‘Ex being the operative word.’
‘Wouldn’t be scared shitless talking to a skinny-arsed runt like you.’
‘Why would Sam be scared shitless, Alex? Does he know something I’m not supposed to?’
‘Stop twisting my words, you pompous prick. All the fucking same, you lot.’
‘You think so?’ said Gilchrist. But the discussion was not going at all as he had hoped. He tried his final bluff. ‘How often did Sam deliver the money, Alex? Twice a month? Once a week?’
‘What money?’
‘Bill’s been a bit naughty. Embezzling from the bank. Took me some time to work out why.’
‘And you think he was passing it on to me?’ Granton laughed, a belly-rumble that shuddered his jowls. ‘Crack me up, so you do. Bill might have battered the old dear around a bit, but when it came to business he was as straight as they come.’
‘You deny it, then?’
‘Fucking right, I deny it. You’ve got the wrong bloke, Gilchrist.’ Granton smirked. ‘Fucking plonker. That the best you can do?’
Gilchrist turned away. Doubts about his hunch scalded his thoughts. He pretended to study an oil painting mounted in an ornate gilt frame, then beyond, a tall vase that looked as if it was Ming. Surely not. His insides churned. He had it wrong. A good hunch, perhaps, but wrong. He worked through his logic once more, the memory of his conversation with MacMillan, the sound of Granton’s simple response an echo of his mockery.
That the best you can do?
He had convinced himself that Bill Granton had been embezzling money not to line his own pockets but to keep some secret that could destroy him. Gilchrist had figured either homosexuality or domestic abuse. But as Granton’s wife had refused to report him, Gilchrist had reckoned homosexuality. But MacMillan was a closet homosexual, so how could he blackmail Granton? As he led such a modest lifestyle, the money had to be going somewhere else. But where? Then up popped Alex ‘Fats’ Cockburn, a petty criminal with an eclectic record, including blackmail, who knew all about his father’s physical abuse.
It sounded a complicated theory, but it wasn’t really. And until a few moments ago, it had been a theory in which Gilchrist believed. Now he knew he was wrong. Not about Bill Granton being blackmailed, perhaps, but about where the money was going.
Gilchrist stood by a grand piano near the bay window. An overgrown cheese plant reared up from the side, its leaves stooping over a gallery of framed photographs that littered the piano lid.
‘Didn’t know you were into photography, Alex.’
‘Presents from the old dear.’
Gilchrist palmed the piano’s polished surface, fingers sliding along wood as smooth as glass. ‘You play?’ he asked.
‘’S just furniture.’
Gilchrist pressed a finger to one of the keys, held it down as the note resonated then faded, leaving nothing but an echo. He tried another, then another, each time listening to the note evaporating as he studied the images before him.
A young Bill Granton in a short-sleeved shirt on the steps of the Sea Front Hotel, bespectacled, squinting against the sunlight. A woman verging on the skinny hooked to his arm, unsmiling. A photograph to the side showed the same couple, older this time, a row of shops in the background. Again, the same hooked arm, the same tense look. Gilchrist now understood that the look was not one of scorn but of repressed fear, the images black-and-white reflections of how Granton had tyrannized his wife all their married life.
‘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 cocked 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.’