Eye for an Eye (35 page)

Gilchrist waited for Maggie to wipe the tears from her eyes before asking, ‘When were you intending to leave?’

‘In the morning.’

‘Early?’

She sniffed. ‘About six.’

Gilchrist noted an airline ticket on the table. ‘Not the south of England.’

‘Majorca.’

‘Flying out of Glasgow?’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘You never told Sa?’

‘No,’ she whispered.

Gilchrist glanced at the suitcases. ‘Plan on staying long?’

‘You could say.’

‘One-way ticket?’

‘You’ve got one guess.’ Maggie sniffed. ‘How did she ...?’

‘She didn’t suffer,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Her last words were for Timmy.’

Maggie squeezed her eyes shut then, and shook her head. ‘She loved him,’ she whispered. ‘She missed him more than anything else in the world. He came between us, you know.’ Her voice trembled. ‘I think it was that more than anything that hurt.’

Gilchrist watched tears spill from her eyes. ‘What were you going to do with Patter?’ he asked.

Maggie frowned, as if confused. ‘Patter?’

‘Were you going to leave him?’

‘He’s an outside cat. He doesn’t need us.’

‘Us?’

‘Humans.’

‘Would Lex not take him?’

She tutted. ‘One’s enough for that bitch.’

‘You don’t like Lex, then?’

‘She tried to steal Sa from me. Before Patsy.’

Now Gilchrist understood. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. ‘So,’ he said, ‘when Sa fabricated the charge against me for harassing Lex, you jumped at the chance to get one over on her, and lied about being a witness.’

Maggie’s nostrils flared.

‘Were you not concerned you’d be found out?’ he asked.

‘Who cared? I was leaving anyway.’

He glanced at McVicar to make sure he had caught it all, then said, ‘Lex didn’t know you were going to Majorca?’

‘No one knew.’

‘Not even Patsy?’

Maggie lowered her gaze.

‘Was Patsy going to travel with you?’

‘She’s meeting me out there.’

‘Were you going to tell Sa?’

‘Eventually.’ She sniffed. ‘When things settled down.’

‘What sort of things?’

Maggie’s gaze flickered to the grate.

Gilchrist glanced at McVicar. ‘I want you to be careful how you answer this, Maggie.’

Maggie stared at him, as if not understanding. ‘Do I need a lawyer?’

‘That’s your prerogative.’

‘But I didn’t do anything.’

Therein lies the problem, Gilchrist wanted to say. ‘Who stashed the bamboo staves under Lex Garvie’s floor?’ he asked.

‘Sa did. She thought no one would find them there. And she had a house key. From when she and Lex were close.’

‘And Lex never knew?’

‘No.’

‘How long had you known about Sa?’ he asked.

Maggie’s gaze darted to the grate once more, and Gilchrist made a mental note to have the ashes tested for traces of bamboo shavings. ‘We met after she came up from England. We were no more than ten or eleven at the time. But it seems as if I’ve known her for ever,’ she whispered.

‘You should have come forward,’ he said.

Maggie seemed to stare through him, as if his eyes were portals through which she could read the memories of her past. ‘Sa had no one to talk to. She was lonely. She used to tell me things she told nobody else.’ She giggled then, and the pitch of her voice rose. ‘Just the two of us, you know. Me and Sa. It’s always been me and Sa. We were close. Really close. We used to keep pets. When we were little girls. Rabbits and guinea pigs and mice. White mice. Lots of mice. I liked the mice. And cats. We used to feed the mice to the cats.’ She giggled again, a high-pitched sound, like a little girl, then sadness glazed her eyes. ‘They never lived long, the cats. Or the rabbits. They always ended up dead. I used to blame Alex. Or the other boys. But it wasn’t them. Sa told me. That was our secret,’ she whispered. ‘Me and Sa. It was our secret.’

CHAPTER 35

‘Can I drive you home, Andy?’

‘No thanks, sir. I’ll walk.’

‘To Crail?’

Gilchrist shook his head. ‘To see a friend.’

‘Local?’

‘Fairly close.’

‘Well, in that case, if you don’t mind, I’d like to walk with you.’

For some meteorological reason, the snow had failed to reach the town. The streets glittered with frost as if the cobblestones were riddled with gems. McVicar insisted on covering Gilchrist’s shoulders with a tartan woollen blanket he kept folded in the boot. When Gilchrist pulled it around him, he caught the faintest smell of perfume.

‘Never know when you’re going to need it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Normally, McVicar strode with military-like authority, but he paid deference to Gilchrist’s wounds and eased along beside him.

‘This friend of yours, Andy. Anyone I know?’

‘Beth Anderson.’

McVicar seemed to lose his stride for a brief second, then said, ‘Wasn’t she the lady who was—’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Of course, Andy. Of course. Now I understand.’ He paused. ‘Don’t know if anyone told you, but they arrested a young man earlier this evening. Turns out he was the son of that couple, the man found murdered on the West Sands and the woman who disappeared. You remember them?’

‘I do indeed, sir.’

‘He’s to be arraigned tomorrow morning for murder.’

Gilchrist almost stumbled. ‘Murder, sir?’

‘His ex-girlfriend. Alice McGhee. And her boyfriend. German-sounding name.’

Hearing how close Beth had come to being murdered sent a shiver the length of Gilchrist’s spine.

‘Expect his lawyers will plead not guilty by reason of insanity. Apparently the man’s a wreck.’ McVicar shook his head. ‘Sometimes I wonder what the world’s coming to, Andy. I despair. I really do.’

‘Mind if I ask a question, sir?’

‘Not at all, Andy.’

‘You don’t believe Patterson’s version, do you?’

‘Not one bit. The man’s proven he’s a damned fool. I had the opportunity of speaking briefly to his wife. Becky witnessed the whole incident from the bedroom window.’

Gilchrist almost smiled. It had troubled him that in the absence of a witness, Patterson might have convinced those who mattered. ‘Will she be expected to say what happened in front of her husband?’ he asked.

‘I wouldn’t put her through that.’

‘What’ll become of him, sir? Patterson.’

McVicar sighed. ‘Not quite sure yet. Need to listen to what he’s got to say for himself, of course. Always try to be fair about that sort of thing. But he made a serious misjudgement in pulling you from the case. That’ll weigh heavily against him. Probably pull him under in the end.’

They walked on in silence and reached the hospital ten cold minutes later. Gilchrist slipped the blanket from his shoulders and handed it back to McVicar.

‘Keep it, Andy.’ McVicar gave Gilchrist’s shoulders a tight squeeze then turned and strode into the night.

As Gilchrist pushed through the hospital entrance, tiredness swept over him in a wave and he fought off the ridiculous urge to lie down on the cold tarmac and let sleep take him.

Dawn broke to a grey-tinged sky and white-edged roads.

Gilchrist opened his eyes. The waiting room had filled, but space either side of him lay clear.

Doctor Ferguson stood before him.

Gilchrist pulled himself to his feet. ‘I know, I know,’ he said, and took hold of Ferguson’s outstretched hand. ‘No need to stand.’

‘But you feel better upright.’

‘I do,’ he lied. ‘How is she?’

‘Better than you, by the looks of it.’

‘Put it down to old age and the rigours of a job meant for the young. Can I see her?’

Ferguson shook his head. ‘She’ll be out of it for the best part of the morning.’ He frowned at Gilchrist’s head, and said, ‘Follow me.’

They reached a row of rooms lined with curtains on rails, and Ferguson pulled the first one open to reveal a young woman in hospital scrubs writing on a medical chart.

‘Nurse Simmons will attend to your head wound,’ he said, then closed the curtain before Gilchrist could respond.

He sat, eyes half-shut, and let the nurse unwind his bandage. As she eased it from his crusted wound, she said, ‘Now, how did you manage to do this to yourself?’

‘Got into a fight.’

‘At your age?’

‘Didn’t know I looked that old.’

Nurse Simmons let out a staccato chuckle that he found refreshing, and began to work around his head like a hairdresser. She clipped off more of his hair and gave him an injection above the ear before cleaning the wound and sewing in an additional ten stitches, telling him the others looked like they’d been ripped out by the roots. When she finished, she gave him a couple of pills for his headache.

‘There you go,’ she said. ‘Good as new.’

Gilchrist fingered his ear. He had no feeling on most of the left side of his face, all the way to his lower jaw.

‘You can go home,’ she added.

Why? thought Gilchrist. And it struck him then how empty his life had become, how he missed his family, how he longed to hear their voices and be surrounded by the careless clatter and rattle of everyday life. How nice it would be to have a pint with Jack, or a meal with Maureen, or just phone them up and say,
How about I pop round and take you out? My treat.
And he saw that with Gail’s impending death, a huge part of what had been his family, his life, and what was to become his future, would simply vanish.

‘Do you have a car?’ Nurse Simmons asked.

Gilchrist frowned, then remembered he had left his Merc in Patterson’s drive. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Just as well. I wouldn’t want you to be driving in your condition. I can call a taxi, if you’d like?’

Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I have someone close by I’d like to check up on.’

‘I’ll be here for the rest of the morning,’ she said, ‘if you need anything else.’

She smiled, and Gilchrist wondered if she would still manage a smile after thirty years of attending to the walking wounded. Perhaps she would become inured to the endless barrage of needless brutality and treat life with the cynicism it seemed to deserve.

Outside, the morning air lay still and crisp as an Arctic frost. Gilchrist’s breath clouded before him in short puffs, visible signs of how cold he felt. He pulled McVicar’s blanket around his neck and decided to take a taxi.

Sam MacMillan answered the door in a creased plaid shirt that hung over brown corduroy trousers with knees worn as smooth as flannel. White stubble dotted craggy cheeks and wattled neck, the growth at least several days old.

‘Thought you were going to call, Sam,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Or were you hoping I’d forget?’

‘You’re a right pushy wee bugger getting.’

‘Seems to be the only way around here.’

MacMillan contemplated the bandage around Gilchrist’s head. ‘So, what’s the other guy like?’

‘Worse.’

MacMillan frowned. ‘Can I finish my breakfast? Or are you going to arrest me on my threshold?’

‘Finish your breakfast, Sam.’

MacMillan grunted then shuffled along the hall.

The kitchen was bright and open, which somehow surprised Gilchrist. Glossy posters and framed photographs of an avian repertoire filled the walls. Two pairs of binoculars sat on an open shelf by the refrigerator. One pair Gilchrist recognized. Beyond the kitchen window, three bird feeders flapped with feathered life in a small walled garden.

MacMillan screeched a chair up to a light oak table that seemed more suited to a modern house than one centuries-old. He faced the patio window and followed the line of Gilchrist’s gaze. ‘Once they know where to find food,’ he said, ‘they keep coming back.’

‘Almost like keeping pets,’ said Gilchrist.

‘But without the buggeration factor.’ MacMillan kept his gaze on the activity outside. ‘See that one there? That’s a wren. See it? You don’t find too many of them in town. Had a nest of them a few years back, in that wee bittie privet hedge in the corner. Cats chased them away. Should have shot the buggers.’

All of a sudden, MacMillan tapped the window so hard that Gilchrist thought the glass would break. The feeders exploded in a wild flutter, three clouds of feathers that burst into the air like smoke. ‘Go on,’ he growled. ‘Get out of it.’ Then he sat back, a scowl bending his lips. ‘Starlings. Bloody pests. You’d think they own the place.’

One by one the birds returned, the starlings leading, oblivious to the hatred levelled their way.

Without being invited, Gilchrist pulled a chair opposite and sat. He said nothing as MacMillan bit into a hardened crust of toast as if it was the skull of a starling. Crumbs crackled onto his plate. MacMillan glanced up. ‘You look like you’ve been hit by a bus,’ he growled. ‘And what’s with the blanket?’