Eye for an Eye (3 page)

Gilchrist opened the door to the larger of the two interview rooms and followed Sa inside, a polystyrene cup of coffee in his hand. The room was nothing more than four walls painted a light shade of blue, large enough to accommodate six metal chairs with black plastic seating. A low table centred the floor. Two small windows looked onto North Street, high enough to permit privacy from passers-by.

Sam MacMillan sat alone on a seat in the corner, a white-haired man in his sixties. His complexion, ruddied from decades in the east coast wind, took years off him. He glanced at Sa, then fixed his gaze on Gilchrist as if comparing the man in the flesh with the photographs in the newspapers.

Gilchrist sat in the chair to Sa’s right. He sipped his coffee. It tasted hard, like an espresso. But it worked for him. He leaned forward. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Andrew Gilchrist.’

‘Aye, son. I know.’

‘And this is Detective Sergeant Sa Preston,’ Gilchrist added. ‘I’m going to tape this interview. All right?’

MacMillan nodded.

Sa pressed the
RECORD
button on the micro-cassette recorder.

Gilchrist cleared his throat. ‘The date is Wednesday, 27 November 2002. The time’ – he stretched his arm – ‘is eight-sixteen a.m. Those present are DI Gilchrist speaking, DS Preston and interviewee, Sam MacMillan. Although Mr MacMillan offered his statement, he has been advised that he can have a lawyer present, but has waived that right.’ Gilchrist looked at him. ‘Is that correct, Mr MacMillan?’

MacMillan nodded.

‘Please speak for the record,’ said Sa.

‘Aye,’ MacMillan said. ‘That’s correct.’

‘What would you like to tell me, Mr MacMillan?’

MacMillan took a quick breath. ‘I seen the Stabber.’

‘Where?’

‘At the harbour, like. Last night.’

‘Please speak into the recorder, Mr MacMillan.’

‘I seen the Stabber murder Bill.’ He raised his hand in a clenched fist and brought it forward in a hard stab. ‘Bill dropped to the ground like a sack of tatties.’

‘Did you get a chance to see the Stabber’s face?’

‘I did. He was just a boy.’

‘A boy?’

‘Well, a young man. Like he hadnae started shaving yet.’

Gilchrist kept his eyes on MacMillan. His team had remained divided since the first body was found in Thistle Lane. Some argued that the Stabber was male because of the strength required to drive a stave through the brain. Others were convinced the Stabber had to be female because the victims were all men known to have been abusive to women. After the third victim was found staked to the ground behind Blackfriar’s Chapel, an FBI profiler was adamant that the Stabber must be two hundred pounds and six foot plus. Without a witness, no one really knew. Gilchrist felt a surge of excitement. MacMillan had just given his investigation the jolt it needed.

‘Where were you when this happened?’ It was Sa.

‘On the pier.’

‘Was it raining?’

‘Pelting it down.’

‘How close were you?’

‘Sixty, seventy yards away.’

‘And you saw the Stabber from there?’

‘Aye, lass. I did.’

Given MacMillan’s age, Gilchrist wondered just how good his sight was. Good enough to identify a killer, at night, in a storm? He doubted it. Any defence lawyer would tear him apart in court. He noticed a faint mark on the bridge of MacMillan’s nose. ‘You wear glasses?’ he said.

‘Aye, I do. But only for reading.’ MacMillan picked up a pair of binoculars from the floor. ‘I seen the Stabber through these,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a bird-watcher all my life.’

‘May I?’ Gilchrist reached for the binoculars before MacMillan could respond and read the manufacturer’s printed label on the end of the lens swivel pin. Bushnell. 10×50. He put them to his eyes, confirming what he suspected, and handed them back.

Silent, MacMillan took them.

‘How long have you had them?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘This pair? Eleven years.’

‘You like them?’

‘Aye.’

‘You carry them around with you?’

‘Never go outside without them.’

‘Even at night?’

‘Aye, son. Even at night.’

‘Not a lot of birds at night,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Watch bats, do you?’

MacMillan shook his head. ‘It’s a game we play.’

Gilchrist frowned, puzzled. ‘Go on.’

‘I’ve known Bill since we was toddlers. We grew up together, went to school together, been friends all our lives. Close friends, like.’ Sad eyes shifted beneath bushy eyebrows.

Gilchrist studied him. ‘Did you know Bill was homosexual?’ he tried.

‘Homosexual? Sounds better than poofter.’

‘So you knew?’

A shadow settled behind MacMillan’s eyes. ‘Aye, son.’

‘Would it be right to assume that you and Bill were ...’

MacMillan’s nostrils flared for a brief second. ‘Aye, son. It would.’

‘And that’s where you and he met? At the harbour?’

‘I go out for a walk every night. Been doing that for the last forty years. Never missed a day, come hail, rain or snow.’

‘Even in thunderstorms?’

‘Even in thunderstorms.’

Sa leaned forward as if to ask a question and Gilchrist surprised himself by pressing the flat of his hand against her thigh. She sat back.

‘No one knows about me and Bill,’ MacMillan whispered, then dabbed a thick finger at the corner of his eye. ‘I dinnae think I could stand the looks.’

‘Tell me about the game you played,’ Gilchrist said.

MacMillan took a deep breath.

‘Every night, I take my midnight walk. On Tuesdays I go to the harbour and wait for Bill. I never know if he’s going to come or not. That’s part of our game. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he disnae. He likes it that way.’ Teary eyes held Gilchrist’s. ‘I would walk out to the pier and watch through my binoculars. I would be out of sight. But Bill knew I was there. I was always there. He hadnae come by for nigh on three weeks, the longest time yet. Something told me he would come last night. You know what I mean?’

Gilchrist nodded.

‘I seen someone walk down by the Abbey wall. I thought it was Bill. But I wasnae sure. I was too far away and it was bucketing. When I got closer I seen by the walk that it wasnae him. Then I seen him, up by the shorehead.’

MacMillan picked up the binoculars and Gilchrist noticed the yellow taint of nicotine on thick fingertips. He would have given a hundred quid for a cigarette at that moment. He took another sip of coffee. It tasted even more bitter.

‘Bill would walk to the harbour wall,’ MacMillan went on. ‘All innocent like. As if he was staring out to sea. But he would be looking for me. Then when no one was around he would unbutton his coat and he’d ...’ MacMillan lowered his head.

‘But he didn’t get a chance to do that last night,’ Gilchrist whispered. ‘Did he, Sam?’

MacMillan shook his head. ‘No, son. He didnae.’

‘What happened, Sam. Tell me.’

MacMillan gripped the binoculars. ‘Bill heard something. He turned around. I didnae know what was going on at first. Then I seen someone walk toward him.’

‘The Stabber?’

‘Aye.’

‘Was that when you got a good look at him?’

‘It was dark. But, aye. I could see fine well. The Stabber was young, like. Just a boy.’

‘How could you tell?’

‘I’m no altogether stupid.’

‘What was the Stabber wearing?’

‘An anorak. With the hood up.’

‘Colour?’

‘Dark green. Or blue, maybe. It was dripping. And jeans. Tight jeans. Even though Bill was looking away from me, I knew he was talking by the way his head moved.’

‘You had a clear view?’ Sa again.

‘Not too clear, like. I kept having to wipe the lenses.’

‘Well enough to identify him?’

MacMillan stared at Sa. ‘When Bill was stabbed, he fell flat on his back. Down like a sack of tatties he went. And just then, the skies lit up.’

Gilchrist held his breath. He glanced at the recorder. It was still turning. He resisted the urge to look at Sa, could sense her tension. ‘Do you know who he is, Sam?’

MacMillan grimaced. ‘I seen his face. Pure evil, it was. But I just seen it for a fraction of a second.’ Then he shook his head. ‘If I seen him again, I wouldnae be sure.’

Gilchrist slumped back in his chair. Something stirred within him, flared to anger. ‘Why didn’t you call the police? You’d just witnessed a murder, for crying out loud.’

‘I couldnae think straight. Bill was dead. I couldnae do nothing for him. I had to walk past his body to get off the pier.’ He shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes. ‘I couldnae even look at him. I havenae slept all night for thinking about it.’ Then he buried his face in his hands and his shoulders heaved with his sobbing.

Gilchrist pushed his chair back and fought off the urge to shout to the skies. If MacMillan had called right away, they might have been able to trap the Stabber.

He glanced at Sa. She was staring at MacMillan, her face pale and drawn, as drained as Gilchrist felt. The case was taking its toll on her. On both of them. They’d been at it seven days a week for the last two months. Eighteen hours a day. Minimum. They couldn’t keep that up for ever. No one could. And that bastard, Patterson, hadn’t called yet. But that would come. As surely as the sun would—

‘I followed him.’

Gilchrist stared at MacMillan, his mind demanding to hear the words repeated. But Sa beat him to it.

‘You did what?’

‘I followed him. The Stabber. I was on my way home when I seen him ahead of me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye, lass. I recognized the anorak. And the tight jeans.’

‘Did he see you?’ asked Gilchrist.

‘No, son. He went through The Pends. It’s a wee bit bendy. And I kept well back, like. He walked past Deans Court.’ He shook his head. ‘Just like the Devil himself.’

‘Where did he go after that?’

‘Into North Street.’

Gilchrist felt his gaze being pulled to the front of the building. The Office was in North Street and so was the university. Was the Stabber a student returning to St Salvator’s Halls of Residence? But they had these halls covered last night. Or had the Stabber slipped down one of the side streets, maybe headed back to the town centre? He would check the CCTV recordings.

‘And then what?’ he asked MacMillan.

‘He was walking fast. By the time he turned into North Street he was a good bit in front of me. I didnae want to get too close, like, in case he saw me. But when I turned into North Street he was gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Vanished.’

‘You never saw him?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘I didnae.’

‘After he turned into North Street,’ said Gilchrist, ‘how long did it take you to reach the corner?’

MacMillan shrugged. ‘Fifteen seconds. Maybe more.’

‘Maybe a minute?’ asked Sa.

‘I’m sure it wasnae that long, lass.’

‘Where were you standing when you last saw the Stabber?’ Gilchrist asked.

‘In The Pends. By the entrance arch.’

‘We’ll work it back,’ Gilchrist said to Sa. ‘Get some feel for how far the Stabber could have walked in the time it takes to reach the corner of North Street. Carry out door-to-door enquiries. Turn out every house in the street, if we have to.’

Sa leaned closer. ‘Maybe the Stabber ran,’ she said.

‘Why would he run, lass? He was walking. Fast, like. But just walking.’

‘Maybe he knew he was being followed.’

‘No, lass. I’ve told you.’

‘Did you see any cars?’

‘I didnae notice. I was looking for someone walking.’

‘So, you’re not sure?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe he just drove away.’

‘He would have had to have gone some to jump into a car, start it up and drive out of North Street before I reached the corner.’

‘Was he old enough to drive?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘Why would you say so?’

‘He didnae look like a wee boy. More like a young man with a baby face.’

‘But you never saw his face.’

‘No clear enough.’

‘And you never saw a car.’

‘I wasnae looking for a car, but with all these questions you’re firing at me, I’m no so sure any more. I just cannae remember.’

‘Perhaps he had a car parked down a side street,’ Sa pressed on. ‘Did you hear a car?’

MacMillan’s face clouded. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Gilchrist.’

Gilchrist stood up. The interview was over. ‘Your eyewitness account will be of great help to the investigation. I appreciate you coming in and talking to us.’