Eye for an Eye (23 page)

Something had wakened him.

On the floor beside his cupboard door he caught the shadow of Chloe’s painting, its vortices even more wild in the dim light, as if the image had a mind of its own and was trying to cry out to him. He had a vague recollection of bringing it in from his car last night and placing it there before crashing out. And dreaming.

That’s what had wakened him. A dream.

A dream about Chloe’s painting. Images came to him, as faint as wisps of cloud. A shape closed in. Then vanished.

With a spurt of dismay, he realized he was still wearing his shirt and underpants. He swung his legs to the floor and peered at his digital alarm clock: 6:33. He switched on his bedside lamp, pulled open the drawer, slammed it shut. Why did he always search for a cigarette first thing? He had not smoked in twelve years. Surely his brain should have adjusted by now.

His dream floated by. Shifting shadows. He almost had it. Then lost it. It was as if he held something then laid it down, only to find moments later he could not locate it and the memory of what he had held, where he had put it, vanished like a morning haar.

He tottered through to the bathroom on stiff legs that felt cramped, as if he had over-exercised. He straightened his back, then remembered pulling himself up and over stone walls, and lying on damp grass. Then the walk to his car with icy feet, shoes and socks sodden.

He stripped off his shirt and underpants and stood naked. The bathroom was heated by an oversized radiator on the back wall, over which hung four bath-towels. He removed one and wrapped it around his waist like a sarong, loving its soft warmth against his skin. He ran his tongue over the fur on his teeth and reached for his toothbrush, its bristles splayed and clogged. Time to buy a new one. He squeezed out a dollop of toothpaste and scrubbed hard and fast, forcing his thoughts into gear.

Chloe’s painting. Faded dreams. What did it all mean?

He almost caught his dream again, watched something slink away from him like a frightened animal, then evaporate in the neural mist. He rinsed out his mouth, swabbed the sink, and returned to his bedroom.

He lifted Chloe’s painting and held it at arm’s length. What had been going on in her head when she had painted that image? He twisted it to the side, focused on the hole for a mouth ...

The mouth. That’s what he had dreamed of. A mouth. An open mouth. But more than just an open mouth.

He had dreamed of lips.

And through the haze in his mind, the dream came back to him. And in the dream, he was back where it had happened.

Glasgow. Fifteen years earlier.

Assisting with a routine investigation in Blackhill, a ruin of a residential development on the city outskirts. How anyone could live there defied the imagination. Ground-floor windows were bricked over. Rusted hulks of stripped cars dotted derelict streets. Back gardens lay hard and bare of grass. Graffiti slashed grey walls.

Gilchrist had been standing at the back of a tenement block when a young girl approached him. No more than twelve. Maybe eleven. Lipstick. He remembered her lipstick.

Bright red. And smudged, as if she had been kissed.

She told him her boyfriend had been hit over the head with an axe. He remembered feeling more surprised at hearing she had a boyfriend than by the alleged attack. And he kept looking at her lips, fascinated by this eleven-year-old woman. His peripheral vision caught movement in the brown dirt behind and to the side of her. A skulking cat. Once domesticated, now abandoned and wild and living in fear of human predators. The cat slipped under a concrete slab before Gilchrist had time to have a close look. But he had seen its lips.

And that’s what he had dreamed about.

The cat’s lips. And Alex Granton’s photograph.

He remembered asking the Glasgow detective what was wrong with the cat. It was a game the kids played, he’d been told. Like scalping. They caught cats and sliced off their lips. It was something to do. The residents didn’t complain. It was better that the kids cut up cats rather than each other.

Gilchrist picked up his mobile. After a couple of rings, a sleepy voice grumbled, ‘Hello?’

‘Sorry to wake you.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s you, Andy.’

‘Okay, it’s not me.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Almost seven.’ He listened to some ruffling on the line, imagined Beth shifting her body, coming to, fluffing her pillow, and an image of her naked body seared into his mind.

‘Did you see Terry Leighton last night?’ he asked.

She let out a heavy breath, as if disappointed, and said, ‘Yes, Andy, I saw Terry last night, and yes, I gave him the photograph, and, yes, he said he would work on it as soon as he could. Anything else?’

‘Do you have his telephone number?’

‘Not trust me?’

‘Implicitly.’

‘Liar,’ she grumbled. ‘His mobile number. That do?’

‘Perfect.’ He jotted down the number as Beth read it out. ‘Thanks. Try to catch another hour.’

‘Oh, great. You wake me up to tell me to sleep?’

‘Wish I was there.’

The words were out before he could stop himself. For several seconds the line remained silent, then Beth said, ‘I enjoyed last night,’ her voice soft. ‘It was nice.’

‘Me too.’

‘Let’s not rush anything, Andy. You hurt me. I don’t want to be hurt again.’ A pause, then, ‘Why don’t you call later and let me know how you got on with Terry?’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Talk to you later.’

He replayed their conversation in his mind and felt almost afraid that he could have resurrected their relationship. He had fallen for Beth hard, taken their break-up even harder. So how had he hurt her? Had it not been the other way round? And what had become of Tom Armstrong, the man with whom she had appeared to replace him so easily? He could ask these questions later. First, he had some facts to uncover. But Leighton’s number rang out, connecting to voicemail, and he left a message.

Back in the bathroom, Gilchrist turned the shower up to hot. He flexed his muscles for a full five minutes under a roasting stream, feeling the heat work its magic.

By 7:30 the skies hung dull and dark with banks of rain cloud. Outside, Gilchrist almost shivered. Cold enough for snow, he thought. Or was it too cold for snow? Was that not what his father used to say on days like this? And Old Willie. He could come up with the most peculiar phrase from time to time. Priceless information, too. Which had Gilchrist puzzling over his comment in Lafferty’s.
If I was you I’d watch Sam MacMillan
.

Why MacMillan? What did Old Willie know about him?

Gilchrist’s hunch about MacMillan had been proven wrong by Fats.
Fucking plonker. That the best you can do?

It seemed to make no sense, but somehow a painter and decorator was mixed up in all of this. How? And why?

Gilchrist knew of only one way to find out.

The Merc started with a healthy growl. He cut through the miles to St Andrews in short order, parked by the harbour front and walked to where MacMillan had watched Granton being murdered. He was struck with the sudden thought that perhaps MacMillan was not homosexual but rather hiding behind that misconception. Why would he do that? Because if the police believed he had an overt homosexual relationship with Granton, they would not ask the question he dreaded: why had he extorted money from him? Was that it?

Gilchrist removed his mobile from his leather jacket.

Directory Enquiries gave him the number.

MacMillan answered on the second ring.

‘Morning, Sam. Andy Gilchrist here.’

‘What do you want now, Mr Gilchrist?’

‘Honest answers to some honest questions, Sam.’

‘I’ve told you the truth.’

‘That’s today’s first lie.’

‘No it’s not.’

‘That’s the second.’

‘You really are an aggressive bugger.’

‘I’ve been called worse.’

‘Aye, son, I’m sure you have.’

‘Ready to talk?’

‘About what?’

‘Honesty being the best policy.’

Silence.

‘What did you do with all the money?’

‘What money?’

‘The money Bill gave you for flashing his cock at you.’

Silence.

‘That’s all it was, Sam, wasn’t it? There never was a homosexual relationship between you and Bill, was there? Bill had a fetish. He needed to expose himself in public. He got his thrill from knowing someone was looking. But he couldn’t afford to be found out. He couldn’t walk up to just anyone and open his coat and flash his cock. Not in a town the size of St Andrews. He’d lose his position at the bank before he had time to zip up.’

Gilchrist paused to let MacMillan confirm his theory or deny it, but he heard only silence.

‘Every once in a while Bill would flash his cock at you, Sam,’ he went on. ‘Maybe even shoot a load or two in your direction. That way, his perversion was safe. You were friends from way back. He knew you would keep your mouth shut. As long as he gave you money. Make you both guilty in a manner of speaking. And you took the money, Sam. And kept quiet.’

Silence.

‘I’ve checked the marriage register, Sam. You were married—’

‘So was Bill.’

‘But his wife didn’t desert him.’

Silence.

‘She left you for a reason—’

‘She buggered off, is what she did.’

‘And left you holding the baby, so to speak.’

‘Fuck you, you wee shite.’

‘She left you with Louise,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Louise Samantha MacMillan. Your daughter.’ From the fumbling on the other end, he sensed MacMillan was struggling with his emotions. After several seconds, Gilchrist said, ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I’m truly sorry.’

‘So,’ MacMillan said with a defeated sigh, ‘you know all about her, what happened to her. To Louise, I mean.’

‘Yes,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I do.’

‘So, tell me, Mr Gilchrist. What would you have done in my situation?’

What indeed? But it was not Gilchrist who had broken the law. ‘I think we should talk, Sam. Face to face.’

‘When?’

Gilchrist was about to press for a meeting later that morning, but instead said, ‘At your convenience.’

‘Let me think about it.’

Gilchrist was not sure he liked where this was going. MacMillan was in his sixties. Facing the consequences of the law catching up with him might be more than he could bear. Before he could stop himself, he said, ‘Don’t do anything silly now, Sam.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like running away.’

Sam growled, long and low, which Gilchrist thought was a stirring of anger. Then he realized with a smile of his own that he had never heard the old man laugh before.

‘You crack me up, Mr Gilchrist, so you do. Aye, son, you crack me up.’

‘Get back to me soon. All right?’

‘Aye, son, I will.’

Gilchrist stared off to the Eden Estuary and beyond across the Firth of Tay to the distant shores of Buddon Ness and Carnoustie. Sunlight burst through the clouds at that moment and painted the grey landscape with greens and yellows. He listened to the echo of MacMillan’s voice ask him what he would have done in his situation. But he had no ready answer for that. He wouldn’t have liked to have been there in the first place. But it had not been MacMillan’s choice either. He had been dealt a bad hand. And life seemed to have a habit of dealing bad hands.

As Gilchrist strode back to his car, he passed the spot where Granton had been murdered, and his mind conjured up an image of Sa standing back from the body. Why had she not told him she had known Granton? Why had she not said she knew his son, Alex? And why was she so defensive about her past?

Maybe the answer lay in her childhood.

Or in the photograph of a wounded cat.

Sebbie opened the American-sized fridge.

Its shelves were stuffed with food, not like the tiny model in his own kitchen. He found a six-pack of Miller Genuine Draft and twisted the top off a bottle, took a swig, and strolled back into the living room.

Alice’s skin had discoloured in shades of yellow and blue. Dieter’s face had fixed in a stiffened grimace of pain and surprise. Sebbie tipped beer into Dieter’s opened eyes. ‘Up yours,’ he said, then laughed, a crazed cackle that seemed to crack through the room.

He looked up at the ceiling.

Who lived upstairs? Had they heard him?

He stepped over Dieter’s body and leaned into the window. The glass felt cold against his skin. Through the windows of the flat opposite he saw someone walking around the room. He pulled back, pressed himself against the wall. Had he been seen?

Without daring another glance, he closed the curtains.

The room fell into darkness. If he was going to live in Alice’s flat, he would have to stay quiet, creep around in his stockinged soles, keep the television low, maybe even on mute.