Eye for an Eye (30 page)

Wild thoughts flashed through his brain, the logic trying to spin away from him. He pulled out his mobile phone and called Terry Leighton.

Four rings, and he was through.

‘It’s Andy Gilchrist here. I left a message.’

‘Oh yes yes. Sorry I never got back to you.’

Gilchrist ignored Leighton’s apology. ‘Beth gave you a photograph. Were you able to determine what was wrong with the cat’s face?’

‘Oh yes yes. It’s a scar from a cut. Quite a horrific cut. You can see it quite clearly using a magnifying glass.’

‘Were you able to digitally enhance the image?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Leighton. ‘The poor creature appears to have suffered a severe injury. It has a scar running from above its left eye, down through the eyeball. It must have been completely blind in that eye. The scar misses the nose and splits the lip. Judging from the shape of the cat’s face, it must have been quite deep. Particularly around the nose. I suspect, with such a deep cut, considerable force was used.’

‘So someone did it deliberately?’

‘Impossible to say with any certainty, of course. At first, I thought the scar wasn’t straight enough to be done by an axe, for example, but the cat’s face was turned slightly to the side, which exaggerated the scar’s crookedness and when I digitally adjusted the face, the scar looked much straighter. Also, it’s possible that the wound healed in a quite irregular manner.’

‘How would that happen?’

‘It could have been caused during the healing process itself. The wound could have become infected and reopened, in which case parts of it might have taken longer to heal, causing disfigurement.’

‘You seem to have more than a passing knowledge of the medical side of things.’

‘My father was a surgeon, Mr Gilchrist. As a boy, I always thought I would follow in his footsteps. Then along came computers.’

‘So would you put the cat’s wound down to an accident or not?’

‘In my opinion, not,’ said Leighton.

‘And you think it might have been hit with an axe?’

‘Can’t say.’

‘Best guess.’

‘An axe, maybe. Or a heavy knife. Someone else might interpret it differently, although I fail to see quite how.’

‘Could I have a copy of the enhanced photo?’

‘I’ve already returned it,’ Leighton said. ‘I had it couriered to Beth, along with my handwritten observations.’

Gilchrist thanked Leighton and immediately called Beth, but her answering machine cut in. Next, he called Lafferty’s, but Maggie had not made an appearance and was not expected to return. On a long shot, he tried the Dunvegan, but Maggie was not there either.

He walked up North Street toward the Cathedral and could tell from a glance at Garvie’s house that she was out, and Maggie was not there either. He checked his watch, surprised to find an hour had passed since he dropped off Tyke. He tried Beth’s number again and felt a flush of concern at the sound of her answering machine. He left no message, and decided to pay her a visit.

But first, he had to return to the vet’s and settle up.

The smell of dried food in the reception area somehow reminded him of a plant shop. From the back of the building he heard the whine of a dog, the rattle of a cage. He paid using Old Willie’s money, and could not hold back a chuckle when Tyke was brought from the back, fur trimmed and groomed and carbolic fresh. When Gilchrist put on his lead, Tyke gave a gruffy growl and tugged toward the door, his short tail upright and lively as a fresh dock.

Gilchrist walked him to Inverlea Cottage, where Tyke sat on his haunches as if waiting to be escorted inside. He tried the door and, just as Liz had said, it was unlocked. He pressed the doorbell and stepped into a tiny vestibule with an inner door of smoked glass. This one was locked, which pleased him. He rapped his knuckles on the glass panel.

‘Mrs Cockburn?’ He rapped again. ‘Liz?’

Moments later, he saw her frail shadow manifest beyond the opaque panel. She fumbled with the key, and when she pulled the door open, her gaze settled on the side of his head.

‘Whatever happened?’

He fingered his left ear. ‘Bumped into a cupboard.’

‘Goodness gracious. You must be more careful. Well, in you come, dear. I’ve got some shortbread cooling.’

Gilchrist held up his hand. ‘I can’t stay.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘You said you liked dogs.’ He held out the lead. ‘His name’s Tyke. And he needs a good home. I can’t think of anywhere better than with you.’

The sight of Tyke’s scruffy face raised a smile that took years off her. She looked back up at Gilchrist. ‘For me?’

‘If you want him.’

‘Tyke,’ she said to the old dog. ‘And are you? Are you just a cheeky little tyke?’

Tyke wagged his tail.

‘He’s had a good walk,’ said Gilchrist. ‘It’s time for his nap,’ and handed over the lead. As Liz took it, he pulled out the wad of notes from Old Willie’s flat, pushed them into her hand and folded her fingers over the money.

‘That’s to take care of him.’

Before she could object, he added, ‘From Tyke’s previous master. It’s what he wanted,’ then bent down and scratched Tyke behind the ears. ‘You behave yourself now. Do you hear?’

With that, Gilchrist stepped back and closed the door behind him.

A sliver of light seeped from the edge of the velvet curtains in the front bedroom window. Gilchrist glanced at his watch and rang the doorbell. It was too early for Beth to retire, but sometimes she would stretch out and read. Light spilled into the hallway as an inner door was opened and the main door unlocked.

The rings under Beth’s eyes looked as dark as bruises. Her hair had an unkempt style he could not remember seeing before.

‘Did I wake you?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

From the heaviness in her words, Gilchrist realized she had been dozing. He was about to ask for Leighton’s digital photograph when she blinked, heavy and slow, turned her head and stared back along the hallway. For one disconcerting moment, he wondered if he was interrupting her evening with Armstrong, but then she swayed, and he realized she had been drinking.

‘I spoke with Leighton,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

The word had been spoken with effort, but left no taint of alcohol in the narrow space between them. He hated having to ask, but said, ‘Are you alone?’

She nodded, as if speech was beyond her. Then she frowned, as if remembering something from a long time ago, and pushed the door toward him, the move so unexpected that he almost had no time to shove his foot in the way.

The door bounced back.

Beth looked at the tiled floor in dazed surprise. She pushed again, but the door hit Gilchrist’s foot and she stumbled against the frame.

Gilchrist leaned forward, pushed an arm behind her knees, and lifted her. By the time he placed her on her bed he knew what had happened.

He called an ambulance.

‘Can you identify the problem?’

Gilchrist picked up the plastic-backed foil from the floor by the bedside table. ‘Cuprofen,’ he said. ‘Ibuprofen tablets. Maximum strength. Both packs. That’s twenty-four in total. She’s conscious. But only just. Get someone here as fast as you can.’

‘Mr Gilchrist?’

Gilchrist opened his eyes. The doctor’s hair was snowy white, as if to match his gown. A navy-blue waistcoat and starched shirt with tightly knotted tie made Gilchrist run his tongue over his teeth. He pushed himself up out of the chair.

‘There’s no need to get up.’

‘It’s better if I stand.’ His spine seemed to have locked, and the fire in his side refused to let him flex. ‘How is she, Doctor ...’ – he eyed the name tag – ‘Ferguson?’

‘Resting. We’ve pumped her stomach and given her a sedative. She’s sound asleep.’ The corners of Ferguson’s eyes creased. ‘Your fast action went a considerable way to saving her life.’

Gilchrist nodded. After calling for an ambulance, he had managed to make Beth swallow a large glass of warm salted water, then held her head over a plastic basin and pushed his fingers to the back of her throat. But by the time she made it to Accident and Emergency she was unconscious with skin the waxy pallor of the terminally ill.

‘Can I see her?’ he asked.

‘I think we can arrange that,’ Ferguson said. ‘But it’s important she rests.’

Gilchrist followed Ferguson as he strutted along the corridor, his firm steps as tight and precise as his shirt collar. They passed a row of curtained consulting rooms and entered a ward that rang with the clatter of cutlery and the rattle of trolleys. The smell of vegetables and cooked meat did nothing for him, and he knew he would have to force himself to eat later.

Ferguson led him to a small anteroom. ‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

Beth’s eyes were closed. A clear drip was connected to her left arm. A monitor stood at the opposite end of the bed, with a wire that led to one of her fingers. He took her other hand and pressed it to his lips. Her skin smelled fresh, felt oily smooth. He was deeply troubled that she had been prepared to step to the edge of her psychological precipice and take a leap that would end her life. He saw, too, how close he had come to doing that with his own life after Gail left him.

He knew for sure that when Beth had needed him, he had not been there for her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

Her dark lashes fluttered, as if her subconscious had heard his voice and was signalling her awake. But after several seconds she settled, and he laid her arm by her side and left the ward.

CHAPTER 30

Cricket bat.

It seemed such an odd weapon, but in the hands of someone wild enough, a cricket bat packed a punch and a half and took a lot of stopping.

Gilchrist touched his wounds, felt the evidence of his recent beating at the hands of a crazed batsman. Except that the man who had assaulted Beth, then Gilchrist, was no English gentleman, but a scruffy lout with
nae sense o’ hygiene
.

Gilchrist pushed his sodden hair off his forehead, and shivered. The wet weather seemed to trigger his thoughts. Or perhaps his sixth sense was working at some subconscious level in his brain. His ribs hurt, his head hurt, and he was not sure if the dampness that seeped down his neck was blood or rain.

How could he have been so blind? Not blind, but stupid. He had never given it a thought. It was the damned cricket bat that had got him going, the one that had beaten him half to death and which used to hang from hooks on the wall in Beth’s spare bedroom.

He reached Garvie’s house ten minutes or so after seven. The ground-floor curtains were now drawn, so she was at home.

The drizzle had turned to a steady downpour, the sky as dark as a prison blanket.

He stopped at the first gate in Gregory Lane. The paint looked new, but the wood rotted near the ground. He gripped the metal handle. How much noise would it make if he burst it open? The wall was too high to climb over with damaged ribs, and a quick look along the lane made him reach his decision.

He put his shoulder to the gate and gave it a hard thump.

The lock popped, tearing the screws from the weakened wood. He stepped from the lane, pulled the gate behind him, pressed the screws back into the frame. They held. Far from perfect, but anyone passing in the lane would not notice.

He wasted no time in pushing through the sodden shrubbery until he found himself crouching behind Garvie’s perimeter wall.

No choice this time but to climb over.

Around him, rain pattered gardens that lay mid-winter black. Despite the gloom, crossing Garvie’s garden to the ventilation grille without being seen would be almost impossible.

Over the wall, he saw Garvie in the kitchen, the motion of her hands suggesting she was chopping vegetables. He pulled out his mobile, called Directory Enquiries, and asked for her number. If she had a phone in the kitchen, he was snookered.

As the connection was made, Garvie turned, grabbed a hand towel, and left the kitchen. Through the living-room window, he saw her reach for her phone.

Now.

He gripped the top of the wall and pulled himself up, almost screamed, then fell back. He heard Garvie say, ‘Hello ...?’ as he slumped onto the wet grass. His breath burst from his mouth in short bursts that burned his ribs. He disconnected and fumbled in his pockets, found the painkillers and poked one out of its foil packaging. And another. From the fire in his ribcage he knew he had damaged his fractured ribs. The pills had been taken too late to prevent the pain from what he was about to do. But they would help later.

He willed himself back to his feet and peered over the wall.

Garvie was back in the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of something orange, and guessed she was making a fruit salad. Once again, he placed his hands on the wall, let his arms take the strain, then pulled. He felt the pain increase until it reached some kind of limit. With his hands free and his weight on his elbows, he pressed
REDIAL
.

Same scenario.