by T F Muir
Kev stared at the mess around his feet, pleased at least that they would probably not be charged with forcing their way into a private residence. ‘Good on you, Robbie,’ he tried, then stepped outside and threw up.
‘We’re going to get that fucker’s stuff and toss it all out into the back. And d’you know what else we’re going to do? We’re going to have ourselves a bonfire, a right good fucking bonfire, Kev, old son. D’you hear?’
‘I hear you,’ Kev said, and threw up again.
CHAPTER 18
‘I’m in the Central,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Fancy a pint?’
‘Love to, boss. But that numbskull’s got us working all hours. And besides, you’re suspended. You know the rules.’
‘No one’ll miss you for five minutes.’
‘Want a bet? DeFiore’s got eyes in the back of his head. And there’s more coming up from Edinburgh.’
‘What about Sa?’
‘Hang on. I’ll go find her.’
Gilchrist sipped his Eighty Shilling. The bar was already filling up, and he was squeezed into a seat just inside the main door. From the street, he heard the sound of a scuffle, voices rising. He was back on his feet as Sa came on the line.
‘Some things’ll never change,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘You having a pint.’
‘One of life’s few pleasures.’
On the road, a small crowd stood in a haphazard circle. Two drunks were grappling with each other, swinging wild punches, misaligned hits that connected with dulled effect.
‘Care to join me?’ he asked Sa.
‘I can’t. I’ve got all this—’
‘In that case I’d like to report a public disturbance,’ he said. ‘Market Street. Outside the Central.’ He held his mobile toward the scuffle for a few seconds, then returned it to his ear. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Can’t you arrest—’
‘Nope. Suspended.’
Gilchrist disconnected and slipped his phone into his pocket. Sa would be livid. But no matter how many hours DeFiore had them working, she would have to respond to a public disturbance.
He pushed past a heavy-set spectator and stepped into the tussle. He grabbed the nearest battler by the hair, pulled him off his opponent, twisted his arm up his back and marched him onto the pavement.
He shoved him hard against the wall.
Out with the handcuffs. Click once, twice, and the guy looked in drunken disbelief at his wrist locked to the pub’s door handle.
His opponent swayed, chest heaving, the tip of his nose skinned and bloodied. Clenched fists swung by his side, as if demanding something to hit. Gilchrist approached him and sidestepped an arm that whipped in front of his face. Then he grabbed the flailing limb and twisted, pushing high and hard against the shoulder blades. The drunk gave out a dulled scream and fell to the ground like a lump of meat.
Gilchrist followed him down and dug his knee into the small of his back. He fought the short kick of resistance then felt the slump of defeat as the fight went out of the guy. He grabbed a handful of hair and jerked the head to the side.
Spittle slavered from bloodied lips in angry gasps. ‘My arm. You’re breaking my—’
‘Up.’
Gilchrist pulled the drunk to his feet and frog-marched him off the street. He thudded him against the pub wall and ordered him to stand. With only one set of handcuffs, it was not a good idea to lock the two together. So he waited.
The crowd began to move away, seemingly disappointed.
‘You you and you,’ snarled Gilchrist, pointing to three men who looked as if they had seen the bottom of a beer glass at breakfast and every hour since. ‘You’re witnesses.’ He pointed to a spot near the door. ‘Over there.’
Like trained dogs, they obeyed, and stood silent in their positions. A few minutes later, a police Transit van drew up, and the gathering dispersed like leaves in the wind.
The two fighters, now subdued and both handcuffed, were bundled into the back with barely a murmur. Sa appeared from College Street, a police radio at her ear. The witnesses were pointed out to her and she scribbled down their personal details and a brief witness summary. When she finished her preliminary interrogation, she instructed them to report to the Police Station to give a formal statement.
Approaching Gilchrist, she said, ‘Citizen’s arrest, was it?’
‘Keeping in touch.’ He nodded to the Central. ‘Beer’s getting warm,’ and returned inside. His pint stood on the table where he’d left it.
Sa sat down beside him.
‘Thirsty?’ he offered.
‘Can’t. I’m on duty.’
‘When did that ever stop you?’
‘DeFiore’s got us doing more door-to-door.’
‘Hard taskmaster, is he?’
‘Makes Patterson look like a clueless lump.’
‘Nothing’s changed then.’
Sa forced a smile.
‘How about a coffee?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’
Gilchrist ordered Sa’s coffee and carried it back to the table. As she took a sip, he was surprised to see her hands shake. The pressure to catch the Stabber had the entire east coast police force desperate for a breakthrough. And with the Scottish Crime Squad involved, others would be suffering likewise.
‘What happened to your hand?’ he asked her.
‘What?’
‘Your wrist. It’s bruised.’
Sa lifted her left arm and turned it around.
‘The other one.’
She studied two scrapes on the inside of her right wrist. ‘Must have knocked it jumping over Granton’s wall.’
‘Next time use the front door. It’s never locked.’
Sa’s smile failed to reach her eyes.
‘How long have you and Maggie been friends?’ he asked.
Sa took a shaky sip of coffee. ‘Why?’
‘She knew Alex Granton as a child. Did you know that?’
‘She grew up here.’
‘And you must have known Alex, too.’
‘Hardly at all. I never liked him.’
‘But you must have seen him around, spoken to him.’
‘Not for donkey’s.’
‘Remember when?’
‘What’s all this about?’
‘Alex Granton is also known as Fats Cockburn. You knew that, too. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘What’s that got to do with the Stabber?’
Gilchrist pulled out Granton’s photograph and slid it across the table.
Sa stiffened. ‘Where did you get this?’
The venom in her voice surprised him. ‘From Fats,’ he said.
‘You spoke to him?’
‘Last night.’
‘Where?’
‘Glasgow.’
‘You visited him?’
‘Yes.’
A series of emotions shifted through Sa’s eyes until they stilled in a cold look Gilchrist had never seen in her. Then she picked up the photograph, ripped it in two, and slapped it onto the table with a smack loud enough for the barman to raise an eyebrow.
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ she snapped.
Gilchrist pulled the two pieces of the photograph toward him and slid them together. Alex’s left arm had been ripped from his shoulder. How appropriate, he thought. But a pre-teen Maggie and her pet cat remained intact.
‘What happened to the cat’s face?’ he asked.
‘I’m still waiting for an answer.’
‘So am I.’
Sa glared at him. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘I have an inquisitive nature.’
‘And that gives you the right to look into the past lives of my friends?’
‘Alex was your friend?’
‘You’re twisting my words, Andy. I won’t have it.’
He tried to disassociate Sa’s voice from his memories of irrational arguments with Gail. ‘Has anyone figured out why Bill Granton
was embezzling from the bank?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Pub talk.’
‘Name?’
‘You know I can’t give you names.’
‘And you know I could have you arrested for interfering with an ongoing investigation.’
‘But that would mean Granton’s embezzlement is linked to the Stabber case.’ He watched his rationale work its way through her mind, then leaned closer. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘I think you should stay out of it, is what I think.’
‘Alex said the cat was Maggie’s pet,’ he pressed on.
‘Don’t push it, Andy.’
He brushed a finger over the photograph. ‘So you don’t know what happened to its face?’
Sa jumped to her feet. ‘Stay out of my private life, Andy. You got that? Just stay the fuck out of it.’
The table wobbled as she stormed out.
Gilchrist pulled the photograph closer. What about it had made Sa react that way? The cat? Fats? Maggie? His snooping around? What? The image of the cat was too small, the quality too poor to scrutinize it in detail. But the sliver of an idea was shifting in his head.
‘All things are possible,’ he whispered to himself.
Beth locked the shop door.
Beside her, Cindy tightened her scarf around her neck and puffed her breath into gloved hands. ‘Look at it,’ she said. ‘Ten past six, and it’s pitch black.’
‘Only four weeks to Christmas.’
‘Don’t say that, Beth. I haven’t even thought about presents yet.’
‘Don’t worry. Neither have I.’ After the warm stuffiness of her novelty shop, the night air smelled fresh. Beth looked up at the dark skies. ‘It’s supposed to snow this evening,’ she said.
‘You’re full of good news, I must say,’ moaned Cindy. ‘I’m missing the summer nights already. I hope it warms up for the weekend. Stewart’s driving down from Inverness.’
‘Again?’
‘He says he loves me. But I know he’s only after my body.’ Cindy giggled. ‘I can hardly wait.’
‘How long has that been now?’
‘A year come January.’
‘Isn’t it about time you proposed?’
‘No way, José.’
Cindy was in her early twenties, a former student at St Andrews University who decided to take a year out. Three years ago. Since then, she had shown no desire to return to the penury of full-time study, preferring instead to work and date a string of well-to-do young men.
‘Talking about proposals,’ said Cindy. ‘That was a surprise seeing Andy again. Is it back on?’
Beth gave a tight smile. Cindy was broaching a subject that was out of bounds. Beth’s affair with Andy had lasted almost two years, but she could acknowledge only now that she had loved him. And for the duration, they had each lived on their own, Beth in her luxury flat in St Andrews, Andy in his restored fisherman’s cottage in Crail. Perhaps if he had moved in they would still be together ...
‘Did you tell Andy about that creep?’
‘He said he would look into it.’ Beth felt her skin crawl. ‘Just the thought of it—’
‘Forget about it.’
‘That’s easy to say.’
‘Did you see the way he ran? He couldn’t leave quick enough. He was scared we were going to call the police.’
‘Maybe he won’t be so scared next time.’
Cindy grabbed Beth’s arm. ‘What next time?’
Beth pulled her arm free and kept walking.
‘You think he’s going to come back?’ Cindy asked.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
They reached the entrance to Crail Lane, a narrow alley that connected South Street to Market Street. Beth halted as Cindy stepped into it.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ Cindy asked her.
Beth stared toward Market Street. The stone walls cast shadows like waiting figures. She shook her head. ‘I’m going to take the long way.’
Cindy glanced behind her then retreated.
As the echo of their departing voices died in the wind, out of the walled shadows stepped a man. Without a backward glance, he walked along the lane, stepped into the brightness and strode across Market Street like a single-minded madman. Two couples stepped to the side as he stalked past. One of the girls turned to watch and tapped a finger to her head.
But the man never noticed.
He crossed onto Union Street, then left onto North, and marched down the shallow incline toward the sand dunes and the dark expanse of the West Sands.
In the cold darkness he faced the sea, erect penis in hand. The only way to appease his pain was to have her. He knew that now. And as his sperm spurted into the wind like thin strips of white ribbon, he whispered to the surf, ‘Yes, Mother. I’ll do as you say.’
CHAPTER 19
Cindy waved goodnight at the corner of Bell Street then set off with brisk steps to prepare for her date with Stewart. As Beth watched her leave, the thought of going home to an empty flat sent a shiver through her. She felt an overpowering need to talk to someone and, on impulse, pulled out her mobile phone.
She smiled when she heard his voice. ‘Is that offer still on?’ she asked.
‘You look stunning,’ Gilchrist said as Beth took the seat beside him, then gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘And that perfume. It’s familiar. What is it?’
‘Men.’
‘Never heard of that one before.’
‘No, Andy. You bought it for me. Way back.’
‘Ah, yes, so I did.’
‘What’s it called, then?’
‘The name eludes me.’
She gave his arm a playful slap. ‘Ysatis.’
‘I was about to say that.’
‘You have such a way with words.’ She slipped off her jacket and folded it over the back of her seat.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I’d love a drink.’
‘The usual?’
‘Does that elude you, too?’
‘Dry white wine. Chilled. Splash of soda. Slice of lime. Not lemon.’
‘I’m impressed.’
While he stood at the bar, he watched Beth dig into her leather satchel for her mobile. By the time he returned, it was back in her bag. She frowned and rubbed her upper arms, as if cold.
‘Problems?’ he asked her.
Beth reached for her wine and took a large sip.
‘Want to talk about it?’ he tried.
She held her glass for a long moment, deep in thought, twirling the stem. Then she sat back. ‘That was Cindy,’ she said. ‘She just called me from home.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s fine. It’s just ... Cindy’s got a great memory.’
Gilchrist took a sip of his beer, not sure where this was leading. ‘Give her time,’ he joked.
‘Do you remember the body on the beach? Some years ago?’
Gilchrist was not sure which body on which beach Beth was referring to. He had seen seven, as best he could recall, but he nodded anyway.
‘Cindy was a student at the time. She used to jog along the West Sands every morning. She was there.’
Gilchrist leaned closer. ‘Go on.’
‘She remembered the boy. She remembered thinking how awful it must have been for him. It was his father.’
Gilchrist remembered, too. The body she was talking about was the bloodless corpse with the gash on the neck.
‘What about the boy?’ he asked.
‘It wasn’t until Cindy got home that it hit her. The boy on the beach. That creep in the shop ...’
‘The same person?’
‘She’s not sure. It only flashed into her head.’
Beth looked frightened, and he resisted putting his arm around her. Instead, he changed the subject. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll check it out. In the meantime, you once had a friend who was big into computers.’
‘Terry Leighton?’
<
br /> ‘That’s the one. Still see him?’
‘From time to time.’
‘If you asked him, would he do me a favour?’
‘Depends what you want me to ask.’
He removed the two pieces of Granton’s photograph from his pocket and laid them on the table. He slid them together and positioned them in front of Beth. ‘I need some digital enhancement done on this.’
‘What is it?’
‘A photograph.’
‘I see that, you idiot, but doesn’t the police lab—’
‘I’ve been suspended.’
‘Oh, yes. I forgot. How many times is that now?’
‘I’d rather not get into it.’
Beth fingered the photograph. ‘And you don’t want anyone to know what you’re doing. Right?’
‘Right.’
She leaned closer. ‘It looks old. Anyone I know?’
‘Could be.’
‘Keeping secrets, are we?’
‘Will you ask for me?’
‘Is this to do with the Stabber case?’
‘Could be.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just a hunch.’
‘And we know all about your hunches, don’t we?’ she said, slipping her hand into her leather satchel and pulling out her mobile phone.
Gilchrist took a sip of beer as Beth called Leighton, and thought about his hunches. Beth had been referring to an earlier case of his in which he had chosen to ignore the usual line of questioning and go with his sixth sense. Trust it, he had told himself. It always works for you.
And it had.
His hunch and his inquisitive persistence had uncovered the murder weapon, a twelve-inch butcher’s knife buried in the soil by the victim’s headstone. The last place anyone would look. Anyone, that is, except Gilchrist. He had become the reluctant local hero after that, even portrayed as a genius by the editor-in-chief of the local newspaper, the one who had almost married Beth and whose article was the catalyst that sparked the beginning of Gilchrist’s relationship with her. Now his instinct was being piqued once again, this time by an unclear image of a cat on a twenty-year-old photograph.
Why? How could he continue to investigate on hunches? What if this time he was wrong? Would that convince him that Patterson was right and it really was time to hang up his boots? Despite his doubts, the image of the cat still niggled.
