Eye for an Eye

by T F Muir

  ‘North Street’s blocked off from Deans Court to College Street, sir. And all side streets and lanes in between.’

  ‘Each point manned?’

  ‘Closed to the public.’

  ‘Nance?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Warrants?’

  ‘All in order,’ she said. ‘Eighty-two in total.’

  ‘Good. Stan?’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘See to it that our media friends out the back are kept from the area.’

  ‘Got it, boss.’

  ‘You’ve all been briefed, so you know what we’re looking for. Anorak, dark green or blue. Jeans. Probably still wet from last night’s storm. But don’t bank on it. The staves could be from bamboo furniture, a bookshelf, a decorative screen, so anything that looks like it could be dismantled and whittled to a point, check it out. Look for shavings in the rubbish, the fireplace, marks on floors and walls. Be nosy. Snoop around. Don’t hold back. The smallest clue could be all it takes to nail this case. But remember, MacMillan has identified the Stabber as a young man. So anyone younger than thirty is to be considered a possible suspect.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Gilchrist eyed Nance. Other than Stan, she was the brightest of the young breed.

  ‘How reliable is MacMillan?’ she asked. ‘I’ve read his statement. It was coming down in buckets. He’s an old man. He was some distance away. He thought he saw a young man.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘What if he’s wrong? From a distance, a woman might be mistaken for a man.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we should disregard his statement?’ Sa asked.

  ‘No. I’m saying he saw the Stabber’s face only during a flash of lightning. He could be wrong. That’s all.’

  ‘Nance is right,’ Gilchrist said, scanning the faces. ‘We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with. Best bet is someone young. We’ve a lot of ground to cover. So let’s get on with it. And Baxter?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Watch those manners of yours.’

  Baxter coughed.

  ‘Right,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Debriefing’s at six,’ and left the room.

  Two minutes later, eight plain-clothes detectives and ten uniformed constables spilled from the Police Station and marched like a band of vigilantes up North Street toward the Abbey end, where they split into pre-assigned pairs – five to the north side, four to the south.

  Gilchrist eyed the stone wall that bounded the Abbey ruins and felt his gaze settle on the archway that defined the start of the road known simply as The Pends. When the Stabber turned into North Street, MacMillan was standing at the entrance arch. Gilchrist glanced at his watch, and said to Sa, ‘Let’s see how long it takes.’

  He strode down the shallow incline at the pace he imagined MacMillan might walk. When he reached The Pends, he stepped behind the crumbling entrance support and checked his watch again. Thirty-one seconds. He eyed the entrance to North Street and visualized the Stabber turning the corner. Once again, doubt crept through him. The Stabber could have known he was being followed, regardless of how cautious MacMillan had been.

  Gilchrist walked back to North Street, faster this time. Twenty-five seconds.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The world record for the two hundred metres is less than twenty seconds. Assuming the Stabber’s not the fastest human on the face of the planet, then somewhere between here and two hundred metres is where he must have gone.’

  Sa stared along North Street. ‘Presuming he didn’t drive off, of course.’

  Gilchrist followed her line of sight. The spire of St Salvator’s, where Prince William resided, pierced the roofline like a marker that defined the limits of their enquiries. The Stabber could not have run that far in twenty seconds. Maybe Sa was right. He could have turned into North Street and driven off. Or hidden for a while, then driven off.

  That was possible.

  Gilchrist guided his team into action.

  Stan crossed the street to join WPC Liz Gregg, his partner for the door-to-door. Baxter and Clarke approached the first door on the left, armed with a warrant. Young and Mann the next. Stan and Liz stepped up to the first door on their list and Gilchrist caught Stan’s hand touch the back of her jacket, an almost unnoticeable contact that spoke volumes. Patterson had pronounced sexual relations forbidden between staff, on threat of termination. But as long as the job didn’t suffer, Gilchrist was happy to keep quiet.

  Wilson and Gray reached the top of a short flight of steps. From an opened doorway, a young woman with blond hair and blue denim jeans frowned at them.

  Gilchrist turned to Sa. ‘Did you talk to Patterson?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘MacMillan’s statement.’

  ‘That’s old news, Andy. The ACC’ll have a copy by now. What’s your point?’

  ‘He talked to McKinnon.’

  ‘Patterson?’ she sneered. ‘He talks to everybody.’ Her gaze locked on to his in an unfamiliar moment of intimacy. ‘I wouldn’t give Patterson the time of day,’ she went on. ‘He’s violated the integrity of your investigation. You should file a complaint.’

  ‘He’d deny it.’

  ‘I’d support you.’

  ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

  ‘You’re being set up, Andy. Patterson wants you off the case. You know that, don’t you? And I don’t like it.’

  ‘What’s in it for him?’

  Sunlight burst through the grey clouds and Gilchrist noticed one of Sa’s eyes had more flecks of green in it than the other.

  ‘Safety,’ she said. ‘His.’

  Gilchrist frowned.

  ‘You threaten him,’ she added.

  As Sa’s words fluttered through his mind, he realized how little he knew of her. She had lived in St Andrews most of her life, never married, and lesbian rumours did the Office rounds from time to time. Gilchrist had never given them any credence and something in the way she now looked at him strengthened his belief.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Sa turned, and Gilchrist found himself staring at Wilson and Gray as they stepped inside. As the young woman in blue jeans turned to close the door, Gilchrist thought he caught a glint of recognition in her eyes.

  ‘You should call the police.’

  ‘Cindy, I don’t even know what he looks like. What do I tell them?’

  ‘They’d have your call on record. If it happens again—’

  ‘Don’t.’ Beth closed her eyes, pressed her hand to her mouth. ‘Don’t say that.’

  Her body gave an involuntary shudder.

  In the small utility room at the back of her shop, she had run her hands under the tap for a full minute, scouring her skin and fingernails with a nailbrush, washing her wrists and forearms with hefty squirts of antibacterial soap. She had dried herself off and looked in the mirror, checked that nothing had dripped onto her clothes. And when Cindy arrived she had asked her to give her the once over, too.

  But the worst part had been swabbing the door handle, the glass panel, the entrance tiles, with soapy water, then sluicing the area down with disinfectant. Afterwards, she had trashed the gloves and wash-rag.

  She shuddered again at the thought of it.

  But how could she file a complaint?

  Finding the words to tell the police that someone had ejaculated on her door was beyond her. Without a description, what could they do? And she had unwittingly destroyed all the evidence. She had no option but to work through the rest of the day as if nothing had happened. But despite her outer resolve, she could not rid herself of the unsettling feeling that continued to sweep through her.

  What if the man returned?

  What then?

  CHAPTER 6

  Gilchrist kept his finger on the doorbell longer than considered courteous. He was concerned by Mrs Granton’s failure to answer following Nance’s visit to break the news.

  ‘See anything?’ he asked Sa.

  She shook her head.


  Gilchrist stepped back.

  The cottage’s roughcast façade shone white in the morning light. A brass coach lamp, polished like new copper, hung by the side of a varnished door. A gleaming brass nameplate was engraved with the single word ‘Inverlea’. A stone wall ran along the boundary and hid the rear garden from passers-by.

  Gilchrist peered over.

  A tidy lawn with crisp edges, the flower bed turned over for the winter. Pruned shrubs stood against the opposite wall like shorn heads. A patio door lay open to reveal several dark inches of interior.

  ‘Back in a tick,’ he said, and gripped the cold stone.

  He swung his legs up and over and leapt onto the gravel path that edged the lawn. He brushed moss and dirt from his hands and stopped at the sight of an elderly lady at the patio window. Behind him, Sa cleared the wall and landed on the gravel with the grace of an acrobat. Without a word, she walked past him, her feet crunching the pebbles, and faced the patio door. The woman barely reacted, as if she was watching a play, rather than two strangers invade her property.

  Sa pressed her mouth to the gap in the patio door and said, ‘We were concerned when you didn’t answer.’

  The woman stared blankly, as if she had heard a sound but was unable to locate it. Sa opened the patio door wider.

  ‘May we come in?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course, dear.’

  To Gilchrist’s surprise, Sa stepped inside, put her arms around Mrs Granton and gave her a hug, patting her like a mother clearing wind from a baby. As they parted, Mrs Granton glanced at him and smiled.

  ‘Come in, Detective Inspector. Please. I’ve heard so much about you.’

  The living room was redolent of flowers and fresh polish, the air thick enough to taste.

  ‘Have a seat, dear, I’ve got a pot brewing,’ said Mrs Granton, then walked into the kitchen.

  When he heard a cupboard being opened, he said, ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Liz is my aunt,’ she explained. ‘Not my real aunt. She was best friends with my mother.’

  ‘So you knew Bill Granton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gilchrist recalled her reluctance to look at Granton’s body. Now it made some sense. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Would it have made a difference?’

  Gilchrist chose not to answer and sat on a beige leather sofa that felt creased and soft. On a polished side table stood four framed photographs of an aged corgi. On a wooden bookshelf, another two. But no family photographs, or any evidence that Mrs Granton had shared the house with a man.

  ‘So you must know Sam MacMillan as well,’ he said to Sa.

  Sa shook her head. ‘His name cropped up but I had no idea he and Bill were so – how do I say it? – close.’

  Gilchrist glanced toward the kitchen. ‘Did Mrs Granton know about her husband’s relationship with MacMillan?’

  ‘If she did, she chose to live with it. She’s a devout Catholic. Divorce was not an option.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Only the one. Alex.’

  Alex. Alex Granton. Gilchrist ran the name through his mind, but could not pull up why it sounded familiar. It would come to him.

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Glasgow. Last I heard he was a nurse in the Royal Infirmary. Never married.’

  Mrs Granton reappeared carrying a large silver tray laden with a pot and cups and two side plates heaped high.

  ‘Some home-made shortbread,’ she announced.

  Silent, Gilchrist watched her fuss around them, filling three bone-china cups with the weakest of tea and asking whether they liked milk or sugar, and would cubes be all right, and how many. It seemed surreal to think that her husband’s corpse now lay in the Police Mortuary in Dundee.

  When everyone was served, Mrs Granton sat in a floral-patterned chair by the fireplace, patted down her pleated skirt and took a delicate sip.

  ‘Okay, dear,’ she said to him. ‘Why are you here?’

  Gilchrist hesitated at her odd behaviour, then said, ‘Firstly, on behalf of Fife Constabulary, I would like to offer our deepest sympathy over the tragic death of your husband ...’

  ‘Another, dear?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Mrs Granton nodded at his side plate. ‘Would you like another finger of shortbread?’

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Granton, I’m—’

  ‘Call me Liz,’ she said. ‘Please. Everybody knows me as Liz. Liz Cockburn.’

  ‘Cockburn?’ he repeated.

  ‘That was my name before I met William.’

  The name niggled somewhere in the depths of Gilchrist’s mind. ‘And you were married for how long?’

  ‘Forty years next March. The eighteenth.’

  ‘Forgive me. But why would everybody know you as Liz Cockburn?’

  ‘Because that’s my name.’

  ‘Yes, but why not Granton?’

  ‘I’ve never liked Granton. I much prefer Cockburn. It sounds so much more Scottish, don’t you think? Another piece of shortbread, dear? It’s my own recipe.’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs, eh, Liz, I’m all shortbreaded out.’

  She smiled. ‘I can tell Sa was right about you. She said you were a nice man. There’s not a lot of you around.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Nice men,’ she said. ‘You’re few and far between.’ Her eyes misted over, then she blinked and said, ‘More tea, dear?’

  ‘No, really, Mrs—’

  ‘Liz.’

  ‘Right. Liz. No. Thank you.’ He glanced at Sa. He could have been a mouse between two cats. He forced himself to focus and said, ‘I was told you declined to identify your husband’s body.’

  ‘Alex can do that.’

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘I called him this morning as soon as I heard. He said he’d be very pleased to identify the body, and that it wasn’t before time.’

  ‘Are you saying Alex was pleased to hear ...’

  ‘Not pleased, dear. Delighted.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gilchrist sat back.

  ‘He didn’t like him.’

  ‘Did he have good reason?’

  Mrs Granton glanced at Sa, and Gilchrist had a sense of Sa having given her permission to speak out. ‘He knew William hit me.’

  ‘He hit you?’

  She tilted her head back in an act of silent defiance. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He hit me. Many times.’

  Gilchrist leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask. How, exactly, did he hit you?’

  ‘Usually with his fist. Never in the face. William was clever that way. Sometimes he would whip me across my back with his belt.’

  Gilchrist struggled to keep his voice level. ‘How long had that been going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Since before we were married.’

  Gilchrist clawed a hand through his hair. He wanted to ask why she had married someone who beat her, but instead said, ‘Were you ever injured?’

  ‘Often. William once cracked six of my ribs. I was in bed for over two months.’

  ‘What did you tell the doctor?’

  ‘That I fell down the stairs.’

  ‘And he believed you?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  Something swept through Gilchrist then. A sense of the futility of it all. ‘And the belt whippings?’ he pressed on.

  ‘I never went to the hospital unless anything was broken. He fractured my arm once.’

  ‘And you reported none of this to the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Alex? Did he do anything?’

  ‘He threatened to report William to the authorities.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I asked him not to. William said he would throw me out of my home and leave me penniless if I reported him.’

  ‘But surely you—’

  ‘It was my choice, Inspector. For better or for worse. Those were the vows
I took. The worse was the beatings. But the better was full of kindness. William could be the most charming man at times.’ She smiled, and the years seemed to fall away from her. ‘Most charming. And that’s the way I would like to remember him.’

  Something in her tone told Gilchrist the meeting was over. He stood. Sa did likewise.

  ‘No need to get up,’ he said to Mrs Granton. ‘We’ll let ourselves out.’

  But the old woman struggled to her feet with a dazed smile that had Gilchrist thinking she was not all there and that forty years of beatings had finally taken their toll.

  ‘I may come back later for a statement,’ he said to her.

  ‘Oh, that would be nice, dear. Do let me know when, and I’ll have some fresh shortbread ready.’

  ‘Right. Okay. Sa?’

  ‘And there’s no need to climb over the wall,’ Mrs Granton added. ‘The front door’s always unlocked.’

  Outside, the wind felt light and fresh and free of the sense of gloom that cloyed the Grantons’ cottage. Gilchrist chose not to speak until they turned onto South Street.

  ‘Tell me, Sa. How can we help the public if they’re not willing to help themselves?’ He shook his head. ‘Abused for all these years by some, some ...’

  He sniffed something in the air. Cigar smoke. A tourist in a Stars and Stripes tracksuit and running shoes stood at the edge of the pavement, newspaper stuffed under his arm, fat cigar tucked into the corner of his mouth.

  Gilchrist fought off the urge to nip into a shop and buy a packet of fags. Just twenty. That’s all. He would make them last, take one a day for the next three weeks. The tourist stepped off the pavement. Gilchrist inhaled, then opened his eyes, surprised to find he had closed them. Was this what his life had come to? Sniffing passive smoke like some tramp trawling bins for food? He had never believed he suffered from nicotine addiction, but at that moment the strength of its grip shocked him. Was physical abuse an addiction, too? Did wife-beaters have an addictive need to bully their victims? If so, Gilchrist despaired at the depth of their turmoil. He started to walk.

  ‘Didn’t you know she was a victim of abuse?’ he asked.

  ‘Not until recently.’

  ‘How recently?’

  ‘Only a few months—’

  ‘I find that hard to believe—’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Andy?’ Anger blazed in Sa’s eyes. ‘That it’s all my fault? That I should have found out sooner? You heard her. Bill was a sneaky bastard. He hit where it wouldn’t show. How the hell am I supposed to know, when she wouldn’t even let her own son report it? As far as I’m concerned, that bastard got what was coming.’