Tools of the Trade

Chapter 7

Seven

By the time Guthrie made it back home he had finished a Yorkie Bar he had picked up from a vending machine at Gravesend and stopped for a fish supper. He sat in his leather recliner, grabbed the television remote, found a rerun of Top Gear and slowly opened the warm parcel of fish and chips, the smell of malt vinegar filling the flat.

As he picked apart the flakey white fish he tried not to think about the day's events. He really should be driving to the west coast and booking into the bed and breakfast for a week's getaway, but instead was deeper in it than he had been for a while. Fortunately, the B&B had been very understanding and had cancelled his booking with no penalty, wishing him the best of luck for a speedy conclusion to the case, and that they would be more than happy to see him when it had all been settled.

If only it could be as simple as that.

Guthrie knew they had just started, but, from where he was sitting, he couldn't bring himself to think positively about the case. For no particular reason, he had a grim feeling about the death of Mr Bobby Gant. The way he had been left on those rocks suggested a cold, calculating mind had been involved. It appeared to be no rookie bad guy; this was like someone who was playing games to amuse himself. Just killing the guy wasn't good enough.

Guthrie’s flat occupied the top floor of a modern, four-story structure on Beach Crescent, overlooking the harbour of Broughty Ferry, on the eastern outskirts of Dundee. From the recliner of his open plan, loft-like accommodations, Guthrie could look out over the River Tay, with Fife beyond, and watch the seagulls wheel around the small castle that had guarded the mouth of this important river for over five hundred years. To the west he could see as far back towards the city of Dundee and the road bridge connecting Tayside with Fife. His thoughts spun around in his mind like the gulls outside. He realised he was just staring at the scene through the window so he scrunched up the now cold paper on his lap and went over to the kitchen and deposited the ball of greasy newsprint in the chrome flip-top trash can.

Fifteen minutes later he was showered and dressed in tracksuit trousers and a baggy sweatshirt. He poured himself a good measure of Three Wood Auchentoshan single malt whisky in his favourite cut crystal glass and savoured the first taste of the bronze coloured liquid. Guthrie was not one to drink regularly, in fact he had sworn off alcohol completely for years, but every once in a while, he would indulge in his one real guilty pleasure. He walked over to the full-length windows that spanned the entire width of the flat and surveyed the now dark view. The orange glow of the street lights reflected off the water. The blue and white of the saltire cross Scottish flag fluttering over the castle was picked out by a lone spotlight, the wind having succumb to the overpowering darkness and now nothing more than a steady breeze. Guthrie had always appreciated the view. It was one of the reasons for buying the flat in the first place, but there were nights like this one that fell into the category of being just a tad more special than the rest. He was never sure why he thought that way, but this was one of those times. Was it the fact he was back on the hunt for a killer? Perhaps it was a little bit of smugness that came with owning his own “penthouse suite,” as he liked to call it in a tongue-in-cheek fashion? Or was it just the whisky making him a little more apt to think with a tinge of romance about what was, after all, a very modern flat? These were questions he felt he didn’t need to answer.

Another generous mouthful of Auchentoshan finished off the glass. The nectar gone, he washed and dried the tumbler, set it back in its place on the shelf and decided to call it a night. Tomorrow would be the real start to the case.