Eye for an Eye (5 page)

‘No further questions,’ said Gilchrist, and stalked from the podium, ignoring the cries that erupted in his wake.

He slammed the door behind him.

How the hell could he control his murder investigation when one of his own team was talking to the press?

CHAPTER 5

My father hit my mother.

I was five years old when I first saw him hit her, too young to understand why she was lying on the kitchen floor, crying and screaming with her legs curled up into her stomach, arm flailing while my father pounded away at her with his black boots, white spittle drooling from his bristled chin, eyes red and wild and crazed as a raging bull.

I now recognize that single point in time as the moment when the hatred first began, like some cancer seed that floats in on a cold wind and settles deep in the soul to germinate into something foul and evil.

Nothing ever seemed the same after that. My father never lifted me and spun me around any more. I never saw my mother smile again. And my brother, Timmy, developed a stutter that stayed with him the remainder of his short life. As for me, I started punching and kicking Sandy, my one-eyed teddy that had been passed down from Timmy.

When Sandy stared at me dead-eyed, the way my mother did, I battered him the way my father battered her. When Sandy stared back at me still, I took a kitchen knife and stabbed out his other eye. I cried when Sandy had no eyes. Until I realized that, without eyes, Sandy could not watch my hatred grow, or see the pain spread like a fungus over my mother’s wrecked face.

Poor old blind old Sandy.

Three weeks later, I stabbed out his brains.

Gilchrist burst into the main office and stomped to his desk.

He faced his team.

‘Everybody,’ he shouted.

He waited until the group formed a loose scrum in front of him, then stared at each of them in turn. Young eyes gleamed back at him. ‘Someone’s been talking to the press,’ he said, ‘and I don’t like it.’

Eyes shimmied to the side. Someone coughed.

‘Let me make this crystal clear. No one is to discuss this case with anyone outside this room. And that includes all senior officers, no matter who.’ He caught DS Nancy Wilson frowning. ‘Got a problem with that, Nance?’

‘Does that include DCI Patterson?’

‘You’re not listening.’

Nance looked to her shoes. Someone chuckled – Baxter, perhaps. Stan almost smiled. Sa raised an eyebrow.

‘Every single scrap of information that leaves this office will leave this office through me,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Even if the ACC himself asks you about the case, you will direct him to me. You are following orders. Plain and simple. Is that clear?’

The group gave a collective mumble of confused consent. His orders violated police protocol, but he had made his point. Any more leaks and he would go nuclear.

‘All right,’ said Gilchrist, ‘let’s move on.’ He turned to Baxter. ‘Has Traffic done its bit?’

‘North Street’s blocked off from Deans Court to College Street, sir. And all side streets and lanes in between.’

‘Each point manned?’

‘Closed to the public.’

‘Nance?’

‘Sir?’

‘Warrants?’

‘All in order,’ she said. ‘Eighty-two in total.’

‘Good. Stan?’

‘Boss?’

‘See to it that our media friends out the back are kept from the area.’

‘Got it, boss.’

‘You’ve all been briefed, so you know what we’re looking for. Anorak, dark green or blue. Jeans. Probably still wet from last night’s storm. But don’t bank on it. The staves could be from bamboo furniture, a bookshelf, a decorative screen, so anything that looks like it could be dismantled and whittled to a point, check it out. Look for shavings in the rubbish, the fireplace, marks on floors and walls. Be nosy. Snoop around. Don’t hold back. The smallest clue could be all it takes to nail this case. But remember, MacMillan has identified the Stabber as a young man. So anyone younger than thirty is to be considered a possible suspect.’

‘Sir?’

Gilchrist eyed Nance. Other than Stan, she was the brightest of the young breed.

‘How reliable is MacMillan?’ she asked. ‘I’ve read his statement. It was coming down in buckets. He’s an old man. He was some distance away. He thought he saw a young man.’

‘Meaning?’

‘What if he’s wrong? From a distance, a woman might be mistaken for a man.’

‘Are you suggesting we should disregard his statement?’ Sa asked.

‘No. I’m saying he saw the Stabber’s face only during a flash of lightning. He could be wrong. That’s all.’

‘Nance is right,’ Gilchrist said, scanning the faces. ‘We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with. Best bet is someone young. We’ve a lot of ground to cover. So let’s get on with it. And Baxter?’

‘Sir?’

‘Watch those manners of yours.’

Baxter coughed.

‘Right,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Debriefing’s at six,’ and left the room.

Two minutes later, eight plain-clothes detectives and ten uniformed constables spilled from the Police Station and marched like a band of vigilantes up North Street toward the Abbey end, where they split into pre-assigned pairs – five to the north side, four to the south.

Gilchrist eyed the stone wall that bounded the Abbey ruins and felt his gaze settle on the archway that defined the start of the road known simply as The Pends. When the Stabber turned into North Street, MacMillan was standing at the entrance arch. Gilchrist glanced at his watch, and said to Sa, ‘Let’s see how long it takes.’

He strode down the shallow incline at the pace he imagined MacMillan might walk. When he reached The Pends, he stepped behind the crumbling entrance support and checked his watch again. Thirty-one seconds. He eyed the entrance to North Street and visualized the Stabber turning the corner. Once again, doubt crept through him. The Stabber could have known he was being followed, regardless of how cautious MacMillan had been.

Gilchrist walked back to North Street, faster this time. Twenty-five seconds.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘The world record for the two hundred metres is less than twenty seconds. Assuming the Stabber’s not the fastest human on the face of the planet, then somewhere between here and two hundred metres is where he must have gone.’

Sa stared along North Street. ‘Presuming he didn’t drive off, of course.’

Gilchrist followed her line of sight. The spire of St Salvator’s, where Prince William resided, pierced the roofline like a marker that defined the limits of their enquiries. The Stabber could not have run that far in twenty seconds. Maybe Sa was right. He could have turned into North Street and driven off. Or hidden for a while, then driven off.

That was possible.

Gilchrist guided his team into action.

Stan crossed the street to join WPC Liz Gregg, his partner for the door-to-door. Baxter and Clarke approached the first door on the left, armed with a warrant. Young and Mann the next. Stan and Liz stepped up to the first door on their list and Gilchrist caught Stan’s hand touch the back of her jacket, an almost unnoticeable contact that spoke volumes. Patterson had pronounced sexual relations forbidden between staff, on threat of termination. But as long as the job didn’t suffer, Gilchrist was happy to keep quiet.

Wilson and Gray reached the top of a short flight of steps. From an opened doorway, a young woman with blond hair and blue denim jeans frowned at them.

Gilchrist turned to Sa. ‘Did you talk to Patterson?’

‘About what?’

‘MacMillan’s statement.’

‘That’s old news, Andy. The ACC’ll have a copy by now. What’s your point?’

‘He talked to McKinnon.’

‘Patterson?’ she sneered. ‘He talks to everybody.’ Her gaze locked on to his in an unfamiliar moment of intimacy. ‘I wouldn’t give Patterson the time of day,’ she went on. ‘He’s violated the integrity of your investigation. You should file a complaint.’

‘He’d deny it.’

‘I’d support you.’

‘I didn’t know you cared.’

‘You’re being set up, Andy. Patterson wants you off the case. You know that, don’t you? And I don’t like it.’

‘What’s in it for him?’

Sunlight burst through the grey clouds and Gilchrist noticed one of Sa’s eyes had more flecks of green in it than the other.

‘Safety,’ she said. ‘His.’

Gilchrist frowned.

‘You threaten him,’ she added.

As Sa’s words fluttered through his mind, he realized how little he knew of her. She had lived in St Andrews most of her life, never married, and lesbian rumours did the Office rounds from time to time. Gilchrist had never given them any credence and something in the way she now looked at him strengthened his belief.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

Sa turned, and Gilchrist found himself staring at Wilson and Gray as they stepped inside. As the young woman in blue jeans turned to close the door, Gilchrist thought he caught a glint of recognition in her eyes.

‘You should call the police.’

‘Cindy, I don’t even know what he looks like. What do I tell them?’

‘They’d have your call on record. If it happens again—’

‘Don’t.’ Beth closed her eyes, pressed her hand to her mouth. ‘Don’t say that.’

Her body gave an involuntary shudder.

In the small utility room at the back of her shop, she had run her hands under the tap for a full minute, scouring her skin and fingernails with a nailbrush, washing her wrists and forearms with hefty squirts of antibacterial soap. She had dried herself off and looked in the mirror, checked that nothing had dripped onto her clothes. And when Cindy arrived she had asked her to give her the once over, too.

But the worst part had been swabbing the door handle, the glass panel, the entrance tiles, with soapy water, then sluicing the area down with disinfectant. Afterwards, she had trashed the gloves and wash-rag.

She shuddered again at the thought of it.

But how could she file a complaint?

Finding the words to tell the police that someone had ejaculated on her door was beyond her. Without a description, what could they do? And she had unwittingly destroyed all the evidence. She had no option but to work through the rest of the day as if nothing had happened. But despite her outer resolve, she could not rid herself of the unsettling feeling that continued to sweep through her.

What if the man returned?

What then?

CHAPTER 6

Gilchrist kept his finger on the doorbell longer than considered courteous. He was concerned by Mrs Granton’s failure to answer following Nance’s visit to break the news.

‘See anything?’ he asked Sa.

She shook her head.

Gilchrist stepped back.

The cottage’s roughcast façade shone white in the morning light. A brass coach lamp, polished like new copper, hung by the side of a varnished door. A gleaming brass nameplate was engraved with the single word ‘Inverlea’. A stone wall ran along the boundary and hid the rear garden from passers-by.

Gilchrist peered over.

A tidy lawn with crisp edges, the flower bed turned over for the winter. Pruned shrubs stood against the opposite wall like shorn heads. A patio door lay open to reveal several dark inches of interior.

‘Back in a tick,’ he said, and gripped the cold stone.

He swung his legs up and over and leapt onto the gravel path that edged the lawn. He brushed moss and dirt from his hands and stopped at the sight of an elderly lady at the patio window. Behind him, Sa cleared the wall and landed on the gravel with the grace of an acrobat. Without a word, she walked past him, her feet crunching the pebbles, and faced the patio door. The woman barely reacted, as if she was watching a play, rather than two strangers invade her property.

Sa pressed her mouth to the gap in the patio door and said, ‘We were concerned when you didn’t answer.’

The woman stared blankly, as if she had heard a sound but was unable to locate it. Sa opened the patio door wider.

‘May we come in?’ she asked.

‘Of course, dear.’

To Gilchrist’s surprise, Sa stepped inside, put her arms around Mrs Granton and gave her a hug, patting her like a mother clearing wind from a baby. As they parted, Mrs Granton glanced at him and smiled.

‘Come in, Detective Inspector. Please. I’ve heard so much about you.’

The living room was redolent of flowers and fresh polish, the air thick enough to taste.

‘Have a seat, dear, I’ve got a pot brewing,’ said Mrs Granton, then walked into the kitchen.

When he heard a cupboard being opened, he said, ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘Liz is my aunt,’ she explained. ‘Not my real aunt. She was best friends with my mother.’

‘So you knew Bill Granton?’

‘Yes.’

Gilchrist recalled her reluctance to look at Granton’s body. Now it made some sense. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’