by T F Muir
‘So someone did it deliberately?’
‘Impossible to say with any certainty, of course. At first, I thought the scar wasn’t straight enough to be done by an axe, for example, but the cat’s face was turned slightly to the side, which exaggerated the scar’s crookedness and when I digitally adjusted the face, the scar looked much straighter. Also, it’s possible that the wound healed in a quite irregular manner.’
‘How would that happen?’
‘It could have been caused during the healing process itself. The wound could have become infected and reopened, in which case parts of it might have taken longer to heal, causing disfigurement.’
‘You seem to have more than a passing knowledge of the medical side of things.’
‘My father was a surgeon, Mr Gilchrist. As a boy, I always thought I would follow in his footsteps. Then along came computers.’
‘So would you put the cat’s wound down to an accident or not?’
‘In my opinion, not,’ said Leighton.
‘And you think it might have been hit with an axe?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Best guess.’
‘An axe, maybe. Or a heavy knife. Someone else might interpret it differently, although I fail to see quite how.’
‘Could I have a copy of the enhanced photo?’
‘I’ve already returned it,’ Leighton said. ‘I had it couriered to Beth, along with my handwritten observations.’
Gilchrist thanked Leighton and immediately called Beth, but her answering machine cut in. Next, he called Lafferty’s, but Maggie had not made an appearance and was not expected to return. On a long shot, he tried the Dunvegan, but Maggie was not there either.
He walked up North Street toward the Cathedral and could tell from a glance at Garvie’s house that she was out, and Maggie was not there either. He checked his watch, surprised to find an hour had passed since he dropped off Tyke. He tried Beth’s number again and felt a flush of concern at the sound of her answering machine. He left no message, and decided to pay her a visit.
But first, he had to return to the vet’s and settle up.
The smell of dried food in the reception area somehow reminded him of a plant shop. From the back of the building he heard the whine of a dog, the rattle of a cage. He paid using Old Willie’s money, and could not hold back a chuckle when Tyke was brought from the back, fur trimmed and groomed and carbolic fresh. When Gilchrist put on his lead, Tyke gave a gruffy growl and tugged toward the door, his short tail upright and lively as a fresh dock.
Gilchrist walked him to Inverlea Cottage, where Tyke sat on his haunches as if waiting to be escorted inside. He tried the door and, just as Liz had said, it was unlocked. He pressed the doorbell and stepped into a tiny vestibule with an inner door of smoked glass. This one was locked, which pleased him. He rapped his knuckles on the glass panel.
‘Mrs Cockburn?’ He rapped again. ‘Liz?’
Moments later, he saw her frail shadow manifest beyond the opaque panel. She fumbled with the key, and when she pulled the door open, her gaze settled on the side of his head.
‘Whatever happened?’
He fingered his left ear. ‘Bumped into a cupboard.’
‘Goodness gracious. You must be more careful. Well, in you come, dear. I’ve got some shortbread cooling.’
Gilchrist held up his hand. ‘I can’t stay.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘You said you liked dogs.’ He held out the lead. ‘His name’s Tyke. And he needs a good home. I can’t think of anywhere better than with you.’
The sight of Tyke’s scruffy face raised a smile that took years off her. She looked back up at Gilchrist. ‘For me?’
‘If you want him.’
‘Tyke,’ she said to the old dog. ‘And are you? Are you just a cheeky little tyke?’
Tyke wagged his tail.
‘He’s had a good walk,’ said Gilchrist. ‘It’s time for his nap,’ and handed over the lead. As Liz took it, he pulled out the wad of notes from Old Willie’s flat, pushed them into her hand and folded her fingers over the money.
‘That’s to take care of him.’
Before she could object, he added, ‘From Tyke’s previous master. It’s what he wanted,’ then bent down and scratched Tyke behind the ears. ‘You behave yourself now. Do you hear?’
With that, Gilchrist stepped back and closed the door behind him.
A sliver of light seeped from the edge of the velvet curtains in the front bedroom window. Gilchrist glanced at his watch and rang the doorbell. It was too early for Beth to retire, but sometimes she would stretch out and read. Light spilled into the hallway as an inner door was opened and the main door unlocked.
The rings under Beth’s eyes looked as dark as bruises. Her hair had an unkempt style he could not remember seeing before.
‘Did I wake you?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
From the heaviness in her words, Gilchrist realized she had been dozing. He was about to ask for Leighton’s digital photograph when she blinked, heavy and slow, turned her head and stared back along the hallway. For one disconcerting moment, he wondered if he was interrupting her evening with Armstrong, but then she swayed, and he realized she had been drinking.
‘I spoke with Leighton,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
The word had been spoken with effort, but left no taint of alcohol in the narrow space between them. He hated having to ask, but said, ‘Are you alone?’
She nodded, as if speech was beyond her. Then she frowned, as if remembering something from a long time ago, and pushed the door toward him, the move so unexpected that he almost had no time to shove his foot in the way.
The door bounced back.
Beth looked at the tiled floor in dazed surprise. She pushed again, but the door hit Gilchrist’s foot and she stumbled against the frame.
Gilchrist leaned forward, pushed an arm behind her knees, and lifted her. By the time he placed her on her bed he knew what had happened.
He called an ambulance.
‘Can you identify the problem?’
Gilchrist picked up the plastic-backed foil from the floor by the bedside table. ‘Cuprofen,’ he said. ‘Ibuprofen tablets. Maximum strength. Both packs. That’s twenty-four in total. She’s conscious. But only just. Get someone here as fast as you can.’
‘Mr Gilchrist?’
Gilchrist opened his eyes. The doctor’s hair was snowy white, as if to match his gown. A navy-blue waistcoat and starched shirt with tightly knotted tie made Gilchrist run his tongue over his teeth. He pushed himself up out of the chair.
‘There’s no need to get up.’
‘It’s better if I stand.’ His spine seemed to have locked, and the fire in his side refused to let him flex. ‘How is she, Doctor ...’ – he eyed the name tag – ‘Ferguson?’
‘Resting. We’ve pumped her stomach and given her a sedative. She’s sound asleep.’ The corners of Ferguson’s eyes creased. ‘Your fast action went a considerable way to saving her life.’
Gilchrist nodded. After calling for an ambulance, he had managed to make Beth swallow a large glass of warm salted water, then held her head over a plastic basin and pushed his fingers to the back of her throat. But by the time she made it to Accident and Emergency she was unconscious with skin the waxy pallor of the terminally ill.
‘Can I see her?’ he asked.
‘I think we can arrange that,’ Ferguson said. ‘But it’s important she rests.’
Gilchrist followed Ferguson as he strutted along the corridor, his firm steps as tight and precise as his shirt collar. They passed a row of curtained consulting rooms and entered a ward that rang with the clatter of cutlery and the rattle of trolleys. The smell of vegetables and cooked meat did nothing for him, and he knew he would have to force himself to eat later.
Ferguson led him to a small anteroom. ‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
Beth’s eyes were closed. A clear
drip was connected to her left arm. A monitor stood at the opposite end of the bed, with a wire that led to one of her fingers. He took her other hand and pressed it to his lips. Her skin smelled fresh, felt oily smooth. He was deeply troubled that she had been prepared to step to the edge of her psychological precipice and take a leap that would end her life. He saw, too, how close he had come to doing that with his own life after Gail left him.
He knew for sure that when Beth had needed him, he had not been there for her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
Her dark lashes fluttered, as if her subconscious had heard his voice and was signalling her awake. But after several seconds she settled, and he laid her arm by her side and left the ward.
CHAPTER 30
Cricket bat.
It seemed such an odd weapon, but in the hands of someone wild enough, a cricket bat packed a punch and a half and took a lot of stopping.
Gilchrist touched his wounds, felt the evidence of his recent beating at the hands of a crazed batsman. Except that the man who had assaulted Beth, then Gilchrist, was no English gentleman, but a scruffy lout with nae sense o’ hygiene.
Gilchrist pushed his sodden hair off his forehead, and shivered. The wet weather seemed to trigger his thoughts. Or perhaps his sixth sense was working at some subconscious level in his brain. His ribs hurt, his head hurt, and he was not sure if the dampness that seeped down his neck was blood or rain.
How could he have been so blind? Not blind, but stupid. He had never given it a thought. It was the damned cricket bat that had got him going, the one that had beaten him half to death and which used to hang from hooks on the wall in Beth’s spare bedroom.
He reached Garvie’s house ten minutes or so after seven. The ground-floor curtains were now drawn, so she was at home.
The drizzle had turned to a steady downpour, the sky as dark as a prison blanket.
He stopped at the first gate in Gregory Lane. The paint looked new, but the wood rotted near the ground. He gripped the metal handle. How much noise would it make if he burst it open? The wall was too high to climb over with damaged ribs, and a quick look along the lane made him reach his decision.
He put his shoulder to the gate and gave it a hard thump.
The lock popped, tearing the screws from the weakened wood. He stepped from the lane, pulled the gate behind him, pressed the screws back into the frame. They held. Far from perfect, but anyone passing in the lane would not notice.
He wasted no time in pushing through the sodden shrubbery until he found himself crouching behind Garvie’s perimeter wall.
No choice this time but to climb over.
Around him, rain pattered gardens that lay mid-winter black. Despite the gloom, crossing Garvie’s garden to the ventilation grille without being seen would be almost impossible.
Over the wall, he saw Garvie in the kitchen, the motion of her hands suggesting she was chopping vegetables. He pulled out his mobile, called Directory Enquiries, and asked for her number. If she had a phone in the kitchen, he was snookered.
As the connection was made, Garvie turned, grabbed a hand towel, and left the kitchen. Through the living-room window, he saw her reach for her phone.
Now.
He gripped the top of the wall and pulled himself up, almost screamed, then fell back. He heard Garvie say, ‘Hello ...?’ as he slumped onto the wet grass. His breath burst from his mouth in short bursts that burned his ribs. He disconnected and fumbled in his pockets, found the painkillers and poked one out of its foil packaging. And another. From the fire in his ribcage he knew he had damaged his fractured ribs. The pills had been taken too late to prevent the pain from what he was about to do. But they would help later.
He willed himself back to his feet and peered over the wall.
Garvie was back in the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of something orange, and guessed she was making a fruit salad. Once again, he placed his hands on the wall, let his arms take the strain, then pulled. He felt the pain increase until it reached some kind of limit. With his hands free and his weight on his elbows, he pressed REDIAL.
Same scenario.
This time, as soon as Garvie was out of the kitchen, he slid his legs over the wall and stifled a grunt as he fell onto the grass.
He got onto his knees, disconnected, and stumbled toward the door. If Garvie reached the kitchen too soon, she would see him.
His mind screamed, Now.
He rolled to the right, away from the kitchen window, toward the ventilation grille. The thick grass softened his landing, but did nothing to cut back the pain that stabbed his side, forcing him to stifle another grunt. He rolled onto his back, pressed hard against the wall, his face only inches from the wire mesh that covered the grille.
The first thing he noticed was the mesh had been moved. Someone had tampered with it. Was his hunch correct? He gripped the edge of the chicken wire and pulled.
The back door opened.
Light flooded the grass and slabs by Gilchrist’s feet.
He froze.
Garvie bent down to place something on the back step. From where she stood it seemed impossible for her not to notice his shoes. He fought off the urge to pull in his legs, knowing that the slightest movement would register in Garvie’s peripheral vision. Pain forced tears to his eyes, but he dared not move.
Garvie straightened up, her sharp profile dark against the backlight from the kitchen. ‘Here, Pitter, Pitter.’
Something landed with a quiet thud behind him and he knew without looking that Pitter had leapt from the wall and was loping through the tall grass toward her keeper.
He held his breath.
If Pitter stopped ...
If Garvie turned her head ...
‘There you are, Pitter. Who’s a clever puss?’
Gilchrist watched Garvie lift the cat to her face. ‘Who’s a clever Pitter?’ she said, casting a look toward the boundary wall before closing the door.
The garden settled into darkness once more.
Gilchrist felt his breath leave his lungs in a long sigh. He shifted his position, trying to find some way to ease the pain. But it was no use.
He gritted his teeth and tugged the ventilation grille free from the wall. He had to roll onto his side to place the concrete block behind him and gasped as the pain hit. The block slipped from his grip and dropped onto the grass.
When the fire faded, he pushed his arm back through the hole in the wall. The still air under the flooring felt warm and he wondered why, during his earlier search, he had thought of only down, and not up. Was he slipping? Would Stan or Sa have been more thorough? And was it not strange how it had taken being hit with an old cricket bat and remembering how the bat hung on hooks on Beth’s wall?
Hooks. Or nails hammered in and bent up like hooks.
Like the nail he had found the day before. Not an old nail, but a nail tarnished by rust light enough to brush off and expose metal as fresh as new.
Gilchrist’s fingertips searched the side of the wooden beam, its surface as dry and bristled as a pig’s hackles. He patted the beam, stretched as far as he could manage.
Nothing.
He tried the other side, felt a flush of disappointment.
Was he wrong?
He shone his torch through the hole, and peered in. But the opening was too small, the angle too tight. He shifted his body, pushed his arm back through and reached for the beam on the left. The surface bristled with splinters of wood.
He touched something.
Something cold and slippery, something that shifted in his prying fingers. Plastic. A sheet of plastic. A sealed package.
Hanging on nails for hooks.
He lifted the bundle up and off its hooks and out through the opening. He felt the cold shiver of horripilation as he clicked on his pencil-torch.
Wooden staves glistened beneath the plastic sheath like rods of gold with unmistakable ridges. Bamboo. Thirteen in total.
Gilchrist fingered the tip
s.
Blunt. All of them.
None sharpened to a point. Not yet.
His investigation teams held differing views on why the Stabber used shaved bamboo staves. The general consensus was that natural ridges of bamboo provided an excellent handgrip.
But why were they shaved?
Gilchrist had seen each stave after it had been removed from the eye socket of the victim. Now he could see they all came from a single piece of bamboo furniture. But he saw, too, why they had been shaved.
The ends of several were discoloured where they had been bound together, perhaps as the corner of a coffee table. Or a bookcase. Shaving the varnished surfaces, at the same time as whittling one end to a point, obliterated all trace of the bindings.
All of a sudden, Gilchrist was aware of the seriousness of his predicament. If he took the lot to the Office, in all likelihood the staves would not be permissible as evidence. He had no search warrant, no right to be on Garvie’s property, not to mention being suspended. Patterson would have a field day. And so would any defence lawyer.
He could make an anonymous call. But doing so would not serve his own needs. He would still be viewed by Patterson as persona non grata, his reputation vilified. The prospect of Patterson’s own career being exalted at Gilchrist’s expense sealed it for him. He would not, could not, go down that route. Two days on the case and the Scottish Crime Squad exposes the identity of the Stabber. How right Patterson had been to bring in DeFiore. And how wrong Gilchrist’s supporters had been to believe he was the right man for the job.
The more Gilchrist thought about it, the more he saw he had no choice but to keep his find to himself and continue with the investigation alone. And God help him if victim number eight turned up before he caught the Stabber.
As Gilchrist crept from her Garvie’s garden, he decided he would wait. And watch.
Sebbie finished the last of the six-pack. He glanced at the digital clock on the microwave: 8:11.
What had happened? Margo said she would be round at eight. Had she—
The doorbell rang.
