And now Beth. He had failed her, let the sick pervert escape. Surely his life was not going to be measured by the tally of his failures. Surely to God no one person could be expected to go through life—
The car shuddered, snapping him back to the present. Then they were moving again, and a dizzying sensation hit him in thick waves that threatened to topple him.
‘Stan,’ he whispered. ‘I think, I’m—’
‘Hang on, boss.’
A grip as tight as a steel claw thudded onto Gilchrist’s arm, and he stared at the hand, wondered how it had landed there, who it belonged to.
‘Nearly there.’
The car took a swing to the right that had Gilchrist pawing the window. Then it surged upward, like a fishing vessel riding a breaking wave, and drew to a halt.
A door opened. Frigid air brushed his face.
Twin wooden rods slipped under his arms and pulled him out. He tried to stand, felt his legs sweep out from under him and a rush of breath by his ear.
‘Just as well you’re not twenty stone, boss.’
Darkening clouds spun as they negotiated the entrance, then changed to speckled tiles and silver lights in a white sky. Gilchrist felt his back thud against a hard mattress, heard rattling and a steady squeak that seemed to keep time with the wobbling of his head. Overhead lights drifted by like flotsam in a milky sea that turned to grey and darkened with every struggling beat of his heart until it sank into a cold blackness that whistled like a cruel wind.
CHAPTER 26
‘I’m Doctor Mackie.’
Beth watched the doctor’s baggy-eyed gaze take in PC Browning then settle on her.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked her.
She pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders.
‘We should perform a forensics examination.’
‘But nothing happened. I’ve already told them.’
‘I know,’ he sympathized. ‘But whoever did this may have left something, some evidence.’
She was not sure what the doctor was saying, only that she would not let him touch her.
‘He never had time to, to, to do anything,’ she said, conscious of PC Browning’s hand tightening on her shoulder.
‘We can have Mary Girvan perform the examination,’ said Browning. ‘She’s a trained nurse with the Procurator Fiscal’s Office in Dundee. If you think you’re up to it.’
Beth lowered her head.
Browning aimed the tiniest of frowns at Mackie, and he turned and left the room.
‘I’ll make us some tea,’ Browning said. ‘Shall I?’
Beth felt Browning’s fingers massage her shoulder then slip away.
From the kitchen came the drumming rush of a kettle being filled. If Beth strained, she could catch the whisper of people talking in another room, the hallway, or her bedroom, perhaps, and she imagined them opening her wardrobe, her chest of drawers, and fingering her clothes.
The violation of her privacy was nothing compared to the violation of her person, of the fabric of her memory. She wished she could wipe that morning clean from the blackboard of her life. She regretted not possessing the strength or the courage to fight.
Most of all, she regretted what she had not done.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut and held back a choke of disgust as she saw how she should have fought him rather than succumb to his sick demands. But he had a knife, slashed it wildly across her throat, close enough for her to feel the draught of its passing.
She had waited for the pain to hit, for the spurt of arterial blood as her life erupted from the hack in her neck.
But the pain never came. Nor the blood.
And that was when she decided she wanted to live.
More than anything, she wanted to take one more breath, live one more second, then more until she could breathe in the fresh air of a new day, smell the raw dampness of a new morning, see the orange rising of a new sun.
Dear God, just one more time.
So she did as he demanded.
She took off her clothes, folded them and laid them in a neat pile on the chaise longue by the window. Then, with solemn deliberation, lay on top of her continental quilt, naked. She watched him place his knife on her dresser and come to her. She fought back the urge to retch from his sour smell that told her he had not bathed for days, even weeks. He crammed a silk scarf over her mouth, his filthy fingernails almost touching her tongue, then pulled it so tight that it cut into the corners of her lips. His smell was in her nostrils, his taste in the silk, and she forced her thoughts away from his stench, knowing that if she threw up he was cruel enough to watch her choke to death on her own vomit.
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 keep 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.’