by T F Muir
Beth disconnected. ‘Terry’s driving to London for a week,’ she said. ‘He’s leaving first thing in the morning. If you want him to work on the photograph while he’s there, he needs to have it this evening.’
‘Do you have an address for him?’
‘I pass his street on the way home. I’ll drop it off.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Gilchrist lifted his pint.
Beth surprised him by taking hold of his hand and squeezing it. ‘Terry’s bald and grey and twenty stone,’ she said.
It irked Gilchrist that she could read him with such apparent ease, but with the digital enhancement now arranged, and concern over the creep in the shop seemingly behind them for the evening, he found them both relaxing as they ordered food and drinks and chatted about old times.
He liked how comfortable he felt with her, and how talk ebbed and flowed between them with no effort, and how her fingers would touch his, or her hand graze his thigh, if their conversation hinted at their past intimacy. And when her face lit up with a smile, he had to remind himself of her initial response to his invitation, and resist the urge to lean over and press his lips to hers.
After another two pints of Eighty and an unfinished glass of white wine, they left the bar at nine and walked arm in arm to the end of Market Street where Beth surprised him once again by giving him a quick kiss and ordering him to call her tomorrow. He wondered if her kiss was an invitation to respond, but by the time his mind had worked out that it had been nothing more than a parting peck, she already had her back to him and was heading off to Leighton’s.
He pulled his jacket collar tight and set off toward the Cathedral. In the cold night air, his breath rushed like steam and his mind cast up an image of the bloodless corpse on the beach, a white mass that had lain at the water’s edge like an abandoned lump of meat.
It had been cold that morning, too, and drizzling as he walked over the rippled beach of the West Sands, a uniformed policeman by his side. Five or six early morning beach strollers parted as they approached.
The body was naked, the skin flawless white in the cold light, drained of blood from a cut that ran across the throat from ear to ear and grinned at them like a clown’s misplaced smile. The drizzle was thickening, gathering into droplets that trickled over the skin like beads of sweat.
‘Anyone here recognize him?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘I do.’
A long-haired youth stepped forward, with skin as pale and smooth as that of a young boy. He would later be found to be in his mid-twenties.
‘You know his name?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘He’s my father.’
And Gilchrist saw that face now, the eyes more dark and dangerous looking, the hair longer, scruffier than it had been that day on the beach three years earlier.
He took out his mobile and asked to speak to PC Norris.
He was connected almost in the next breath.
‘Andy Gilchrist here,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’
‘I don’t know if this is a good idea,’ said Norris.
‘My lips are sealed,’ said Gilchrist. ‘So should yours be. That body on the beach three years ago,’ he pressed on before Norris could object. ‘You remember it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was it?’
A moment’s pause, then, ‘Jimmy Hamilton.’
Gilchrist smiled. Now he remembered. ‘And the son is Sebastian. Right?’
‘Yes,’ said Norris. ‘And a right weirdo.’
‘Whatever happened to him?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir.’
‘Got an address?’
‘Way ahead of you, sir. I’ve got it up on the screen right now. You got a pen and paper?’
Gilchrist assigned the address to memory as Norris read it out to him. Hamilton lived on the other side of town. ‘Do me another favour, can you? Get hold of Stan and tell him to take Nance and bring Hamilton in for questioning.’
‘On what charge, sir?’
‘Indecent exposure. And if he has any problems with that, tell him to call me on my mobile.’
When Gilchrist reached the cemetery he walked toward the narrow entrance of Gregory Lane. To his right, the Cathedral ruins rose into the night sky like massive wraiths. Ahead, the lane beckoned like a cave.
He hesitated. His thoughts conjured up an image of the Stabber’s first victim, Donald McLeish, killed in a lane not dissimilar to this. In his mind’s eye, he watched a woman in denim jeans step from the deepest shadows and plunge a stave into Donald’s left eye. Had Donald known her? Had he been abusive to her in a past relationship? Gilchrist would never know, not until he came face to face with the Stabber and asked outright.
He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and entered the lane. His footfall reverberated as darkness enveloped him and he found himself taking comfort from the dim glow of penumbral light that spilled from the rear courtyard of St Gregory’s.
He emerged at the opposite end with a shiver and crossed the path that paralleled the cliff face. He stood with his back against the metal railing. The sea wind was picking up, cold as ice. To his left, the path rose, then spilled, black as the River Styx, down toward Kirkhill. To his right, it ran off like some spectral invitation to the Castle ruins. From where he stood, he could just make out Garvie’s bedroom window, a grey rectangle on a black roof. Through the McLarens’ lighted window, he noticed young Ian slinking around his bedroom.
Forty minutes later, a weak light spilled from Garvie’s dormer, and a woman stepped forward to pull down the blinds. He thought he recognized Garvie’s features, but from that distance could not be sure.
He waited another ten minutes before making a move.
Back in Gregory Lane he pulled himself up and over the stone wall and landed in a garden as dank and cold as an abandoned forest. He pushed his way through a tangle of bushes and uncut grass until he came to what he worked out had to be Garvie’s perimeter wall.
He peered over.
Yellow light glowed from an upper window, soft and misted by the blinds. Through the fine material, he caught a flicker of movement. He imagined Garvie exercising, and an image of black Lycra shorts and blond hair, short and damp, reared up in his mind.
He was about to move closer when he stopped.
Had his eyes deceived him? Had someone else walked into the room? He kept his gaze glued to the window. Garvie lived alone, did she not? Did she have a visitor? And if so, who? And why upstairs?
But ten minutes later, Gilchrist made out no other movement and decided the shadows must have tricked his eyes.
The luminous hands on his watch stood at 10:33. Nothing moved in the darkness around him. Cliff surf rushed in the distance like leaves in an autumn wind. Garvie had told him she took sleeping pills, so he crouched, deep enough in shadow to be invisible to all except the keenest of observers, and waited another fifteen minutes before he peered over the wall once more.
Garvie’s house lay in darkness. Several lights still brightened the McLarens’ ground floor, and through the light blue sheen of a fabric roll-blind he saw the silhouetted form of someone by the sink. All the lights were out in the house on the other side of Garvie’s, grey windows dulled by drawn curtains. He toyed with the idea of entering Garvie’s garden from that side, but doing so would still leave him with an exposed climb over the dividing wall.
Decision made, he placed his hands on top of the wall, gripped the stone, and pulled himself up and over.
He dropped onto damp grass as thick as wet straw.
He was in.
CHAPTER 20
Kev opened the door with a ‘Yeah?’
Nance gave one of her gentler smiles. ‘We’re looking for Sebastian Hamilton,’ she said to him.
Kev’s gaze slid to Stan by her side, then back again. ‘It’s a bit much calling round people’s houses at this time of night, is it not?’
‘We like to work late,’ said Nance. ‘Is Mr Hamilton in?’
‘He’s gone.’
<
br /> ‘Out for the evening?’
‘Gone tattie bye-byes. Doesn’t live here any more.’
‘Moved, has he?’
‘You could say.’
Nance’s smile thinned. ‘Where’s he moved to?’
‘How would I know?’
‘We need to talk to him.’
‘Well, when you find him, tell him he owes Robbie for the mess in here.’
‘Robbie?’
‘The punter who owns this dump.’
‘What’s Robbie’s surname?’
‘His what?’
‘His last name.’
Kev sniffed. ‘McRoberts.’
‘Robbie McRoberts?’
‘That’s him.’
‘So, this Robbie McRoberts, he’s the landlord, is he?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘So who are you?’
‘Assistant landlord.’
‘And your name?’
‘Am I being interrogated, or what?’
‘Not yet,’ said Nance, and let her smile go. ‘Name?’
‘Kev.’
‘Short for Kevin, is it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Kevin what?’
‘It’s Kev.’
Nance waited.
‘Morris,’ said Kev.
Nance glanced to her side. ‘Like blood from a stone, Stan.’ She gave a sliver of a smile, and said, ‘That wasn’t too hard now, was it, Mr Morris?’
Silence.
‘You live here, do you?’
Kev’s face shifted with indecision. ‘Yes and no.’
‘Which is it? Yes? Or no?’
‘No.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Clearing up the mess.’
Nance pushed past Kev’s stubby bulk and into the hallway.
‘Oh, that’s great, that is,’ complained Kev. ‘Why don’t you come in and make yourself at home?’
‘Thanks,’ said Stan, and followed Nance inside.
Bare floorboards stretched the length of the short hall and spread into the kitchen and living room. Two doors either side were closed, suggesting cupboards. The place smelled of stale food and sweat, the air thick with dust.
‘Quite a mess.’
‘You should’ve seen it before we kicked him out.’
Nance pushed through to the kitchen.
Black plastic bags lay stacked against the wall in one corner. Cracked linoleum had been ripped up to expose boards blackened with rot. A sledgehammer stood on its head by the sink. Nance lifted it up and turned to Kev. ‘Kicked out, you said?’
‘That’s right. Evicted.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause we couldn’t kick him out in the morning.’
‘Fancy yourself as a comedian, do you?’ Nance shifted her stance as if preparing to thud the sledgehammer onto the sink.
Kev stared at her.
‘Just answer the question.’
‘What one?’
Nance sighed. ‘We’ve got a right comic here, Stan. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Regular laugh a minute,’ Stan replied. ‘Should be on the telly.’
‘Do stand-up, do you?’ Nance sniffed. ‘Something stinks in here. And it isn’t the floor, Kev.’
Kev eyed the sledgehammer.
‘I’ll ask the question again,’ offered Nance. ‘Why was Mr Hamilton evicted?’
‘’Cause he wasn’t paying his rent.’
‘That sounds like a fair comment. Evicted because he wasn’t paying his rent. Don’t you think that’s a fair comment, Stan?’
‘Very fair.’
‘How many months behind was he?’ Nance continued.
‘Dunno.’
‘And here was me believing you really are the assistant landlord.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t know everything.’
‘Do you know anything?’ Nance shifted her grip on the sledgehammer. ‘Is this the same sledgehammer that knocked the hole in the back door?’ she asked.
Kev scratched his head with his little finger.
‘I take it that’s a yes.’
Kev shuffled his feet.
‘Where can I get hold of this Robbie McRoberts?’
Kev shrugged.
Nance stepped closer. ‘We can do this the easy way,’ she said, ‘or we can take you down to the Station and do it my way.’
‘Got his mobile number. That do?’
‘Only if we get through.’ Nance placed the sledgehammer on the floor then picked up the kitchen phone. The receiver had not been cleaned for years, she guessed, but she had seen worse.
‘That costs money that does.’
‘Keep the comedy routine for the stage,’ she said, ‘and give me the number.’
After ten rings, she hung up.
‘Mr McRoberts wasn’t available,’ she said to Kev.
‘He’s a busy man is our Robbie.’
‘Owns a lot of property, does he?’
‘He’s got a few bob.’
‘Enough to get you bail?’
Kev’s gaze darted to Stan, then back to Nance.
‘You’re booked,’ said Nance.
‘You can’t do that. I’ve done nothing—’
‘Breaking and entering,’ she snapped. ‘Loitering with intent. Vandalism.’ She glanced around the kitchen. ‘Loot anything, did you?’
‘Now wait a fucking—’
‘Public nuisance, too, Stan. Got that?’
‘Nuisance? I’m not annoying anyone.’
‘You’re annoying me,’ she said. ‘Oh, and violation of the Landlords Act.’ She was making it up, but she couldn’t care less. ‘Like me to think of anything else while we’re at it?’
‘I’m not the landlord,’ cried Kev. ‘Robbie is.’
‘Well, you’d better get Robbie’s arse over here pronto,’ she said, handing Kev the phone. ‘Right now.’
Garvie’s kitchen window lay straight ahead, the lounge window to the side, its polished glass reflecting the crescent of a cold moon. Garvie had not drawn the curtains and from the glow of a night light by the television, he could see through into the dining room and beyond to the heavy velvet curtains that offered privacy from the lane.
He slipped his hand inside his leather jacket and removed his pencil-torch. Its thin beam danced by his feet where the grass lay flattened. He moved toward the kitchen door, his steps long and light in an effort to minimize his trail.
The window by the door had no strips of metal tape or electric wire stapled to it, making him conclude that Garvie had no alarm system installed on her property. A glance at the catch confirmed the window was locked. He shone the beam at the coal bunker then pointed behind it, into a six-inch gap wide enough for a cat to hide, illuminating yellowed pages of a sodden newspaper, a blue bottle cap, a plastic yogurt carton.
On the off-chance Garvie had forgotten to lock her door, Gilchrist gripped the weather-worn metal handle and gave a firm twist.
The mechanism squeaked until metal bit metal.
Locked.
He faced the garden area, his sixth sense telling him he was not alone. He scanned the open space, let the torch beam settle on a narrow strip of flattened grass, Pitter’s feline pathway to the rest of the world. In the corner, two beads of light stared back at him, steady as twin moons. He could just make out Pitter, hunched on top of the wall.
Gilchrist swept his beam around and found another trail that led to the far edge of the lounge window. Someone had walked to the window within the last day or so. Garvie had said, Gardening’s not my forte, but the fresh trail confirmed that she, or someone else, had at least been outside.
Doing what? Cleaning windows?
A quick glance confirmed the windows could be cleaned from indoors by flipping the frame up and over a central swivel pin. So, why come out to her garden?
Then he saw it. At first, he thought it was a shadow on the building’s stonew
ork. From another angle, he realized it was a ventilation grille, close to the ground, with one of the stone blocks that formed the opening not flush with the others.
He crept along the side of the house until he reached the grille and kneeled on the grass. Damp soaked through his jeans. The grille was constructed of precast concrete, no more than two bricks in size, with square holes for ventilation. Chicken-mesh was fixed over the face to keep out small rodents. But the mesh was loose, and bent up at one corner. Pencil-torch gripped between his teeth, he squeezed a hand under the mesh, gripped the grille, and pulled.
It slid from its slot.
He placed it on the ground and shone the beam into the hole. The light danced over grey joists that resembled the ribbing of a ship. The dirt area at ground level looked dry and tidy and flat as a beach. But why was the grille loose?
He shoved an arm through the opening and patted the earth. Nothing.
He tried scanning his pencil-torch in a wide arc that took in the underfloor void from one side of the house to the other. Again, nothing.
The space was dry and clear.
He was missing something. He was sure of that.
Why was the grille loose? And why had Garvie come over this way? He touched the opening and noticed a stain on one of the stones that formed the joint between the grille and the structural stonework. He scraped it with a fingernail. A crusted piece cracked free. Dried blood? Dirt? He put his finger to his nose. Nothing. He rubbed his fingers, watched whatever it was crumble to dust and realized that was all it was. Dirt. Not blood. But dirt from where? From the soil under the floor? From the garden area? Wherever the dirt had originated, it had to have found its way onto the exposed joint by someone putting it there.
He thrust his hand through the opening again and felt the bottom of the wall beneath the grille, that area of underfloor void his pencil-light could not reach and he could not see.
This time, he dug.
His fingers scratched the dirt, cold from its proximity to the outside wall. He scraped to the left, then back to the right. Tried closer to the wall. Then stopped.
He felt something.
He scrabbled at the earth, his fingers fumbling, found it, touched it. Something thin. Pointed. He clasped it.
Then dropped it.
He fumbled again, caught it, and pulled it out.