by T F Muir
Then again. Longer this time.
He slunk into the kitchen doorway in case someone looked through the letterbox.
The telephone rang, then the answering machine cut in.
He listened to Alice’s voice end her recorded message with her stupid Have a great day, then Margo’s voice say, ‘Alice? Dieter? Me and Jim are outside. If you’re there, can you pick up?’ A pause for several seconds, then, ‘Did you get my message?’ Something thudded against the door.
Sebbie tightened his grip on the knife, held it up before his eyes. In the moonlight, the serrated blade glinted like burnished steel.
A man’s voice joined the woman’s, their words indecipherable. Then, ‘I’ll call later, Alice. Okay?’ Another pause, as if the woman was still hopeful of an answer, then a click as she disconnected.
Sebbie lowered the knife. He was about to return to the hallway when he heard a metallic rattle, a light tinny sound like a lid closing. From the front door.
He heard it again. A key being slotted into a lock?
Did Alice’s friends have a key?
How stupid he had been not to jam the lock. He should have stuck a hairpin in it, a bit of plastic, something, anything he could have snapped or torn off to block the mechanism.
A heavy sound reverberated along the hallway. Sebbie half-expected the door to burst open. He drew back, knife raised, ready to strike.
But when the digital display read 8:20, and the door had not exploded open, and the telephone had not rung again, and the whispers and rattles and thuds had vanished, he lowered his weapon.
He was safe.
In the darkness, he listened to the sounds of the house, felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he heard something, a low moaning sound, as if ...
Knife in hand, he crept from the kitchen, across the hallway and into the back bedroom. The room felt cold, and his nostrils filled with the stench of decaying meat.
Alice and Dieter lay on the floor, their wax-like bodies twisted into two hapless heaps. The wind moaned past the open window. Sebbie pushed the sash up until the moaning stopped. Then he heard a laugh escape his lips as he looked down at Alice’s bloated face.
‘Cat caught your tongue,’ he cackled.
Gilchrist stood on the cliff path, his back to the metal railing, the sea wind brushing his neck with fingers of ice. Garvie’s upper curtains were still open, but the house looked dark, save for a faint glow from the door by the landing. Garvie said she worked at night on her computer in the study off her bedroom, but as the upstairs rooms lay in darkness, he guessed she had finished for the day. Was she in bed? Or still downstairs?
Was she alone?
He remembered the shadow he thought he had seen flit past her bedroom window earlier. He needed to know if she had company, and who it was. But after fifteen shivering minutes, with the house showing no signs of life, he decided to pay Garvie a visit.
What could Patterson do? Fire him twice?
The doorbell chimes echoed back at him. He gave another press then waited until the chimes faded to silence.
No response.
He waited thirty seconds then stepped to the lounge window. A glimmer of light slipped through the tiniest of gaps between the curtains. He pressed his face against the cold glass.
In the thread of light he could make out only the wall opposite the sofa, but enough to confirm the fire was out and the fireguard was in place. Snow was forecast. If Garvie was in, would she not have the fire on?
He tried the doorbell again, ringing once, twice, before accepting that Garvie must have slipped out. He was about to turn when he heard the tinkle of a tiny bell. He searched the shadows but saw no twin moons shining back at him. The thought of the cats’ names brought a smile to his lips. Pitter, Patter. Two cats, two owners.
He stiffened. Why had he not thought of it before?
Pitter, Patter. Two cats. Two owners.
Or a third person common to both?
His mind powered through the labyrinth of what-ifs and maybes, the fogs of detection giving glimmers of probables, possibles, maybe-nots, until they thinned to leave the visual remnant of a cat with a disfigured face, and Fats Granton standing beside a young Maggie Hendren. He listened to Fats curse him in the front room of his mansion, heard the whisper of voices replay the words, Whose cat’s she holding?
Not mine. Hate the fuckers.
And at that moment, Gilchrist saw his error.
He remembered puzzling over why the top of the photograph had been cut, and saw now that its edge had not been trimmed to fit the frame, but to centre a snapshot taken by someone unfamiliar with photography.
All of a sudden the fog lifted.
CHAPTER 31
Wind whips icy blasts across open fields.
I pull my anorak tight and turn to face the cottage. Through the kitchen window I watch Patterson’s wife move into the dining room. I can tell from her vacant look that her expectations of life have passed her by. She is a beaten woman. In body, as well as in mind.
I see in her actions the same lifeless movements of my mother, her body and hands going through the motions of day-to-day existence. Another dead soul. It is disgusting how her husband has treated her. On the surface, he is someone regarded in high esteem, a man who holds one of the highest offices of public trust. But he is a hypocrite, a betrayer of his profession and of those who placed their trust in him.
He is the worst kind of misogynist.
Soon he will suffer the consequences of his hypocrisy.
‘This is Detective Inspector Gilchrist. Put me through to Stan, please.’
‘He’s not here, sir. Have you tried his mobile?’
‘Of course I’ve tried his mobile. It’s switched off.’
‘Well, all I can do is—’
‘Who’s he with?’
‘DC Wilson.’
‘Could you give me her mobile number?’
‘I’m not allowed to give that out, sir.’
‘Who am I speaking to?’
A pause, then, ‘Constable Greg James. Sir. I can get DC Davidson on the radio and have him give you a—’
‘Forget it,’ snapped Gilchrist.
Why had he not asked for Norris, or any other of a number of detectives and officers for that matter? Because he trusted Stan. Simple as that. Over the years, his level of trust in others had deteriorated. Then a thought struck him.
He trusted Alyson Baird, too. She worked as a secretary in the upper office, providing support for Patterson and others.
But at that time of night, was she still there?
Gilchrist pressed REDIAL. He had often puzzled over his affair with Alyson. Gail had left six months earlier and drink had played its usual will-weakening part. The affair had been short-lived but its sexual passion had provided Gilchrist a much-needed lift. More importantly, its secret survived Patterson’s interrogation. Alyson had denied it all with a barefaced ease that had astonished Gilchrist at the time.
His call was answered once more by Constable James.
‘Alyson Baird,’ he said.
It took four rings before Alyson’s curt voice clipped, ‘Crime Division.’
‘Alyson?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Andy.’ A pause, then, ‘Andy Gilchrist.’
She gave a salacious chuckle and he fought off an image of her slipping off her stockings.
‘How many Randy Andys do you think I know, then?’
Gilchrist tried to steer the conversation away from her favourite subject. ‘Listen, Alyson. I need a favour.’
‘Let me wish. A blow-job?’
‘Mobile telephone number.’
‘Any bitch I know?’
‘I’m trying to contact DS Nancy Wilson.’
‘That slut?’
‘Please, Alyson. I’m trying to get hold of Stan. His mobile’s off. Nancy’s with him.’
‘Well, seeing as how you’re so friendly,’ she said, ‘I’ve got it right here.’ She reci
ted the number.
Gilchrist assigned it to memory. ‘One other thing.’
‘I’m all ears.’
He could not mistake the huffiness in her voice, but he had already tired of her banal innuendoes. ‘Would you happen to know where Sa is?’ he asked.
‘Meeting with Patterson.’
‘Just the two of them?’
‘I believe so.’
‘When?’
‘Eight-thirty.’
‘Where?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Sa’s just called to ask where he is.’
‘Patterson didn’t turn up?’
‘According to Sa.’
‘Do you know what the meeting was about?’
‘Something to do with the Stabber case. Other than that, I haven’t a clue, big boy.’
Gilchrist’s mind crackled. Was Patterson simply running late? Or had something more sinister happened?
‘Alyson,’ he said, ‘can you reach Patterson right away? Make sure he’s okay.’
‘Don’t need to.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He’s just called, too. He says Sa never turned up.’
What the hell was going on? ‘Is Patterson on his way back to the Office?’
‘Afraid not. He’s done for the day. He’s going home.’
‘Home?’
‘Yes, Andy. Home. You know. Where he lives. With his wife. She called. He’s to be back for nine.’
‘Thanks, Alyson. You’re a darling.’
‘Yeah, I love you, too, Andy.’
Did he have it all wrong? Had Patterson and Sa simply confused where they were meant to meet? Then he saw it with a clarity that stunned him. He glanced at his watch. Just after 8:45.
Less than fifteen minutes.
Could he make it in time?
The clouds are shifting, giving a glimpse of a wan moon and a frosted sky. Again I am reminded of Timmy. Of my mother. Of the three of us staring out through a frosted bedroom window. And of snow falling. I watch Timmy’s face break into a smile. My mother’s, too. And I realize we were a close family once.
I feel the weight of sadness overwhelm me as I imagine how it might have been to have led a normal life, a life with Timmy in it, an older brother to talk to when our mother died. I imagine visiting Timmy’s home, sitting his children on my knees, hearing their voices whisper words of love.
An icy breeze covers the moon with tattered strips of clouds. I can almost hear Timmy’s children call out to me.
And I wonder why the raindrops no longer feel cold.
Maybe it was driving at speed that honed his mind razor sharp to make sense of the most tenuous of connections. In all his years as a detective, he had never been able to put a finger on it and say, Yes, now I understand how the mind rationalizes the irrational. Perhaps that was how a sixth sense worked, brain cells sorting through nonsensical jumble, calculating improbables at a subconscious level while five other senses were tuned in to the real world. But no matter how that tenuous connection was made, Gilchrist knew he had made another.
Beth’s attacker. And trainers. That’s what he had seen from Stan’s car on the way to the hospital. Someone walking past, wearing trainers.
White. Clean.
He tucked his mobile under his chin and powered the Merc through a tight bend. ‘Nance,’ he growled, ‘put Stan on.’
Nance obliged.
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Just pulling into the Office now, boss. DeFiore’s called for a debriefing.’
Damn. Even if Stan could get out of the meeting, it would take him ten minutes to catch up. Gilchrist would have to go it alone. But Stan could help in other ways.
‘It’s come to me, Stan. He was wearing trainers.’
‘I don’t follow.’
Gilchrist was not sure he followed the rationale himself, but said, ‘When you drove me to the hospital, I remembered seeing something odd. I couldn’t place it. Not until a moment ago. A pair of trainers, Stan. They were new. Not old. They didn’t fit.’
‘You all right, boss?’
‘Not the size. The profile.’
‘Profile?’
‘Of the person. They didn’t fit the profile. An old man wearing new trainers. It looked all wrong.’ He twisted the wheel, accelerated up the hill, felt his back press into the seat. ‘That’s when it clicked. Like the scruffy guy I saw from the Victoria Café. He was wearing trainers. And they were clean.’
‘Would you like me to make you another appointment?’
Gilchrist almost laughed. He floored the pedal. He whipped past two cars and a van and hammered through a wide corner. ‘I didn’t recognize him at the time. But I do now. Sebastian Hamilton. The man who attacked Beth. And me.’
‘You sure?’
Yes, Gilchrist wanted to say. I’m dead sure. But he wasn’t. Nowhere near. ‘Sure I’m sure,’ he lied, and heard only silence come back at him. Not quite the reception he expected. ‘Norris did speak to you, Stan. Right?’
‘He did.’
‘And told you to bring in Hamilton for indecent exposure?’
‘He did.’
‘And?’
‘He’s been evicted.’
‘What are you telling me, Stan?’
‘He wasn’t home, boss.’
‘So where is he?’
‘No one knows.’
‘Hang on.’ Gilchrist braked for a tight bend then accelerated out of it. Ahead, the road rushed at him from tunnelled darkness, its wet surface glistening under the glare of his headlights. A glance at the speedo, almost eighty, had him easing back a touch. He would be no use to anyone wrapped around a tree. But the thought that he was already too late made him press his foot back to the floor.
‘Eh, boss?’
‘Still here.’
‘Has anyone told you what they found at Hamilton’s?’
The unusual softness in Stan’s voice made Gilchrist lift his foot from the pedal again. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I’ve only just heard about it myself, boss.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘In his bedroom. A right mess it was. Paper clippings. Reports about the murder. The body on the beach. All of the investigation, boss. In an album.’ A pause, then, ‘And photographs of you, boss. Old ones. New ones. You name it, you’re in it.’
Gilchrist dipped his lights for an oncoming car. He could sense Stan was holding something back. ‘And?’ he tried.
A cough, then, ‘There’s also several of you and Beth.’
Gilchrist frowned. He and Beth had started dating about three months after the body was found on the beach. But he could not remember the pair of them ever being photographed by the press. ‘Paper clippings, you say? Of me and Beth?’
‘That’s just the problem, boss. The photos of you and Beth are originals. And there’s some of Beth by herself. We think Hamilton shot them.’
Now it made sense. Now he knew why Beth had been attacked. To get at him. For failing in a murder investigation. ‘Didn’t Hamilton have a girlfriend?’ he snapped. ‘When his father was found? Remember? On the beach? Wasn’t she with him that morning?’
‘Yes, boss. But don’t ask me her name. It’s been a while.’
Having spoken to Alyson reminded Gilchrist. Not Alyson ... ‘Alice,’ he hissed. ‘That’s it. Alice. Alice somebody or other.’
‘McLay, McKay, McKee ...’
‘Check it out, Stan. Find out where she lives.’
‘McGhee,’ shouted Stan. ‘Alice McGhee.’
‘That’s her. Track her down. Maybe she’ll know something. Maybe Hamilton’s still going out with her.’
‘You’re forgetting DeFiore, boss.’
Gilchrist felt a flush of anger heat his face. Not that it was Stan’s fault. He was only doing as instructed. ‘Stan, listen, I know you’re working all hours, but I need someone to run with this for me. For Beth, too.’
‘I could have Alasdair Burns take it on, bos
s. He gets right up DeFiore’s nose.’
Gilchrist grinned. Alasdair had been on the verge of retiring every year for the last five and had little interest in pursuing a case with the ardour of old. Which was probably why DeFiore was pissed off with him. But he was an experienced detective and could handle himself well.
‘Get him on it right away, Stan.’
‘Will do, boss.’
Gilchrist tried to convince himself there was nothing he could do about Hamilton, that he had to focus on the problem at hand. But something in Stan’s tone reconfirmed the danger he was about to face, and made him wish Stan was with him.
For, if his suspicions were correct, he was going to need all the help he could get.
CHAPTER 32
I hear a car and know it is time.
I slide my hand under my anorak. My fingers wrap around the bamboo stave. It feels comfortable, like a part of me, as if it is an extension of my being. I glance at the sky, but the stars and moon are hidden by cloud.
Rain drums around me.
I step from the hedgerow and move toward the gate. It always surprises me how calm I feel before a killing, as if the need to take someone’s life is as basic to my existence as breathing and eating.
Headlights sweep the hedge by my head, twin beams that pierce the wet darkness, startling me with their brightness. Then they spin away, and the hedge returns to shadow.
I approach the gate, my gaze grazing over the side of the bungalow, searching for movement. I am aware that Patterson’s wife might hear the car and peer through the curtains. I lie low and watch the car emerge from the forest road and enter the clearing in front of the house. The engine sounds as if it is idling, the driver in no hurry. Another flash of light as the car pulls in to face the house, then darkness again, like a stage curtain being lowered.
The car door slams. Footsteps crunch the gravel. A cough, a wet spit of phlegm. Even from that most basic of functions I recognize Patterson.
I steal forward, hidden from view by the hedgerow. I am less than three steps from the gate when I hear another car, the high whine of its engine above the rustling of the rain. Someone in a hurry. But Patterson seems not to have heard. He grasps the gate and pushes it open.
A horn blares, long and drawn out.
