Eye for an Eye (7 page)

The young woman stepped back, but kept her nerve. ‘The door’s that way,’ she said.

As he strode off, he clipped something, heard the hard clatter of a metal ornament hit the floor. But he just kept walking, anger swelling inside him.

‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘Fuck you, you bitches.’

PC Norris said, ‘DCI Patterson would like to see you, sir.’

Gilchrist had worked with Norris on the body on the West Sands. Three years ago, as best he could recall. He wondered if his own face had ever looked as smooth. Long before his lungs felt the choking fire of that first cigarette, no doubt. Something contracted in the pit of his stomach. The urge for a smoke, or maybe it was just the mention of Patterson’s name.

‘When?’

‘Now, sir.’

He glanced at his watch: 12:35. He had ignored Patterson’s earlier instruction to report to him, and was now back on North Street assisting in the door-to-door enquiries, surprised Patterson hadn’t hounded him down before then.

‘Tell him I’ll be along as soon as I’ve finished.’

Norris’s lips twitched. ‘He said you would say that, sir, and I’m to let you know he’s ordering you to report to him right away.’

Gilchrist wondered if he should tell Norris to piss off. Or better still, tell him to tell Patterson to piss off. But Norris was only doing his job. ‘Take over,’ he said to Sa. ‘Norris will assist you.’

Patterson’s office was located on the upper level at the west end of the building. As Gilchrist mounted the stairs, an image of McKinnon’s grubby face whispering into Patterson’s ear manifested in his mind and he struggled to shake off the sick feeling in his stomach. He rapped his knuckles against the door. Hard.

‘Come in.’

Patterson’s office lay in perpetual twilight, the slatted blinds never fully opened. The main source of light came from a Tiffany lamp with a butterfly design, which cast a greenish glow onto an A3 blotter.

Patterson sat behind the desk, his attention focused on a document pressed flat to the blotter with his left hand.

Gilchrist watched him scan it with literary pride, then place his hands to his mouth in a fleshy steeple. In someone intellectual, that pose might suggest thought. Patterson looked as if he had frozen mid-clap.

‘You’re not popular with the press, Andy.’

‘I’m not trying to win any contests.’

‘I’m told the conference was a fiasco.’

‘Depends whose side you’re on.’

‘Not sure I would have recommended handling it the way you did. Restricting access like that.’

‘Who gave permission to break the barricade?’ Gilchrist asked, louder than intended.

‘I did.’

The arrogance of the man continued to amaze Gilchrist. He had tried to keep the press from infiltrating North Street and encumbering their enquiries. Why close the street to the public if the press could stroll its length?

‘You talked to McKinnon,’ Gilchrist said.

‘About what?’

‘Don’t play dumb with me, Mark.’

Patterson’s eyes flared for a moment then died. ‘How many’s that now?’ he asked.

‘How many’s what?’

‘Stabber murders, Andy.’

‘You know it’s six,’ he said.

Patterson pressed his steepled hands to the tip of his nose. ‘Six.’ He paused. ‘Is that it?’

‘Is that what?’

Patterson unsteepled his hands and placed them flat on the desk as if to examine his fingernails. ‘Is the tally going to reach seven?’ he asked. ‘Or a whole lot more? Are we just expected to sit back and watch you fuck up day after day?’ His face reddened as if something was squeezing his collar. ‘Would it be unreasonable of me to expect an answer?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Well, dammit, what do you have to say about your incompetence?’

‘The answer to your first question is that I hope the tally doesn’t—’

‘
Hope?
Good God, man, don’t tell me all we’ve got to go on now is
hope
.’

‘Would you like me to continue? Or would you prefer I wait until your blood pressure settles?’

Patterson let out his breath in an audible sigh then tried a quick smile. But he was asking too much of his nervous system. ‘That’s what I’ve always disliked about you, Andy. Your insolence. Your maverick contempt for authority.’

‘Depends on whose authority.’

‘Defiant to the last.’

Gilchrist did not like the sound of
last
, but said nothing.

‘Let me explain the gravity of the situation to—’

‘I know how serious—’

‘Shut up.’ A hand slapped the desk. Patterson’s face paled. ‘I’ve had Assistant Chief Constable McVicar on the phone. St James’s Palace has been in contact. In case it’s slipped your mind, Prince William attends university in this small town of ours.’

Gilchrist waited.

‘I have been advised that the Queen is concerned over her grandson’s safety. I’ve done my utmost to assure all concerned that the Prince is in no danger, but the Palace remains dubious over the lack of progress in the investigation. They’ve asked ...’ He sat back, studied his fingernails. ‘They’ve asked that you be replaced.’

Gilchrist had been anticipating this moment ever since Patterson got wind of his affair with Alyson Baird. But now it was here, he felt nothing.

‘I’ve agreed, of course. DCI Christian DeFiore of the Scottish Crime Squad is driving up from Edinburgh. He should be here in about an hour. I’ve told both McVicar and Chief Superintendent Greaves that you’ll give DeFiore full and uninhibited access to all files and matters of evidence, and that by tomorrow evening I expect you to be in a position to step aside and let him take full control.’ Patterson smirked. ‘Is that clear?’

Gilchrist stood up.

‘
Sit
. I’m not finished.’

Gilchrist ignored the demand.

Patterson leaned forward, so his face came out of shadow. At that low angle, his pockmarks looked like tiny scars. ‘Unfortunately, we need to go through a PR exercise,’ he said. ‘I’ve prepared a press statement giving your reasons for stepping down.’

‘Which are?’

‘Your health.’

‘What’s wrong with my health?’

‘The Stabber case has taken its toll on you, Gilchrist. You’ve been advised by your doctor to take some rest.’

‘Nervous breakdown? That sort of thing?’

‘Well done. Any more of this and you’ll go up in my estimation.’

‘Would that please me?’

Patterson’s jaw twisted, sending a ripple of shadow across his cheeks.

Gilchrist pressed both hands flat on the edge of the desk. It gave him an odd sense of pleasure to see Patterson look up at him. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t matter what you like, Gilchrist.’

‘It does to me.’

‘You’ll do as you’re ordered. For God’s sake, man, St Andrews has been the focal point of the national news ever since that royal brat set foot in the place. And while he’s here, the last thing we need is a serial killer racking up his score because of your incompetence.’ Patterson’s nostrils flared, and Gilchrist had an image of fire and smoke billowing over the desk. ‘Whether you like it or not, Gilchrist, you will take medical leave.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my health.’

‘I know that, for Christ’s sake.’

Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I won’t do it.’

‘All right,’ said Patterson. ‘If that’s your decision.’

His manner was too calm for comfort. Gilchrist waited for the sting. It came in the following breath.

‘Let me put it this way, Gilchrist. Medical leave gives you the chance to have your job back when the case is solved.’

Gilchrist felt anger burn his face. The thought of grabbing Patterson by his hair and slamming him nose first onto his desk was almost irresistible. ‘And if it isn’t?’

Patterson seemed not to notice Gilchrist’s emotional struggle, and shrugged. ‘Alternatively, we could just fire you.’

‘For what?’

‘Incompetence. Insubordination. Poor time-keeping. Screwing secretaries. Like me to continue?’

‘That’s your prerogative.’

‘I’ve never liked you, Gilchrist. You’ve always known that. But others more senior than I seem to hold you in high esteem. They value your abilities as an investigator, of all things.’ He chuckled. ‘Mind boggling, if you ask me.’

Gilchrist almost laughed. He saw it now. Patterson wanted to fire him, but his hands were tied by others more senior. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘I’m off the case. Not for medical reasons but because you think I’m incompetent, the worst DI in the history of Fife Constabulary.’

Anger flared in Patterson’s eyes, held for a moment, then vanished. It really was amazing to follow the man’s thought process. Patterson pushed his seat back and stood, as if to intimidate Gilchrist. But at five-ten, he was a good three inches shorter. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but you’ll have to suffer the consequences.’

‘For what?’

‘Your failure to perform.’

‘And the consequences are?’

‘Demotion.’

Gilchrist walked away.

‘Get back here, Gilchrist. I’m not finished with you yet.’

Gilchrist reached the door, opened it, then faced Patterson. ‘I’m doing you a favour by stepping out of the way, Mark. So don’t push your luck.’

‘I’m warning you, Gilchrist—’

‘Do you know what your problem is?’

Patterson’s head jerked.

‘You’re so hell-bent on trying to even some imaginary score that you’ve forgotten what the game’s about. But let me tell you this. One word about a nervous breakdown, and I’ll sue you personally. I’ll hit you so hard you’ll wonder why you ever wanted to play the game in the first place.’

Gilchrist eased the door shut and took the stairs two at a time. Outside, he felt strangely elated. North Street was still closed. Overhead, a flock of seagulls wheeled from sight, leaving the echo of their harsh cries on the breeze. To his right, four women huddled in a concerned cluster, whispering.

He crossed the street and stood with his back against a wall, waiting for Sa to appear. Ten minutes later she stepped from a door into the brightening sunlight, PC Norris behind her.

‘Any luck?’ he said to her.

She shook her head. ‘Everyone we’ve interviewed saw nothing and heard nothing. Maybe the others are having better luck. We’ll find out at debriefing.’

‘I won’t be there. I’m off the case.’

‘Patterson fired you?’

‘Suspended.’ He walked away, fingers by his ear in a make-believe telephone receiver. ‘Call me later on my mobile. Oh, and some guy by the name of DeFiore is coming up from Edinburgh. He’s with the Scottish Crime Squad.’

‘What?’

‘Your new boss.’

CHAPTER 8

The leather whistles through the air and smacks my mother’s buttocks. I flinch at the strike and start to cry. My father twists the belt with a deftness that is startling, and hits her with the buckle end. I think he will stop when he sees she is bleeding, but the sight of blood seems to drive him on. He shifts his stance and whips the buckle hard across her face. Her left eyeball bursts, weeps black and red.

I scream. Timmy’s hand crushes my mouth, pressing so hard I think he is going to burst my lips.

My father turns his head. Eyes as dark as the Devil’s look into mine. He stumbles over my mother’s body and lunges toward us.

Timmy whimpers, drops his hand from my mouth. I pull at him but he stands there, his skinny body shaking. Something warms the soles of my stockinged feet, and I realize he has wet himself. I try to make him move, shout at him, but it’s as if he is glued to the spot.

I push the window open, wriggle onto the concrete sill. Timmy cries out. I leap.

I never see my father again. Five days later, his body is recovered from the water’s edge. Nor Timmy either. His head was crushed by a blow to the back of his skull.

Gilchrist fought off the urge to walk to Lafferty’s and spend the rest of the day drowning his sorrows. Instead, he walked back to The Pends and stood in the shelter of the crumbling archway. He eyed the grey stone wall and iron railings that bounded the grounds and cemetery of the ruined Cathedral and tried to imagine what MacMillan might have seen as he followed the Stabber into North Street.

He visualized flickering skies, rain thrashing the road, a body hunched against the wicked night, anorak hood tugged tight. He followed the ghost in his mind and reached the corner of North Street.

He stopped, checked his watch. Twenty-nine seconds.

He looked along North Street. The huddles of worried neighbours had dispersed. Two uniformed officers were walking toward the Police Station. His gaze danced along the row of terraced houses on the north side of the road and he wondered why he always looked that way. Why not to the other side? He studied the old stone façades, tried to imagine what MacMillan had been too late to see, and came to realize that thirty seconds was just not sufficient time for someone to disappear from view so completely.