by T F Muir
But once tied down, she watched him study her spread-eagled genitalia in uninhibited closeness, felt the warm brush of his foul breath, saw his eyes light with desire at the knowledge of what was to come, and realized the fatal error of her surrender. With a force that almost stopped her heart, the reason he had made no effort to conceal his face struck her.
He was going to kill her anyway.
Panic set in then, and as she struggled against the bondage she realized she had been tied with slip knots that tightened the more she fought.
Then he took himself out.
She held still then, afraid that struggling would only excite him more, and tried to pull her knees together in a vain attempt to hide her nakedness.
His head jerked to the side.
Beth heard it, too.
The dull crack of a door opening. Then a call.
She tried to scream, but it came out in a whimper. A sweaty hand smothered her mouth, the hand that had been holding his penis, and she thought she was going to choke when his hair fell into her eyes, dark clumps, thick and clotted. He swore at her, pushed himself to his feet, and rushed to the dresser. He reached for his knife, fumbled it off the edge, and failed to catch it as it fell down the back.
Beth could not interpret the gamut of emotions that twisted his features then set into a look of cruel determination. He moved toward her and she felt certain he was going to strangle her. Then he reached for her father’s old cricket bat that hung above the headboard ...
‘Here we go, love,’ said Browning. ‘I’ve made us both a cuppa,’ pouring weak tea from the pot. She stopped midstream, gave the bags a swirl. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘The knife,’ whispered Beth.
Browning looked puzzled. ‘What knife?’
‘The one he used to threaten me. It fell down the back. Behind the chest of drawers. Next to the wardrobe.’
Without another word, Browning stood and left the room.
Beth stared after her. The knife would give the police fingerprints. But what if that was not enough to convict him? What if they needed more? She closed her eyes and felt tears spill down her cheeks. She had almost convinced herself that nothing had happened, had almost convinced Browning, too. But an examination would reveal the truth.
Saliva.
They would find his saliva. They would find his saliva on her. They would find his saliva on her when they swabbed her vagina. She could no longer hold back the sobs and felt her head roll into her hands, as if her neck was no longer capable of supporting its weight. A low groan escaped her lips as she recalled black eyes looking up at her, then closing in sick ecstasy as his mouth rested upon her and his tongue pressed and flicked and entered her, slurping and sucking like a starved dog.
Doctor Matthews studied the X-rays and frowned. ‘You’re extremely lucky, Mr Gilchrist. If this man had not brought you here when he did, you could have slipped into a coma.’ He glanced at Stan, who returned a wry smile. ‘As it is, you’ve suffered severe concussion. But nothing seems to be broken.’ He grimaced down at Gilchrist. ‘How do you feel?’
Gilchrist patted the back of his head where his hair felt short and spiky from being shaved. He fiddled with a plaster of sorts that seemed lumpy and hard. ‘How many stitches did you say?’
‘I didn’t. But you’ve got eighteen at the back. And six behind your left ear. We’ll have those out in a week or so.’
Gilchrist touched his ear.
‘You’ve been doped up. You won’t feel much until it wears off. When it does, it’ll hurt. Take one of these in the morning with food.’ Matthews shook a brown bottle in front of him. ‘Another one at night. You should get by without too much discomfort. They’re powerful. So be careful.’
Gilchrist took the bottle and slid from the gurney. His feet landed on the tiled floor with a thump that sent a stab of pain across his chest, despite the painkillers.
‘Oh,’ said Matthews, ‘as best we can tell, you have at least two fractured ribs. Once the bruising settles down, the X-rays might show up some more. I’m afraid there’s not a lot we can do for these except tell you not to play scrum-half for six weeks.’
‘How about full-back?’
Matthews shook his head in mock dismay. ‘That, too. And no alcohol with these, my man. D’you hear?’
Gilchrist put the brown bottle into his pocket and left the consulting room, Stan by his side, ready to give physical support. But Gilchrist grumbled, ‘I can manage,’ then grimaced as he opened the main doors.
‘Does it hurt, boss?’
‘Only when I laugh.’
‘Well in that case, you won’t feel a thing.’
Gilchrist almost stopped, but followed Stan to the car and waited until the younger man put the key into the ignition before he leaned across and gripped the steering wheel.
Stan looked at him. ‘Desperate to drive, are we?’
‘You never could play dumb with me, Stan. What won’t make me laugh?’
‘It’s nothing. It’s just a joke. Okay?’
‘Why don’t I believe you?’
‘You’ve been a detective too long, boss. You hear people coughing up crap all day long, day in, day out. All the lies. All the shite.’ He shrugged. ‘After a while you believe the whole world’s a lying sack of shite.’
‘Good try. But I’m not buying it.’
Stan glared at Gilchrist’s hands on the steering wheel. ‘Are we going to sit here all day like this?’
‘If we have to.’
‘Anyone ever told you you can be a right pain in the arse?’
‘Plenty.’
Stan shook his head as if at the futility of it all, then dropped his voice. ‘You didn’t hear this from me. Okay?’
‘Anything you say.’
‘No, I mean it. Patterson’ll boil my balls if he finds out.’
To show his sincerity, Gilchrist removed his hands from the steering wheel.
‘Patterson doesn’t want you back. He’s talking to Archie McVicar to get you removed from the Force.’
Gilchrist gave a dry chuckle, felt a stab of pain at his side. ‘Shit, Stan. I thought you said this wasn’t going to make me laugh. I know all about McVicar. Patterson threatened me with it yesterday morning.’
‘I’m not talking about yesterday, boss. I’m talking about this morning.’
This morning? Gilchrist waited.
‘You visited Garvie against his specific instructions—’
‘I’m suspended, Stan. Remember? Patterson’s specific instructions don’t include me.’
‘You’re splitting hairs.’
‘That’s not what McVicar’ll think.’
‘Patterson’ll convince him.’
‘Trust me, Stan. He won’t.’
‘That’s not the problem.’
‘Go on,’ encouraged Gilchrist.
Stan shifted in his seat to face Gilchrist. ‘Patterson’s preparing a warrant for your arrest, boss. He’s going to have you brought in tomorrow morning. First thing.’
Gilchrist clenched his jaw. He could kick himself for not returning McVicar’s message. But he was afraid of being forced to retire, terrified of losing the one thing in his life that kept him going.
‘What’s Patterson going to have me pulled in for?’
‘Garvie says you sexually assaulted her.’
‘And Patterson believes her?’ Gilchrist gave out a gasp of disgust. ‘The man’s a bigger fool than I took him for.’
‘I’m sorry, Andy.’
‘For what? The whole thing stinks. It’s a set-up.’
‘That’s not what Garvie says.’
‘Garvie says nothing.’
Stan stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The complaint that was allegedly filed against me,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Garvie knew nothing about it.’
Stan gave Gilchrist’s words some thought, then said, ‘She has a witness.’
Gilchrist felt a hand of ice stroke his spine. He forced himself to kee
p his voice level. ‘Who?’
‘Maggie Hendren.’
An image of Maggie almost bumping into him in Lafferty’s rushed into his mind. Our little group. ‘Have you interviewed her?’
‘No.’
‘Has Patterson?’
‘No.’
‘DeFiore?’
‘Look, boss—’
‘Anybody?’
Silence.
‘Does that not tell you something, Stan?’
‘It tells me I don’t want anything to do with it, is what it tells me.’
Gilchrist turned away, watched an old woman being helped from an ambulance and led into the hospital, her steps short, unsteady. Not like Garvie. He pictured her short-sleeved sweatshirt, her supple body tone. Sexual assault? If it wasn’t so serious, it would be funny. He turned back to Stan. ‘Where the hell does Maggie live?’
Panic flashed across Stan’s eyes. ‘Don’t do this to me, Andy. Patterson’ll know it’s me. He’ll have me.’
‘Patterson doesn’t know a thing.’
‘He knows I’m with you.’
‘How the hell does he know that?’
Stan lowered his gaze.
‘Well, you’re not with me any more,’ said Gilchrist. He opened the door, the move so sudden that a flock of starlings fluttered over the wall in iridescent panic. ‘You dropped me off at the hospital, Stan. I slipped out the back door. And that’s the last you’ve seen of me.’
Stan shook his head. ‘I never should have told you.’
‘Stick to the story and it’ll be fine. Trust me.’
From the dark shadows around Stan’s eyes, Gilchrist could see that he was near the edge of some mental precipice. Exhausted. The Stabber and Patterson and DeFiore and eighty-hour working weeks were finally taking their toll.
‘I can’t do it, boss. I’m going to have to call it in.’
‘Give me until this time tomorrow.’ Gilchrist slammed the door before Stan could tell him where to get off.
CHAPTER 27
This town, these streets, these buildings have seen centuries of human creatures come and go, witnessed the worst of mankind’s inhumanity against man. The Reformation arrived here five hundred years ago. Heretics were burned at the stake, some famous enough to have cobbled stones built into thoroughfares to mark the spot of execution and monuments erected in their memory. Medieval cruelties were performed in Market Street in the square next to the fountain. Pillories, hangings, burnings, all for the supposed expurgation of human sins, but in reality depravities to satisfy sick individuals. Cruelties almost beyond imagination.
I now know that the Stabber will have a place among the ranks of the most vile perpetrators of cruelty this town has ever seen. That is how I will be remembered.
And that thought makes me smile.
Gilchrist towelled himself down and examined the damage in the mirror. He looked a mess.
Bruising on his thighs, his back, both upper arms, and an ugly purplish tinge on his left side about the size of a football. He pressed his ribs, felt them give, but no pain, so the painkillers must be working. Doctor Matthews had told him to keep his head wounds dry, which was difficult in the shower, but he had done his best. His left ear had swollen and the hair behind it looked as if it had been torn from his head, not trimmed. He touched the hypo-allergenic tape that covered the six stitches. It felt hard and tight to his skin.
The other stitches seemed to be a different matter.
He held up his shaving mirror behind his head, shoulder high. In the double reflection, he ran his fingers over an inch-wide strip shaved either side of the wound. The surgical tape covering the eighteen stitches was stained dark from seeping blood.
Not good, but not too bad.
He dressed carefully, choosing something loose, a black ribbed Ralph Lauren sweater over a starched Hugo Boss shirt. If he was going to visit Maggie Hendren with a head like a half-finished Frankenstein, at least he could look and smell clean.
He pulled on his new black leather jacket and phoned Beth’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail. He disconnected, tried her home number. This time her answering machine kicked in, so he left a short message asking her to give him a call.
Next, Archie McVicar.
As he waited for the connection to be made, he stared out of his window. The rockery garden needed some work. On the bright side, if McVicar discharged him, that would be first on the list.
‘McVicar.’
The booming voice almost threw him, then he heard himself say, ‘Detective Inspector Andrew Gilchrist, sir. Returning your call.’
‘You’re a hard man to track down, Andy.’
‘I was out of town, sir. Visiting family.’
McVicar mulled over Gilchrist’s excuse for a few seconds before saying, ‘Gail?’
Gilchrist was not sure whether McVicar was asking if he had visited Gail, or how her health was. He chose the former. ‘Yes, sir. Jack and Maureen, too.’
‘How’s Gail faring?’
‘Not good, sir.’
‘Prognosis?’
‘A year at the outside.’
‘Pain?’
‘She’s on medication for that, sir.’
‘Hmm.’ A pause. ‘I’m sorry to hear you say that, Andy. Next time you see her, if she’s well enough, perhaps you could let her know Rhona and I are asking after her and praying for her every night.’
It was on the tip of Gilchrist’s tongue to say there might never be a next time, but instead he said, ‘Thank you, sir. Gail will be pleased to hear that.’
‘Tragic,’ McVicar said. ‘Absolutely tragic.’
‘It is indeed, sir.’ Gilchrist heard McVicar take a deep breath then let it out in a gust of resignation. For Gail? he wondered. Or for himself? He felt his grip tighten on the phone. McVicar might be a sensitive man where family matters were concerned but when push came to shove, nothing stood in his way.
‘Right, Andy. This to-do with Patterson. What the hell’s it all about?’
‘He believes I’m not the man for the investig—’
‘Yes yes I know all that, but why the devil does he want you out? Sometimes I wonder if the man’s not a liability. I would never have let you go at a time like this.’
‘Define let go, sir.’
‘Pushed off the Stabber case. By all means bring in the Scottish Crime Squad, or anyone else who could help bring this maniac to justice. But Lord above us, now’s not the time to rack up the score in some personal vendetta.’
‘I agree, sir.’
‘We need every man we can lay our hands on. And more.’
Gilchrist listened to McVicar air his grievances. He knew McVicar on a personal level, knew him to be fair. He was a tough codger but a good man to have on your side. His wife, Rhona, had hit it off with Gail after they joined the same gardening club. But following the divorce they had barely kept in touch.
‘... which brings me to my next point.’
Gilchrist stared down at his garden. He would start by levelling and relaying the slabs.
‘This Alexandra Garvie. What’s your interest there?’
Gilchrist let the loaded question filter through his mind. Just how much did McVicar know? Did he know of his suspicions of her? Did he know of Patterson’s plans to have him charged with sexual assault? Smart? Or dumb? He chose dumb. ‘My interest, sir?’
‘Yes. Interest. Why are you always nosing around her home?’
Always? So, McVicar knew. ‘I’ve spoken to her twice—’
‘Yes yes I know. But why?’
‘A hunch,’ he said. ‘Nothing more at this stage.’
‘A hunch?’ McVicar made the word sound like the world’s filthiest disease. ‘Nothing more than just a hunch?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No hard evidence?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Hmm.’
Gilchrist caught an image of McVicar frowning, looking up to the sky in that thoughtful pose of his when his mind was churning
over some facts.
‘You think she’s got something to do with the killings?’ McVicar asked.
‘I’m still fishing, sir.’
‘Any nibbles?’
For a split second, Gilchrist wondered if McVicar knew about his searching Garvie’s ventilation grille. Then just as quickly decided he did not. ‘Not yet,’ he replied.
‘But you’re not through with her. Are you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Patterson disagrees.’
‘He would, sir. If I said white, he’d say black.’
‘He’s instructed all personnel to stay away from Garvie’s residence. You are aware of that order, I presume.’
‘I am, sir.’
‘So why do you continue to defy the man?’
‘I thought being suspended from service provided me the rights of any other citizen in the United Kingdom. One of them being the freedom to talk to whoever I choose. Sir.’
McVicar chuckled. ‘Quite.’
‘Do you mind if I ask you a question, sir?’
‘Not at all. Shoot.’
‘Have you asked yourself why?’
‘Why?’
‘Why does DCI Patterson want no one to talk to Garvie?’
‘The Scottish Crime Squad’s already taken her statement. The chief inspector’s well within his rights to direct the investigation as he sees fit.’
‘And if he’s wrong?’
‘Then he’ll have a great deal to answer for.’
‘One other question, sir?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Why did you ask me to call?’
‘When I first got wind of this, I had intended to coerce your compliance with a demand for your resignation.’