up the cases Irving has lost over his long career as a prosecutor.”
“Good.” But still not enough. We need to sway the jury.
“Find any unlikable quirks he may have. Secret complaints his colleagues have against him.” I think of his obnoxious style of dress.
“Does he tip enough at the places he eats? Does he have a private axe to grind that relates to this case and could cast doubt on his motives? Is he estranged from his family, or do they wholeheartedly support him? Do acquaintances consider him uptight or pleasant to be around?”
With a feline smile, Galiene types all this into her laptop. “You’re a master at shredding people’s characters.”
“Only when they’re shreddable,” I demur.
When Galiene has left, I check the tracking app I installed on Iona’s phone while she was in the bath the other day.
She’s meeting with a female author and that sleazebag Stennis, whom I wouldn’t trust with a bud of yeast, much less my wife.
If the technology existed, I’d make her clothes and skin electrocute any man who touched her.
You may ask why I installed the app, if I’m not the jealous type.
Now that Iona knows I intend to do away with her, I don’t want her escaping me. What’s more, as long as I’m her husband, I won’t have anyone disrespecting me. She’s my property, and no one touches what’s mine.
I also assigned two soldiers to follow her everywhere when I’m not with her.
Another knock on the door interrupts my ruminations. This time Galiene blushes, darting a nervous glance behind her. “Sorry, Leith. There are some gentlemen here to see you.”
I smell them before they come in view.
Two men from the polis?1 troop in, followed by none other than my good pal Irving, who looks like a lobster thermidor, stuffed full of himself.
I decide to hijack Irving’s interrogation before it gets underway. “Gentlemen, I’m so glad you could make it. Please, have a seat. Will you have whisky, water, tea?”
Their jowls loosen as they turn questioningly to their ring leader. Momentarily put out by my sangfroid, Irving recovers quickly. “Nothing for us. They’re on duty, and I’m on a job.”
I pour myself a whisky and settle easily in a wingback. “If that’s what you choose to call it, Irving.” Cocking a wry smile, I tip my glass toward him and take a sip. “How can I help you?”
Irving squares his shoulders, throwing his chest out.
“Leith Cargill, you are under arrest for the murder of Wylie Annand, who died on the fifth of June, two thousand four. You have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention something when questioned which you later rely on in court. Here is your written letter of rights.” He holds out a sheet of paper, at which I arch a brow, making no move to take it.
He drops it, and it flutters to the floor between us.
“Detective Inspector Jerdan, Detective Sergeant Maver, you may arrest this man.”
Jerdan clears his throat, taking a step toward me, and Maver adopts a pleading expression. They’re petrified of the fallout. And so they should be.
I tip back my glass, holding Irving’s eye. “Irving, you may not have family to worry about, but these gentlemen no doubt do. They’re concerned their loved ones may not live to see another day, should you proceed with this foolhardy mission.”
“Threats will get you nowhere, Cargill,” Irving warns in his nasal voice. “You’re being recorded.”
I stifle a chuckle, throwing a glance toward the small cameras installed on the walls. “And you’re not?”
Jerdan uses his pinky to dig a ball of wax from his ear. “This should be fast, chief. Come along with us. I’m sure you’ll be cleared in no time.”
Standing by the door, Galiene is on the phone with Jason Ogilvie, my defense lawyer.
Gaping at the two officers, Irving bites out, “Gentlemen, you have your orders. I expect you to execute them without further delay.”
Maver sheepishly advances with a pair of cuffs, his face like a ripe radish. “Sorry, mate.”
“I’ll come peacefully, if you first have a wee nip with me.
” I toss Maver and Jerdan a wink. “It’s Cadenhead’s twenty-six year-old Highland Park limited edition.
” Unfolding myself from my chair, I mosey over to the credenza and pour out three tumblers.
I refill my own glass and take one over to Maver, who licks his lips.
“Cask strength, non-chill-filtered. Only one thousand eighty-two bottles were made.” Returning to the sideboard, I bring a glass to Jerdan, then the last to Irving, who refuses his with a sanctimonious grunt.
I jerk a shoulder up. “Your loss, Irving, my gain.” I take his glass and mine and resume my seat. “Please, gentlemen, I insist you sit to enjoy your whiskies. Consider yourselves off the clock for the moment.”
A frustrated growl rises in Irving’s throat as Maver and Jerdan take seats opposite me. He’s outnumbered, and he knows it.
When Galiene concludes her call, I nod to the remaining drink on the table. “Join us, Galiene.”
She clicks over and takes the dram, settling on the sofa.
“Anyone see the GCCL Cup Finals yesterday?” I split an amiable look among the four of them, ignoring how close Irving is to exploding.
“I had my money on Kelvingrove,” Maver confesses. “The Glasgow Saints did better than expected.”
“The Dennistoun Saints didn’t let us down,” Jerdan crows, swirling the drink in his glass. “My nephew plays for them.”
Maver turns to him, smacking his lips. “He made a brilliant assist in the third quarter.”