Eye for an Eye (10 page)

He stood up and smiled at her. ‘It’s what we do best,’ he said. ‘Poking and prodding.’

She frowned at the fireplace. ‘Find anything?’

‘Should I have?’

‘I suppose it’s too late to ask if you have a warrant?’

‘It’s never too late to ask,’ he said. ‘But anyway, I’ve no more questions.’

At the front door, he stopped. ‘Oh, just the one,’ he said. ‘Lex. That’s an unusual name.’

‘For a woman, you mean?’

Gilchrist waited.

‘It’s short for Alexandra,’ she explained.

He pulled the door open. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate your help.’

She did not return his smile.

CHAPTER 10

‘Pint of Eighty Shilling.’

‘Rough day, Andy?’ Fast Eddy nodded to the back corner. ‘Old Willie’s in. And by the look of him, he’s thirsty.’

‘Don’t know if I’m up for him today.’

‘Been asking for you.’ Fast Eddy slid forward a pint mug filled with a creamy liquid that darkened from the bottom like a mulatto Guinness. ‘There you go. One for Willie?’

‘Why not?’

Fast Eddy turned to the optics on the wall and pressed a whisky glass to The Famous Grouse. ‘Double?’

‘Not yet.’

‘He tells me it’s worth at least a couple of doubles.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

Gilchrist slapped a fiver onto the bar then carried the drinks into the back area. He pulled a chair up to a table scratched from decades of heavy drinking. Tyke, Old Willie’s Highland terrier, lay curled on the floor and blinked tired-eyed at him.

Seated opposite, Old Willie barely glanced up. An empty glass and the dregs of a half-pint of Guinness circled with white rings reminded Gilchrist that Old Willie liked to take his time. He slid the half across the table.

‘Eddy said you wanted to see me.’

Old Willie’s rheumy eyes studied the whisky, his mouth open like a panting bird. A shaking hand moved toward the glass, and fingers as fine as a bird’s claws gripped it. Lips slid over gums too old for false teeth.

‘You’ll have to dae better than this, son.’

‘There’s more, Willie.’

‘There would have to be.’

‘How about a half-pint?’

‘That would do nicely. For starters.’

The glass shivered its way to a black hole of a mouth, and white lips wrapped the rim as if seeking support. A thimbleful tipped in, and Old Willie’s eyes widened as if stunned that the whisky was real. Then the glass was returned to the table.

‘So, what do you want to tell me?’ Gilchrist tried.

Brown eyes, too large for the head, it seemed, sparkled to life. ‘And here was me thinking you only wanted to ask how I was keeping.’ A laugh rattled somewhere in his throat.

Gilchrist waited while the old man dabbed spittle from his chin. ‘And how are you keeping, Willie?’

‘How dae I look, son?’

‘You look fine.’

‘You’re a bugger of a liar.’ A claw lifted the glass to thin lips, and Gilchrist noted the shaking had all but gone. Another sip, larger this time. ‘By God, son, you know how to reach a man’s heart.’

‘And his tongue?’

Willie’s face creased into a smile. ‘The doctor tells me I’ll no see the end of the year. I asked him which one.’ This time the rattle turned into a fit of coughing that brought a hint of colour to the grey cheeks.

Gilchrist leaned closer. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, son. Just get me that half-pint. And another one of these.’

‘In a minute.’

Old Willie’s eyes glistened, wide as an eagle’s. A tuft of grey hair that sprouted from the top of a tiny crown added to the avian image. ‘You used to be a pushover, son.’

‘I used to have a job, Willie.’

‘Aye. I heard.’

Gilchrist took a mouthful of beer, then said, ‘What else have you heard?’

‘A bit of this. A bit of that.’

Gilchrist knew not to press. He pushed his chair back and stood. ‘Double is it?’

Old Willie scowled. ‘And make sure there’s nae water in it.’

Gilchrist had known Willie Morrison for over twenty years and had learned never to undervalue the snippets he served up at little more than the cost of a couple of drinks. Once, when he had helped trap the mastermind of an illicit video distribution scheme, Gilchrist sent a bottle of Grouse to his home. Old Willie had never thanked him, it being accepted that payment for information did not merit gratitude.

But the last two years had seen Old Willie’s health decline. Gilchrist had been unable to get a straight answer from him on his medical condition and, abusing his constabulary powers, checked the hospital records to confirm the old man was dying and that last July, much to Gilchrist’s surprise, he had hit eighty-nine.

At the bar, Fast Eddy was holding court over three young women. From the sparkle in his eyes, Gilchrist suspected that one, if not all, would fall victim to his infamous charm. ‘A double and a half-pint, when you’ve got a minute, Eddy.’

‘Here,’ said one of the women, ‘aren’t you that Detective Inspector Wotsit on the telly?’

‘That’s him, ladies,’ chirped Fast Eddy. ‘And let me tell you that a finer detective inspector has never set foot in these premises.’

A shoulder nudged Gilchrist. ‘Well, love, you’re much better looking in the flesh.’

‘Yeah, but what’s he like in the buff?’

The three of them burst into laughter and slapped their hands on their knees like a choreographed circus act.

Gilchrist smiled in response as he picked up Old Willie’s order and, turning from the bar, almost bumped into Maggie Hendren, one of Fast Eddy’s bar staff.

‘Oops,’ he said, as he swayed the drinks to safety.

‘Always in a hurry,’ she snapped, with a flash from her eyes that Gilchrist had trouble interpreting. He followed her angry glance into the corner, where he noticed a dark-haired woman he had never seen before eyeing him through a fog of smoke. She tilted her head and exhaled with a twist of her mouth that he could have mistaken for a smile.

Back in his seat, Old Willie placed two hands around his whisky glass as if to thwart any attempts to snatch it back.

‘So tell me, Willie. What about this and that?’

Shoulders, too narrow to take the grasp of a comforting hand, shuffled with discomfort. Tight lips moved, as if to speak, and Gilchrist realized the old man was having trouble catching his breath.

Silent, he waited.

With a rush of breath, Old Willie tilted his head to the side. ‘Did you know that a certain manager of a certain bank was on the fiddle?’

‘Was? That’s past tense, Willie.’

‘You’re still as sharp as a razor.’

‘Past tense because he’s stopped fiddling? Or because he’s dead?’

‘If he’s deid he cannae be fiddling, now, can he?’

‘How much?’

Old Willie tackled his Guinness, mouth twisted against the bitter taste, then said, ‘Rumour has it that this certain bank manager of a certain bank has fiddled about a quarter of a million.’ He offered Gilchrist a black smile. ‘That’s pounds.’

‘And where has all this money gone?’

‘Here and there.’

When Old Willie offered nothing more, Gilchrist realized he had no idea where the money had gone, only that it had been fiddled. ‘Does the bank know about the missing money?’ he asked.

‘Not yet. But if I was you, I’d watch Sam MacMillan.’

Gilchrist struggled to keep his surprise hidden. ‘Why do you say that?’

Old Willie tapped his nose with a bony finger. The nail was long and cracked, the skin paper-thin, almost transparent. If Gilchrist looked hard enough, he could almost see the blood pulse its weak way through the old man’s failing system. Old Willie wiped his lips with the back of his hand and from the way he then eyed his Guinness, Gilchrist knew he had said all he was going to say that day.

Gilchrist leaned forward, close enough to smell the old man’s odour, a warm sourness that reminded him of milk gone off. ‘Can I give you a lift home, Willie?’

‘What for?’

‘To save you the walk.’

‘On you go, son. If you want to do anything for me, just put another one of these behind the bar.’

Gilchrist smiled. Old Willie had his priorities right, he supposed. At eighty plus, he was as well sitting in the pub drinking himself into oblivion as sitting at home waiting to die. Gilchrist pushed at his seat. He still had half his Eighty Shilling to drink, and was on the verge of leaving it when Fast Eddy caught his eye.

Back at the bar he handed over a tenner to cover the rest of Old Willie’s session.

‘What’s happening?’ Fast Eddy whispered. ‘You off the case?’

On the television above the bar, Gilchrist recognized the lecture theatre at Headquarters in Glenrothes. He grimaced as the camera shifted and closed in on Patterson’s pockmarked face.

‘That guy’s a wanker,’ said Fast Eddy, and pointed a remote at the screen to turn the volume up.

‘... sure that, with the able assistance of Detective Chief Inspector Christian DeFiore of the Scottish Crime Squad, significant progress will be made. We will of course continue to provide full cooperation.’

The camera shifted to DeFiore, dapper in a double-breasted suit, held for a second, then pulled back to capture the others in the group. At the far end ACC Archie McVicar looked calm and magisterial. The press conference must have gone well. DCS Billy Greaves sat next to McVicar, less relaxed. Shoulder to shoulder with Patterson, DeFiore sat clear-eyed and poker-faced.

‘One last question,’ Patterson announced.

Bertie McKinnon’s voice rose discordant above the others. ‘Detective Chief Inspector DeFiore,’ he demanded, ‘how do you intend to guarantee Prince William’s safety and that of the citizens of St Andrews?’

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of DeFiore’s white smile and polished skin. With his cropped black hair, red silk tie and crisp white collar, he looked more the City banker than detective chief inspector. His Edinburgh accent purred with unchallenged authority as he spoke of teamwork, commitment and results. Then he brought the press conference to an unambiguous end with ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, ladies and gentlemen,’ and switched off the microphone.

The camera pulled back to capture a confounded Patterson before the screen switched to a woman with a microphone in her hand.

And that was that.

Gilchrist cleaned off his pint, tipped a finger to his forehead and said, ‘Catch you later, Eddy.’

On his way out, he glanced at the corner table.

Maggie huddled close to her dark-haired friend, their lips frozen for the moment of his passing. Then he was out the pub, his mind playing out the ramifications of Old Willie’s snippet.

CHAPTER 11

Gilchrist cut up Logie’s Lane to Market Street and remembered he should return Jack’s call. He had not spoken to either of his children for almost two weeks, having managed to track Maureen to her mother’s home a week last Saturday. Gail had answered, but she still had nothing to say after the needless acrimony of their divorce. He had hung on for a full minute before Maureen picked up, breathless and full of apologies for not keeping in contact more often. She sounded pleased to hear from him but was rushing for a date, couldn’t talk, and promised to call back in a few days.

‘Why don’t you come up for a weekend?’ he had offered. ‘It’s only an hour’s drive. Bring Stephen with you.’

‘I’d love to, Dad. It’s just, you know ...’

‘Pressure of work?’

‘Yeah.’

That was eleven days ago and Gilchrist had rationalized her silence by telling himself she was busy, exams were close, boyfriends were hounding her, she was a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old with a life of her own. But deep in his heart he knew if she really wanted to talk to him, all she had to do was pick up the phone. And that was what hurt the most.

But Jack was worse. Jack almost never called.

An artist, he spent much of his life hanging around the bars in the West End of Glasgow drinking beer. And Pernod and ice, for God’s sake. And throwing sloppy concrete at walls under the misnomer of art.

Gilchrist had seen some of Jack’s art, splattered on the wall of one of the local pubs, an ugly mixture of hessian, wood and God knew what else, swilled in concrete that looked as if it had been plastered there by mistake.

‘What do you think of the mural, Andy?’ Jack had asked.

‘Not quite sure yet,’ Gilchrist had replied. ‘Maybe if it was a little more colourful?’

‘That’s the whole point. Everybody thinks they have to see the world through rose-tinted glasses. Life isn’t like that. Life is real. It’s unattractive. It’s dull. It’s brutal. It forces us to look inside ourselves to find our own colour, our own reality. Outside, we’re all the same. Grey, bland, uninteresting.’

Gilchrist nodded, asked for a pint, while Jack lit up.

‘Hope that’s all you smoke.’