by T F Muir
‘No. Pitter.’
Sun burst onto the back garden, and Pitter’s eyes closed.
‘That’s an unusual name.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘You didn’t name him, then?’
‘He’s a she, and I inherited her from a friend.’
‘You live alone?’
‘Is this it?’
‘Is this what?’
‘The interrogation.’
He gave her a small smile. ‘You could say.’
‘Well, in that case, yes, I live alone. I’m not married. Never have. Never will. Don’t have any children. And don’t want any, God forbid. Just a cat. That’s enough trouble, thank you very much. You’ve already been introduced to her. I’ve lived here for two years. Moved up from London. And before that, Tadcaster, Yorkshire. Don’t have a mortgage and design websites for a living. Don’t charge much, so it’s not much of a living. But I’m happy.’ She pulled open the fridge door and a waft of cool air brushed his legs. He moved to the side. ‘Except, this bloody kitchen’s too small.’ She pressed a can of apricots under an electric can opener. ‘Anything else you’d like to know?’
He watched her shove a teaspoonful of bright orange fruit into her mouth. ‘Were you at home last night?’ he asked.
She nodded. Another spoon-load.
‘Alone?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Juice dribbled from her lips and she turned to the sink, grabbed a paper towel and dabbed her chin. She loaded up the spoon again, held it out to him. ‘Want to try some? They’re delicious.’
‘No thanks.’
Something tinkled and he turned as Pitter padded onto a folded tea-towel by the edge of the steel sink and sat down.
‘She sees the tin. Thinks she’s going to be fed.’
Gilchrist smiled. ‘Friendly?’
‘Very.’
He reached out and stroked the top of Pitter’s head, worked his fingers down and under her chin. He felt her throat vibrate with delight.
‘Keep that up and you’ll have a friend for life.’
He scratched some more. ‘Why Pitter?’
‘Pitter patter. She was one of two.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘A friend has the other one.’
‘The friend who gave you Pitter?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She opened the cupboard door under the sink and dropped the emptied can of apricots into a plastic bag. Then she dabbed her lips with the paper towel and dropped that into the plastic bag, too.
‘Boyfriend?’
‘You’re joking.’
Garvie’s blond hair, short at the back and sides, was spiky on the top. Perspiration darkened it at the neck and ears.
‘You keep yourself fit.’
She nodded. ‘I was exercising when you knocked.’
‘Exercise a lot, do you?’
‘Try to. No more than a couple of hours a day, though.’
‘That’s a couple of hours more than most people.’
‘Still not enough.’
‘And at night?’ he said. ‘Do any exercises then?’
‘Rarely.’
‘How about last night?’
She shook her head and reached for a teapot. ‘Sure I can’t talk you into a cuppa?’
‘Positive.’ He eyed the coloured rugs in the lounge. ‘Travel a lot?’
‘Used to. In my last job.’
‘Which was?’
‘Chartered accountant.’ She smiled. ‘God, I hated it.’
‘Doesn’t it pay well?’
‘Money’s not everything. But it paid for this place.’
‘Why give it up?’
She shrugged. One hand held a mug, World’s Greatest Lover printed on the side. The other, a ceramic teapot. ‘I couldn’t stand the sexual innuendo,’ she said, and tipped the teapot. A stream of golden brown tea steamed into the mug. ‘It’s different for a man. Men get laid. Women get fucked. But what do I care?’ she added. ‘I’m gay.’
He was not altogether surprised by her bluntness. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Patter must stay with your partner?’
‘I’d heard you were good.’
‘That’s an odd thing to say.’
‘St Andrews is a small town, Inspector. And you’re the small-town hero.’
‘We all have our crosses to bear.’
‘And your reputation precedes you.’
‘In what way?’
‘You always get your man.’
Or woman, he thought.
‘Besides, I’ve seen you about.’
‘In the pub, no doubt.’
‘And on the telly.’ The sinews of her neck stood out like rods of flesh as she turned to the window.
The strength of her physical attraction unsettled him.
‘No one likes us,’ she said. ‘Gays, that is. No one likes to have us living next door.’
MacMillan’s words came back to him. I dinnae think I could stand the looks.
‘Ever been called a witch?’ he asked.
She laughed without humour. ‘You must have been talking to young Ian next door.’
‘Why would he call you a witch?’
‘It’s not Ian. He’s a nice lad. But some of his pals tried to pick me up in the pub about three months ago. It started out as a bit of fun, then got out of hand. The bar staff had to call the police. Surprised you don’t know about it.’
‘I don’t know everything that goes on.’
‘That’s not what I heard.’
Gilchrist ignored the compliment. ‘So what did you do last night?’
‘Stayed in. Ate a carryout Chinkie. Drank a few glasses of wine. Watched Runaway Bride for the nth time. Then crashed out at half-ten.’
‘That’s early.’
‘I need my beauty sleep.’
‘Did you hear anything? See anything?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m on medication. I don’t sleep well. Popped a couple of pills last night, and that was that. Out like a light. On top of the wine, I wouldn’t have heard a bomb go off in the kitchen.’
‘I see. So you wouldn’t have been out in the back garden last night after midnight?’
‘No, of course not. Why?’
‘Does anyone else have a key to your house?’
She shook her head.
Gilchrist moved to the back door by the side of the sink and asked, ‘Mind if I look outside?’
‘If you don’t mind long grass. It’s not been cut since the summer. Gardening’s not my forte. As you will soon see.’
Gilchrist twisted the key, felt the old-fashioned lock turn over. He opened the door.
The grass lay flattened by rain. A worn trail from the window to the corner of the wall defined Pitter’s route. A few slabs formed a pathway to a concrete coal bunker. Overhead, a lone seagull wheeled, and he followed its flight toward the sea. He heard the rush of waves over rocks.
Or maybe it was just the wind.
He looked up at the roof. He could not see Ian’s bedroom window, and took three steps back before he caught the tip of a dormer.
‘I see you still have a coal fire,’ he said.
‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’
‘Do you light it often?’
‘Not in the summer. In winter I have it on every night.’
‘Did you have it on last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it still burning when you went to bed?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Just asking.’
‘I have a fireguard,’ she protested. ‘The fire was low.’
He lifted the bunker lid and peered inside. It was half-full of coal. ‘What do you burn?’
‘Coal. What else?’
The bite in her voice surprised him. ‘Logs,’ he offered.
She said nothing as he leaned over the edge of the bunker, then straightened. He closed the lid.
‘You don’t burn logs then?’
‘No.’
He brushed p
ast her, through to the lounge. ‘You burn any wood at all?’ he asked, and kneeled in front of the fireplace. The hearth was clean, the grate filled with ashes. He removed a pen from his pocket and poked at the ash.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Nothing in particular.’
‘I’m not sure I like what you’re doing.’
‘Want me to stop?’
She stood by his shoulder for several seconds before saying, ‘Yes. I think so. I think I’d like you to stop.’
He stood up and smiled at her. ‘It’s what we do best,’ he said. ‘Poking and prodding.’
She frowned at the fireplace. ‘Find anything?’
‘Should I have?’
‘I suppose it’s too late to ask if you have a warrant?’
‘It’s never too late to ask,’ he said. ‘But anyway, I’ve no more questions.’
At the front door, he stopped. ‘Oh, just the one,’ he said. ‘Lex. That’s an unusual name.’
‘For a woman, you mean?’
Gilchrist waited.
‘It’s short for Alexandra,’ she explained.
He pulled the door open. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate your help.’
She did not return his smile.
CHAPTER 10
‘Pint of Eighty Shilling.’
‘Rough day, Andy?’ Fast Eddy nodded to the back corner. ‘Old Willie’s in. And by the look of him, he’s thirsty.’
‘Don’t know if I’m up for him today.’
‘Been asking for you.’ Fast Eddy slid forward a pint mug filled with a creamy liquid that darkened from the bottom like a mulatto Guinness. ‘There you go. One for Willie?’
‘Why not?’
Fast Eddy turned to the optics on the wall and pressed a whisky glass to The Famous Grouse. ‘Double?’
‘Not yet.’
‘He tells me it’s worth at least a couple of doubles.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
Gilchrist slapped a fiver onto the bar then carried the drinks into the back area. He pulled a chair up to a table scratched from decades of heavy drinking. Tyke, Old Willie’s Highland terrier, lay curled on the floor and blinked tired-eyed at him.
Seated opposite, Old Willie barely glanced up. An empty glass and the dregs of a half-pint of Guinness circled with white rings reminded Gilchrist that Old Willie liked to take his time. He slid the half across the table.
‘Eddy said you wanted to see me.’
Old Willie’s rheumy eyes studied the whisky, his mouth open like a panting bird. A shaking hand moved toward the glass, and fingers as fine as a bird’s claws gripped it. Lips slid over gums too old for false teeth.
‘You’ll have to dae better than this, son.’
‘There’s more, Willie.’
‘There would have to be.’
‘How about a half-pint?’
‘That would do nicely. For starters.’
The glass shivered its way to a black hole of a mouth, and white lips wrapped the rim as if seeking support. A thimbleful tipped in, and Old Willie’s eyes widened as if stunned that the whisky was real. Then the glass was returned to the table.
‘So, what do you want to tell me?’ Gilchrist tried.
Brown eyes, too large for the head, it seemed, sparkled to life. ‘And here was me thinking you only wanted to ask how I was keeping.’ A laugh rattled somewhere in his throat.
Gilchrist waited while the old man dabbed spittle from his chin. ‘And how are you keeping, Willie?’
‘How dae I look, son?’
‘You look fine.’
‘You’re a bugger of a liar.’ A claw lifted the glass to thin lips, and Gilchrist noted the shaking had all but gone. Another sip, larger this time. ‘By God, son, you know how to reach a man’s heart.’
‘And his tongue?’
Willie’s face creased into a smile. ‘The doctor tells me I’ll no see the end of the year. I asked him which one.’ This time the rattle turned into a fit of coughing that brought a hint of colour to the grey cheeks.
Gilchrist leaned closer. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, son. Just get me that half-pint. And another one of these.’
‘In a minute.’
Old Willie’s eyes glistened, wide as an eagle’s. A tuft of grey hair that sprouted from the top of a tiny crown added to the avian image. ‘You used to be a pushover, son.’
‘I used to have a job, Willie.’
‘Aye. I heard.’
Gilchrist took a mouthful of beer, then said, ‘What else have you heard?’
‘A bit of this. A bit of that.’
Gilchrist knew not to press. He pushed his chair back and stood. ‘Double is it?’
Old Willie scowled. ‘And make sure there’s nae water in it.’
Gilchrist had known Willie Morrison for over twenty years and had learned never to undervalue the snippets he served up at little more than the cost of a couple of drinks. Once, when he had helped trap the mastermind of an illicit video distribution scheme, Gilchrist sent a bottle of Grouse to his home. Old Willie had never thanked him, it being accepted that payment for information did not merit gratitude.
But the last two years had seen Old Willie’s health decline. Gilchrist had been unable to get a straight answer from him on his medical condition and, abusing his constabulary powers, checked the hospital records to confirm the old man was dying and that last July, much to Gilchrist’s surprise, he had hit eighty-nine.
At the bar, Fast Eddy was holding court over three young women. From the sparkle in his eyes, Gilchrist suspected that one, if not all, would fall victim to his infamous charm. ‘A double and a half-pint, when you’ve got a minute, Eddy.’
‘Here,’ said one of the women, ‘aren’t you that Detective Inspector Wotsit on the telly?’
‘That’s him, ladies,’ chirped Fast Eddy. ‘And let me tell you that a finer detective inspector has never set foot in these premises.’
A shoulder nudged Gilchrist. ‘Well, love, you’re much better looking in the flesh.’
‘Yeah, but what’s he like in the buff?’
The three of them burst into laughter and slapped their hands on their knees like a choreographed circus act.
Gilchrist smiled in response as he picked up Old Willie’s order and, turning from the bar, almost bumped into Maggie Hendren, one of Fast Eddy’s bar staff.
‘Oops,’ he said, as he swayed the drinks to safety.
‘Always in a hurry,’ she snapped, with a flash from her eyes that Gilchrist had trouble interpreting. He followed her angry glance into the corner, where he noticed a dark-haired woman he had never seen before eyeing him through a fog of smoke. She tilted her head and exhaled with a twist of her mouth that he could have mistaken for a smile.
Back in his seat, Old Willie placed two hands around his whisky glass as if to thwart any attempts to snatch it back.
‘So tell me, Willie. What about this and that?’
Shoulders, too narrow to take the grasp of a comforting hand, shuffled with discomfort. Tight lips moved, as if to speak, and Gilchrist realized the old man was having trouble catching his breath.
Silent, he waited.
With a rush of breath, Old Willie tilted his head to the side. ‘Did you know that a certain manager of a certain bank was on the fiddle?’
‘Was? That’s past tense, Willie.’
‘You’re still as sharp as a razor.’
‘Past tense because he’s stopped fiddling? Or because he’s dead?’
‘If he’s deid he cannae be fiddling, now, can he?’
‘How much?’
Old Willie tackled his Guinness, mouth twisted against the bitter taste, then said, ‘Rumour has it that this certain bank manager of a certain bank has fiddled about a quarter of a million.’ He offered Gilchrist a black smile. ‘That’s pounds.’
‘And where has all this money gone?’
‘Here and there.’
When Old Willie offered not
hing more, Gilchrist realized he had no idea where the money had gone, only that it had been fiddled. ‘Does the bank know about the missing money?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. But if I was you, I’d watch Sam MacMillan.’
Gilchrist struggled to keep his surprise hidden. ‘Why do you say that?’
Old Willie tapped his nose with a bony finger. The nail was long and cracked, the skin paper-thin, almost transparent. If Gilchrist looked hard enough, he could almost see the blood pulse its weak way through the old man’s failing system. Old Willie wiped his lips with the back of his hand and from the way he then eyed his Guinness, Gilchrist knew he had said all he was going to say that day.
Gilchrist leaned forward, close enough to smell the old man’s odour, a warm sourness that reminded him of milk gone off. ‘Can I give you a lift home, Willie?’
‘What for?’
‘To save you the walk.’
‘On you go, son. If you want to do anything for me, just put another one of these behind the bar.’
Gilchrist smiled. Old Willie had his priorities right, he supposed. At eighty plus, he was as well sitting in the pub drinking himself into oblivion as sitting at home waiting to die. Gilchrist pushed at his seat. He still had half his Eighty Shilling to drink, and was on the verge of leaving it when Fast Eddy caught his eye.
Back at the bar he handed over a tenner to cover the rest of Old Willie’s session.
‘What’s happening?’ Fast Eddy whispered. ‘You off the case?’
On the television above the bar, Gilchrist recognized the lecture theatre at Headquarters in Glenrothes. He grimaced as the camera shifted and closed in on Patterson’s pockmarked face.
‘That guy’s a wanker,’ said Fast Eddy, and pointed a remote at the screen to turn the volume up.
‘... sure that, with the able assistance of Detective Chief Inspector Christian DeFiore of the Scottish Crime Squad, significant progress will be made. We will of course continue to provide full cooperation.’
The camera shifted to DeFiore, dapper in a double-breasted suit, held for a second, then pulled back to capture the others in the group. At the far end ACC Archie McVicar looked calm and magisterial. The press conference must have gone well. DCS Billy Greaves sat next to McVicar, less relaxed. Shoulder to shoulder with Patterson, DeFiore sat clear-eyed and poker-faced.
‘One last question,’ Patterson announced.
Bertie McKinnon’s voice rose discordant above the others. ‘Detective Chief Inspector DeFiore,’ he demanded, ‘how do you intend to guarantee Prince William’s safety and that of the citizens of St Andrews?’
