by T F Muir
‘No home to go to?’
‘Not going to offer me another whisky?’
‘Fuck that.’
Gilchrist pressed another key. A chubby Alex as a young man astride a bicycle, the Whyte-Melville Memorial Fountain in the background defining the locale as Market Street. Another of a fat child with a kite on the West Sands, the black-and-white image exaggerating whiter-than-white skin. Others, too, of the Grantons as a family group, or as individuals, ageing before his eyes. But as far as Gilchrist could see, none of the photographs showed Alex Granton with a woman.
Except one.
Gilchrist lifted his finger from the key. The note died.
He placed his whisky on the piano lid and picked up the framed photograph. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Why don’t you make yourself at home?’
‘Who’s this?’ he repeated.
Granton glanced at it. ‘Don’t you recognize her?’
Familiar eyes stared back at Gilchrist, sharp and dark. The young girl faced the camera, a stale smile on her face. It was not the smile that had him pulling the image closer, but the pet she held in thin arms, thrust toward the camera like some sacrificial offering. ‘Can’t say that I do,’ he said.
‘Try Maggie.’
‘Maggie Hendren? Works in Lafferty’s?’
‘Ten out of ten.’
‘When was this taken?’
‘Fuck knows.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Fucking deaf or what?’
‘Have a guess, Alex, before I have to confiscate it.’
‘You can’t confiscate—’
‘Don’t play buggerlugs with me, Alex.’
Granton shrugged. ‘Twenty-one, twenty-two, maybe.’
That would put Maggie at about eleven or twelve. He pulled it closer. It was in good condition, the monochrome image still sharp.
‘Whose cat’s she holding?’
‘Not mine. Hate the fuckers.’
‘Hers?’
‘Fuck knows. She used to keep rabbits, guinea pigs, all sorts of pets. None of them lasted long.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Died. Ran away. Fuck should I know? Ask her.’
‘What’s wrong with its face?’
Granton gave the photograph a quick squint. ‘Run over by a car or something. How would I know?’
Gilchrist flipped the frame over, slid the clips aside, removed the cardboard backing, and pulled out the photograph. He noticed the top edge had been cut off to centre the image in the frame. On the back, in weak pencil in the bottom right-hand corner, was printed Summer 1982.
‘Mind if I take it?’
‘Fucking right I do.’
‘Don’t annoy me, Alex, or I might not give it back.’ He slid the photograph into his jacket pocket and retrieved his whisky. ‘Cheers,’ he said, then downed it and held out his empty glass to Granton. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Don’t make it any time soon.’
Gilchrist closed in on Granton so their eyes were level. Beads of perspiration dotted Granton’s thick upper lip. An almost overwhelming surge of hatred flashed through Gilchrist. Alex Granton had been raised to be just like his father, a contemptible misogynist. He pressed closer, and Granton bumped against the piano, knocking over a photograph.
‘Next time we meet,’ Gilchrist snarled, and patted his pocket, ‘I’ll be slapping on a pair of these.’
Outside, the ground sparkled with frost. Gilchrist pulled his collar up, felt the photo tucked in his pocket. She used to keep rabbits, guinea pigs, all sorts of pets. None of them lasted long.
The cat’s disfigured face intrigued him. Had it really been run over by a car? Arson and bed-wetting are two of the triad of predisposing characteristics of serial killers.
Cruelty to animals is the third.
CHAPTER 16
Beneath me, the body jerks. Then stills.
I stand, grab the wall for support, run a shaking hand across my chin. My breath pumps in hard gasps that tear cold air in and out my lungs with a force that scares me. My heart pounds as if something is caged in my chest.
I fight back the urge to run.
My mind screams at me to stay calm. But I am unable to obey and break into a trot, then I am running. And as I run, I struggle to fight back the panic, comprehend the twisted rationale of what is happening, why I am behaving the way I am.
But I know the answer.
I am decompensating. It is what happens when the defence mechanisms of the mind fail to prevent the onslaught of mental disorder, when the mind can no longer stand the strain of what it has to live with, then breaks down.
And that frightens me.
I always thought I would never be caught.
Now I am not so sure.
‘Morning, Andy.’
White light exploded at the front of Gilchrist’s brain. He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Eight o’clock.’
‘In the morning?’
‘It is indeed,’ said Jack. Another burst of light, less bright, as the curtains were ripped open. ‘Another beautiful day.’
‘Not raining?’
‘Of course it’s raining. That’s what makes Glasgow such an inspirational city. All that dreich and dreary weather brings out the morbid best in us.’
Gilchrist risked opening his eyes and gave a hollow cough, a reminder of his life as a forty-a-day smoker.
‘Here,’ said Jack. Something flapped onto the bed. ‘You should read this.’
Gilchrist picked up the Daily Record. Two-inch-high headlines, more suited for the declaration of World War III, announced, ‘STABBER’S TALLY HITS SEVEN’. Gilchrist fired awake. ‘The weather,’ he snapped. ‘What was it like?’
‘Dry.’
What? ‘No rain?’
‘That’s what’s got everyone in such a tizzy,’ said Jack. ‘And that DeFiore guy, he’s in the firing line. Thought that would bring a smile to your face.’
Gilchrist read on, barely breathing. Number seven was in conflict with the Stabber’s MO. The victim, Ronnie Turnbull, a professional caddy, had put up some resistance. Footprints were found close to the body, on the path that ran from the Scores to the beach. Moulds were being taken to identify the make and size of shoe. But Gilchrist felt a rush when he read that bloodstains had been found on the victim’s face and on the wall, too. Got the bastard, he wanted to shout. DCI DeFiore was reported as saying that the post-mortem was still to be carried out, and until that time he could not rule out the possibility of a copycat murder.
Gilchrist slapped the back of his hand across a photo of DeFiore. He recognized the podium at the back of the Office. ‘This guy’s an idiot,’ he said. ‘The last thing the citizens of St Andrews need to hear is that someone could be copying the Stabber.’ He shook his head. ‘You might think it. But you don’t say it. Patterson would have my balls on a plate of fried rice if I’d let that slip.’
‘Maybe DeFiore’s balls are ready for the chop.’
‘Not a chance. Patterson’s made his choice. He has to stand behind DeFiore no matter what.’ Gilchrist scowled. ‘Is this the only paper you have?’
‘Too far left for you? Welcome to the world of socialist Glasgow.’
‘No, you daft plonker. I want to read more.’
‘Who was it who once said that press conferences were only a hindrance to the investigation?’
Gilchrist knew Jack was right. How often had he withheld information from the press in order not to jeopardize his investigation? He was about to pull back the sheets when Chloe entered carrying two mugs of tea. A cream silk dressing-gown did little to hide the curves of her slender figure, and from the loose sway of her breasts, Gilchrist could tell she was naked underneath.
She handed a mug to Jack then turned to Gilchrist. ‘Good morning. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Once I’ve had a shower,’ he said.
Then she surprised him by sitting on the edge of his bed. She co
cked her head at the canvases on the wall. ‘The eyes are the window to the human psyche,’ she said. ‘They don’t just speak about the painting, they reveal the inner soul of the artist.’
Gilchrist pushed his newspaper to the side.
Chloe leaned forward. As she did so, her dressing-gown slipped open to reveal a tiny handful of perfect breast, the nipple wide and proud like a fleshy thimble. As if warding off a chill, she pulled at the material and covered herself with the casualness of someone adjusting a tie.
‘I remember working on that one,’ she said. ‘I felt such anger at the needlessness of it all. And pain, too. It was not long after Kevin.’
Kevin? Gilchrist caught a flicker of concern flit across Jack’s face, and wondered if Chloe was about to explain who Kevin was. But instead she said, ‘All I could feel was this need to release my anger. Free my mind of the pain. I tried to put it into my work.’ She shook her head. ‘But I failed.’
‘Why do you think you failed?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Now, when I look at that painting, I don’t feel pain. I see it, though. I see it in the eyes. They remind me of my pain. But I don’t feel it.’
‘Perhaps you’ve recovered from Kevin,’ he offered.
Jack frowned, and Gilchrist regretted his statement. But Chloe seemed oblivious to Jack’s discomfort. ‘I still feel for Kevin,’ she said. ‘He still hurts.’
Gilchrist said nothing. Jack’s hand moved to the nape of Chloe’s neck and stroked it. She turned to Gilchrist as if an idea had just struck her. ‘I think you need to be asking that,’ she said to him.
‘Asking what?’
‘What the Stabber thinks of when he kills someone.’
Gilchrist shrugged. ‘We have reams of psychobabble that supposedly answers that, ranging from the Stabber has one eye or knows someone with one eye, to the murders symbolizing humanity’s blindness against the evils of a cruel world. And everything in between.’
‘But why the left eye?’ said Jack.
Gilchrist smiled. ‘Maybe the Stabber is a right-wing extremist who hates socialists.’
‘Maybe he’s a Rangers supporter.’ Jack dug his fingers into Chloe’s shoulder. She laid her hand on his, and some unspoken message seemed to pass between them.
Gilchrist talked on. ‘Out of all the mumbo-jumbo, the psychological evaluation, the printouts, the discussions, the endless theories’ – he shook his head – ‘no one even knows for sure if the Stabber’s a man or a woman.’
Chloe frowned. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘according to our one and only witness, the Stabber’s a young man.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ It was Jack.
‘I’m not sure I believe him.’
‘Why not?’
Why not, indeed? What could he say? That he thought MacMillan was too far away on too bad a night? That Maggie Hendren might have been cruel to animals? That something was niggling the back of his brain? He held up the newspaper. ‘Maybe it’s this,’ he offered. ‘Just when you think you have it sussed, the Stabber goes and does it differently.’
‘If it is the Stabber,’ said Chloe.
‘Maybe Chloe’s right,’ said Jack. ‘Why would the Stabber change his habit?’
‘He’s smart,’ said Gilchrist.
‘Maybe she’s smart,’ said Chloe.
Something seemed to settle in Gilchrist’s mind at the sound of Chloe’s words, as if the fact they had been spoken by someone unconnected with the crimes confirmed his suspicions. ‘She knows we’re closing in,’ he said, pleased with the way the feminine pronoun slushed through his lips. ‘She knows we’re on to the meteorological service every hour of every day checking when the next storm is forecast for the east coast. And she knows that when it does, we’ll be out on full alert, because we know that’s when she kills.’ He grimaced. ‘But now she’s done a flanker, I wonder what the profilers will make of that.’
‘You sound convinced it is the Stabber,’ added Jack.
‘Oh, it’s the Stabber, all right.’ After the second murder, Gilchrist had known they had a serial killer on the loose. By the third, he was convinced the Stabber bore a grudge against men who abused women. That was when females hit the top of his list. But a female serial killer was a rarity, and when he presented his own criminal profile to Patterson, he had been all but laughed from his office.
‘Do you think they’ll catch her?’ It was Chloe.
They. Not you. Gilchrist felt a stab of hurt at his exclusion, but nodded anyway. ‘One day,’ he said, and added, ‘Sooner rather than later, I hope.’ He felt another stab of uncertainty. They would catch the Stabber. Of that he was certain. It might take time. But they would prevail. And when that day came, Patterson would pile the glory onto DeFiore’s head and revive his efforts to remove Gilchrist from the Force. Then what? It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Right,’ said Gilchrist, and slapped his hand on the bed. ‘I’d better get up. I must see Maureen before I head back.’
‘Maureen’s in Edinburgh for a couple of days,’ said Jack. ‘Didn’t Mum tell you?’
‘We never really spoke about you and Maureen.’
Jack nodded, as if understanding, and Gilchrist was pleased he did not press for details. ‘What’s she doing in Edinburgh?’ he asked. ‘Did you tell her I was coming?’
‘It’s her new boyfriend. Larry somebody-or-other. Total wanker. But you know Maureen. Head over heels in sixty seconds flat.’
Sixty seconds flat. Maureen’s reaction to the opposite sex reminded him of his own relationship with Gail. He had sworn his undying love to her on their first date. Making love in the Valley of Sin had helped, but look where it got him. He dreaded Maureen being hurt the way he had, and made a silent promise to himself to talk to her the first—
‘You can have it,’ said Chloe.
‘Sorry?’
‘My painting. Jack and I would like you to have it.’
Gilchrist glanced at Jack.
‘What can I say?’ Jack’s eyebrows shuffled. ‘It’s a gift.’
‘I can’t accept your work as a gift,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Please.’ Chloe glanced at Jack as if seeking support, but from his silence she was on her own. ‘I want you to have it,’ she said to Gilchrist.
‘Only if you let me pay.’
‘It’s a gift from Jack and me.’
‘How much?’
‘Nothing. Please.’
‘I can’t, Chloe.’
‘Please?’
He realized that his obstinacy was hurting her, so he gave a smile of defeat and thanked her with a kiss and a hug.
After a light lunch of peppered haddock garnished with the reddest tomatoes Gilchrist had seen since Gail divorced him, it was time to leave. Chloe covered the canvas with a paint-stained bedsheet and loaded it into the back of his Mercedes.
They shook hands and pecked cheeks and Jack promised to call about Gail. Chloe promised to try to persuade Jack to take a weekend in St Andrews over Christmas. Like a child going on holiday, Gilchrist tooted the car horn and waved out the window until Chloe and Jack slid from view behind the towering corner of their tenement building.
One night away from the job seemed to have worked wonders for his energy level, and he bustled through the Glasgow traffic like a teenager. He joined the M8 at Charing Cross and had moved into the outside lane when his mobile rang.
‘You’ve fucked it up this time, Gilchrist.’
‘What’s the weather like in St Andrews?’
Patterson gave a forced laugh. ‘You’ve heard the news, I gather.’
‘Any results on the blood?’
‘Listen to me, Gilchrist. When I say you’re suspended, that means you’re suspended from active duty until I reinstate you. Got that?’
‘I don’t remember reporting in—’
‘I’ve received a formal complaint. Filed by Alexandra Garvie. Name ring a bell?’
‘Sounds familiar.’
‘She says you more or less forced your way into her house.’
‘More or less? What does that mean?’
‘You entered her house uninvited, Gilchrist. Good Lord, man, do you deny it?’
‘Of course I do. I was polite. She was helpful—’
‘What the hell were you doing asking her questions in the first place? You were suspended, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I was following up a hunch.’
‘Are you listening to me? You were suspended. And you still are suspended. I’ll be formally writing to the ACC with my personal recommendation that you be asked to submit your resignation forthwith. Do you understand, Gilchrist?’
‘More or less.’
Patterson sighed, and Gilchrist caught an image of a pockmarked face bulging red. ‘You really are an annoying piece of—’
‘I’m losing you ...’ Gilchrist clicked off his mobile.
Damn it. If he ever had doubts about Patterson having it in for him, they were now history. It made little difference that others more senior liked Gilchrist. He had disobeyed a direct order. And with Garvie’s complaint, and Patterson’s recommendation, his career was finished.
He gripped the steering wheel. But what had he done to make Garvie complain? He thought back to his interview, to her cat on the window sill, to the coal bunker out the back, to the beads of sweat on her forehead when she had opened the door. Exercising, she had explained.
Now that was interesting.
One of the main objections raised to the Stabber being a woman was strength. She would need to be strong to overpower a man. Garvie looked strong. And fit. And she had invited Gilchrist in, walked away from the door and let him follow.
So why had she complained?
Gilchrist played over the possibilities, but came back to the same conclusion. His career was about to be terminated.
Which meant he had nothing to lose.
CHAPTER 17
‘Sa, Andy here. I need you to do me a favour.’
‘For God’s sake. You can’t keep calling.’
‘You’re beginning to sound paranoid. What’s up?’
‘Patterson’s lost it. And DeFiore never had it. Is that clear enough for you?’
Gilchrist smiled. Sa’s feistiness was refreshing. ‘I need you to get me a copy of a report.’