Eye for an Eye (32 page)

His call was answered once more by Constable James.

‘Alyson Baird,’ he said.

It took four rings before Alyson’s curt voice clipped, ‘Crime Division.’

‘Alyson?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Andy.’ A pause, then, ‘Andy Gilchrist.’

She gave a salacious chuckle and he fought off an image of her slipping off her stockings.

‘How many Randy Andys do you think I know, then?’

Gilchrist tried to steer the conversation away from her favourite subject. ‘Listen, Alyson. I need a favour.’

‘Let me wish. A blow-job?’

‘Mobile telephone number.’

‘Any bitch I know?’

‘I’m trying to contact DS Nancy Wilson.’

‘That slut?’

‘Please, Alyson. I’m trying to get hold of Stan. His mobile’s off. Nancy’s with him.’

‘Well, seeing as how you’re so friendly,’ she said, ‘I’ve got it right here.’ She recited the number.

Gilchrist assigned it to memory. ‘One other thing.’

‘I’m all ears.’

He could not mistake the huffiness in her voice, but he had already tired of her banal innuendoes. ‘Would you happen to know where Sa is?’ he asked.

‘Meeting with Patterson.’

‘Just the two of them?’

‘I believe so.’

‘When?’

‘Eight-thirty.’

‘Where?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Sa’s just called to ask where he is.’

‘Patterson didn’t turn up?’

‘According to Sa.’

‘Do you know what the meeting was about?’

‘Something to do with the Stabber case. Other than that, I haven’t a clue, big boy.’

Gilchrist’s mind crackled. Was Patterson simply running late? Or had something more sinister happened?

‘Alyson,’ he said, ‘can you reach Patterson right away? Make sure he’s okay.’

‘Don’t need to.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘He’s just called, too. He says Sa never turned up.’

What the hell was going on? ‘Is Patterson on his way back to the Office?’

‘Afraid not. He’s done for the day. He’s going home.’

‘Home?’

‘Yes, Andy. Home. You know. Where he lives. With his wife. She called. He’s to be back for nine.’

‘Thanks, Alyson. You’re a darling.’

‘Yeah, I love you, too, Andy.’

Did he have it all wrong? Had Patterson and Sa simply confused where they were meant to meet? Then he saw it with a clarity that stunned him. He glanced at his watch. Just after 8:45.

Less than fifteen minutes.

Could he make it in time?

The clouds are shifting, giving a glimpse of a wan moon and a frosted sky. Again I am reminded of Timmy. Of my mother. Of the three of us staring out through a frosted bedroom window. And of snow falling. I watch Timmy’s face break into a smile. My mother’s, too. And I realize we were a close family once.

I feel the weight of sadness overwhelm me as I imagine how it might have been to have led a normal life, a life with Timmy in it, an older brother to talk to when our mother died. I imagine visiting Timmy’s home, sitting his children on my knees, hearing their voices whisper words of love.

An icy breeze covers the moon with tattered strips of clouds. I can almost hear Timmy’s children call out to me.

And I wonder why the raindrops no longer feel cold.

Maybe it was driving at speed that honed his mind razor sharp to make sense of the most tenuous of connections. In all his years as a detective, he had never been able to put a finger on it and say,
Yes, now I understand how the mind rationalizes the irrational
. Perhaps that was how a sixth sense worked, brain cells sorting through nonsensical jumble, calculating improbables at a subconscious level while five other senses were tuned in to the real world. But no matter how that tenuous connection was made, Gilchrist knew he had made another.

Beth’s attacker. And trainers. That’s what he had seen from Stan’s car on the way to the hospital. Someone walking past, wearing trainers.

White. Clean.

He tucked his mobile under his chin and powered the Merc through a tight bend. ‘Nance,’ he growled, ‘put Stan on.’

Nance obliged.

‘Yes, boss?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Just pulling into the Office now, boss. DeFiore’s called for a debriefing.’

Damn. Even if Stan could get out of the meeting, it would take him ten minutes to catch up. Gilchrist would have to go it alone. But Stan could help in other ways.

‘It’s come to me, Stan. He was wearing trainers.’

‘I don’t follow.’

Gilchrist was not sure he followed the rationale himself, but said, ‘When you drove me to the hospital, I remembered seeing something odd. I couldn’t place it. Not until a moment ago. A pair of trainers, Stan. They were new. Not old. They didn’t fit.’

‘You all right, boss?’

‘Not the size. The profile.’

‘Profile?’

‘Of the person. They didn’t fit the profile. An old man wearing new trainers. It looked all wrong.’ He twisted the wheel, accelerated up the hill, felt his back press into the seat. ‘That’s when it clicked. Like the scruffy guy I saw from the Victoria Café. He was wearing trainers. And they were clean.’

‘Would you like me to make you another appointment?’

Gilchrist almost laughed. He floored the pedal. He whipped past two cars and a van and hammered through a wide corner. ‘I didn’t recognize him at the time. But I do now. Sebastian Hamilton. The man who attacked Beth. And me.’

‘You sure?’

Yes, Gilchrist wanted to say. I’m dead sure. But he wasn’t. Nowhere near. ‘Sure I’m sure,’ he lied, and heard only silence come back at him. Not quite the reception he expected. ‘Norris did speak to you, Stan. Right?’

‘He did.’

‘And told you to bring in Hamilton for indecent exposure?’

‘He did.’

‘And?’

‘He’s been evicted.’

‘What are you telling me, Stan?’

‘He wasn’t home, boss.’

‘So where is he?’

‘No one knows.’

‘Hang on.’ Gilchrist braked for a tight bend then accelerated out of it. Ahead, the road rushed at him from tunnelled darkness, its wet surface glistening under the glare of his headlights. A glance at the speedo, almost eighty, had him easing back a touch. He would be no use to anyone wrapped around a tree. But the thought that he was already too late made him press his foot back to the floor.

‘Eh, boss?’

‘Still here.’

‘Has anyone told you what they found at Hamilton’s?’

The unusual softness in Stan’s voice made Gilchrist lift his foot from the pedal again. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘I’ve only just heard about it myself, boss.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘In his bedroom. A right mess it was. Paper clippings. Reports about the murder. The body on the beach. All of the investigation, boss. In an album.’ A pause, then, ‘And photographs of you, boss. Old ones. New ones. You name it, you’re in it.’

Gilchrist dipped his lights for an oncoming car. He could sense Stan was holding something back. ‘And?’ he tried.

A cough, then, ‘There’s also several of you and Beth.’

Gilchrist frowned. He and Beth had started dating about three months after the body was found on the beach. But he could not remember the pair of them ever being photographed by the press. ‘Paper clippings, you say? Of me and Beth?’

‘That’s just the problem, boss. The photos of you and Beth are originals. And there’s some of Beth by herself. We think Hamilton shot them.’

Now it made sense. Now he knew why Beth had been attacked. To get at him. For failing in a murder investigation. ‘Didn’t Hamilton have a girlfriend?’ he snapped. ‘When his father was found? Remember? On the beach? Wasn’t she with him that morning?’

‘Yes, boss. But don’t ask me her name. It’s been a while.’

Having spoken to Alyson reminded Gilchrist. Not Alyson ... ‘Alice,’ he hissed. ‘That’s it. Alice. Alice somebody or other.’

‘McLay, McKay, McKee ...’

‘Check it out, Stan. Find out where she lives.’

‘McGhee,’ shouted Stan. ‘Alice McGhee.’

‘That’s her. Track her down. Maybe she’ll know something. Maybe Hamilton’s still going out with her.’

‘You’re forgetting DeFiore, boss.’

Gilchrist felt a flush of anger heat his face. Not that it was Stan’s fault. He was only doing as instructed. ‘Stan, listen, I know you’re working all hours, but I need someone to run with this for me. For Beth, too.’

‘I could have Alasdair Burns take it on, boss. He gets right up DeFiore’s nose.’

Gilchrist grinned. Alasdair had been on the verge of retiring every year for the last five and had little interest in pursuing a case with the ardour of old. Which was probably why DeFiore was pissed off with him. But he was an experienced detective and could handle himself well.

‘Get him on it right away, Stan.’

‘Will do, boss.’

Gilchrist tried to convince himself there was nothing he could do about Hamilton, that he had to focus on the problem at hand. But something in Stan’s tone reconfirmed the danger he was about to face, and made him wish Stan was with him.

For, if his suspicions were correct, he was going to need all the help he could get.

CHAPTER 32

I hear a car and know it is time.

I slide my hand under my anorak. My fingers wrap around the bamboo stave. It feels comfortable, like a part of me, as if it is an extension of my being. I glance at the sky, but the stars and moon are hidden by cloud.

Rain drums around me.

I step from the hedgerow and move toward the gate. It always surprises me how calm I feel before a killing, as if the need to take someone’s life is as basic to my existence as breathing and eating.

Headlights sweep the hedge by my head, twin beams that pierce the wet darkness, startling me with their brightness. Then they spin away, and the hedge returns to shadow.

I approach the gate, my gaze grazing over the side of the bungalow, searching for movement. I am aware that Patterson’s wife might hear the car and peer through the curtains. I lie low and watch the car emerge from the forest road and enter the clearing in front of the house. The engine sounds as if it is idling, the driver in no hurry. Another flash of light as the car pulls in to face the house, then darkness again, like a stage curtain being lowered.

The car door slams. Footsteps crunch the gravel. A cough, a wet spit of phlegm. Even from that most basic of functions I recognize Patterson.

I steal forward, hidden from view by the hedgerow. I am less than three steps from the gate when I hear another car, the high whine of its engine above the rustling of the rain. Someone in a hurry. But Patterson seems not to have heard. He grasps the gate and pushes it open.

A horn blares, long and drawn out.

Patterson frowns and looks toward the forest. But the car has not crowned the hillside yet. Then he closes the gate and fiddles with the latch. I hear the car clearly now, much closer. Its engine revs and whines as the driver fights his way over the rutted road.

Patterson hears it and faces the darkness.

I can just make out his profile.

My fingers tighten around the stave.

I shift forward into his line of sight.

He steps back.

In the rain, his eyes sparkle. But I know the look of fear.

‘For God’s sake,’ he hisses. Then he recovers. ‘Who the hell are you?’

I lower my anorak, let him see my face.

‘You?’ he says.

The car crowns the ridge. Headlights flicker between the trees by the forestry fence, twin beams that jump through the rain like jiggling flashlights. Then they steady and pierce the sodden darkness and sweep the driveway.

For one confusing moment the lights blind me. I blink, decide to strike.

The car horn blares again, this time a rat-a-tat-tat.

‘What the—’ Patterson stares off toward the forest.

Too late.

I lower the stave, slip it from view.

The horn rat-a-tat-tats again, closer now. Headlights dance behind the trees.

Patterson glances at me and steps back, as if aware all of a sudden of how close I am to him. He brushes a hand over his balding pate and growls, ‘What are you doing here?’

I smile at him. I want to whip the stave out from under my anorak and drive it deep into the socket of his left eye. But the car is so close I can hear the metallic rattle of its suspension, the splash of puddles at its wheels.