‘It’s ... snowing.’ Her voice was as hushed as the wind.
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘It’s snowing.’
‘Snowing ...’ She coughed, choked, then tried to smile. ‘Snowing ... for Timmy.’
‘For Timmy,’ he said, and watched the light die behind her eyes. He turned away then, felt the burn of tears and thought back to the times they had argued, to the bitterness in her voice, the feistiness in her spirit, and wished she had told him of her pain, her troubles, her loneliness. He could have helped her. If she had only told him.
When he opened his eyes, the snow flurries had thickened. Flakes were landing on Sa’s face, the tiniest of white feathers settling on the corneas of her eyes and melting into tears. He lifted his hand to her eyelids and closed them.
He stumbled to his feet and staggered onto the path that ran along the side of the house, feet crunching and slipping on the tiny pebbles. He reached the back door and stepped inside.
Patterson’s wife let out a short scream.
‘For God’s sake, woman. Shut up.’ Patterson turned his glare to Gilchrist. ‘Where is she?’ he asked.
Gilchrist shook his head, too exhausted to be troubled talking.
‘Good God, man. Did you let her get away?’ Patterson opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a long-bladed knife.
‘She’s dead,’ said Gilchrist.
‘Dead?’ Patterson’s chest seemed to inflate, and his back straightened. ‘Did you kill her?’
‘She killed herself.’
‘Well, then,’ said Patterson, and laid the knife on the work surface.
It was only then that Gilchrist noticed a tear in Patterson’s uniform. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said.
‘It’s just a scratch. Lucky for you.’ Patterson turned to face his wife. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful for a change? Get me a whisky.’
She turned to obey.
‘Mrs Patterson?’
She stopped in the doorway, her face tense with uncertainty.
‘I’m sorry to have given you a fright,’ Gilchrist said, ‘when I barged in like that. I must look a sight.’
She shook her head, then returned to the sink, ignoring her husband. She grabbed a cloth and wet it under the tap. ‘Here you go,’ she said, and dabbed the side of his face, close to the ear with the stitches. ‘You’ve got yourself in a right old mess. And you’ve cut yourself. Oh, dear. Quite badly.’
‘Do you mind if I use your phone?’ he asked her.
‘For God’s sake, Gilchrist. I’ve already called for an ambulance.’
Gilchrist ignored the outburst. ‘May I?’
‘What in heaven’s name for, man?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake. Can’t you see he’s bleeding?’ And with that, she removed a cordless phone from a cradle on the wall.
It felt so heavy that for one dizzying moment Gilchrist thought he was going to have to lay it down. He felt a surge of relief when he heard a booming voice say, ‘McVicar.’
‘Sir,’ he whispered. ‘It’s Andrew Gilchrist.’
‘Andy? You sound ...’ A pause, then, ‘Is it ...?’
‘No, sir. It’s the Stabber.’ The words seemed to come at him from a distance, as if they had been spoken by someone else. His peripheral vision was darkening and he knew he was running out of time. ‘You need to get over here,’ he said.
‘Where are you?’
But McVicar’s voice was already fading and Gilchrist had time only to pass the phone back to Patterson’s wife before his legs gave out and he sank to the floor.
CHAPTER 34
Voices came at him, faint and indiscernible, then faded, like birdsong carried off by the wind. He tried to open his eyes, but the effort seemed too great, as if his eyelids had clotted. Then he felt a sickening sensation of spinning, falling, floating down into some deep, dark place.
He returned to the same dream.
She stood before him, her arms outstretched, beckoning him to her. He held her gaze, uncertain of her intentions, his heart swallowed up by her beauty. Wisps of blond hair framed her face like threads of gold. She smiled, and in her smile he saw she wanted their lives to be the way they had been before their marriage broke up. He walked up to her, and she lifted her arm and struck at him with a bamboo stave. He saw it coming down at him, down at his eyes, hard and fast, its point bloodied and bright. But he could do nothing to stop it. He tried to scream.
The voices returned.
‘Easy. Easy. Keep it level.’
He was lying on his back, his head lolling, body rolling as if from the motion of some small boat negotiating choppy seas. He opened his eyes, blinked against fluttering snow, and said, ‘What time is it?’
‘Hey, big guy.’
He tried to pull himself up.
‘Take it easy, take it easy.’
‘What time is it?’ he asked again.
‘Not a rat’s tail short of ten.’
Something clattered hard and loud, metal against metal, like the sound of an extension ladder collapsing. Then the movement steadied, and he felt himself sliding forward into some capsule, like being closed in a mortuary drawer.
He swung his feet to the floor, held steady while it tilted off to the side, then righted. It took several seconds for him to realize he was in an ambulance. He stood, shot out an arm for support, felt someone clutch it. ‘I need to go,’ he said.
‘Hey, steady. Steady.’
‘I’m all right. I need to go.’
‘You’re going nowhere.’
He patted his hand against his chest. No leather jacket. He remembered the lining, ripping it out. He glanced at his wrist, wondered what had happened to his watch. It must have broken off during the fight. He stared at the paramedic. Then he remembered white flakes falling into Sa’s eyes.
‘I need a phone,’ he said.
The paramedic put pressure on his arm, as if to lead him back to the stretcher. ‘You need a hospital.’
‘You’re hindering a murder investigation. I can have you charged.’
‘Charge me all you like, but I don’t have a bleeding phone. Okay? Now, sit down.’
‘Sorry,’ said Gilchrist, and shuffled to the back of the ambulance.
Dragonlights stood in the garden like a makeshift studio. The SOCOs were already on the scene. Four of them, clad in white coveralls, combed the grass like dogs. A camera flashed in the hedgerow, causing Gilchrist to divert his gaze. Over by the back porch, he recognized the military-like figure of McVicar talking to Patterson. Off to the right, the suited silhouette of DeFiore, mobile phone pressed to his ear.
Gilchrist jumped to the ground. Pain shot across his chest. His legs gave out. He collapsed against the rear of the ambulance, and shouted, ‘Sir?’
Patterson scowled.
McVicar turned to the sound of Gilchrist’s voice then marched toward him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Andy?’
‘I need to—’
‘You look like hell.’ McVicar beckoned the paramedics. ‘What’s going on here? Why isn’t this man being taken to hospital?’
‘We can’t force him into—’
‘Sir? I need to talk to you.’
‘Andy, you need to—’
‘Now, sir.’ Gilchrist struggled to stand erect. ‘Before we’re too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘You drive,’ said Gilchrist, and stumbled over the gravel driveway to McVicar’s BMW. He grabbed the door handle, gave a tug, but it was locked. He glanced back at McVicar, who now stood with Patterson by his shoulder. McVicar’s head twitched as Patterson whispered to him.
Then McVicar frowned and walked alone to his car.
‘We’ve no time, sir. We need to get going.’
‘Where to, Andy? Mark tells me if he hadn’t stepped in when he did, you might have been killed.’
Gilchrist had no time to waste trying to reason with McVicar. He could do that later. Right at that moment, he had other matters to resolve.
‘Mark said he was about to arrest the Stabber when you turned up. Despite being suspended.’
Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Can we go, sir?’
‘Gilchrist.’ It was Patterson. He stepped closer, took a deep breath, then said, ‘For your gallant effort in helping me put an end to the Stabber’s reign of terror, I’ve decided not to ask for your resignation.’
‘And the trumped-up charges for my arrest?’
Patterson’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m pleased to say you can have your position back.’ His lips pressed into a tight line.
Gilchrist heard a click and pulled at the door handle. He was about to sit inside when McVicar said, ‘What’s this all about, Andy? Where are we going?’
Gilchrist nodded to Patterson. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ he said. ‘He says he’s solved it.’
McVicar gave a half-smile. ‘Well, Mark? What’s next?’
Patterson frowned. ‘I, eh ...’ He blinked at Gilchrist, then McVicar. ‘I, eh ...’
‘I see,’ said McVicar. He opened the door and slipped behind the steering wheel. ‘We’ll talk later, Mark. And this time you’d better come out with the truth.’ He let his words sink in, then added with a growl, ‘Or so help me God, I’ll have your job
and
your pension.’
Gilchrist clutched McVicar’s mobile. ‘Eddy, it’s Andy.’
‘How’s it going, mate?
‘Did Maggie turn up?’
‘Demanded her wages like she owned the place. Gave them to her and told her to piss off and never come back.’
‘When?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘Walking? Or driving?’
‘Driving. Why? What’s the problem?’
‘What car’s she drive?’
‘Used to have a Volkswagen, but got rid of that for a Land Rover. One of those new ones. Discovery. Second hand, but I don’t know where she got the money. Not from doing overtime here. That’s for sure.’
‘Blue?’
‘Blew what?’
‘The colour of the Land Rover. Was it dark blue?’
Fast Eddy gave a fast chuckle, and said, ‘Think so. But don’t quote me.’
‘One last question.’
‘Shoot, mate.’
‘Was she with anyone?’
‘Can’t say that I noticed.’
Gilchrist bit his lip. ‘Thanks, Eddy.’
‘Gotcha.’
Gilchrist laid the mobile on the central console. ‘We may already be too late, sir.’
‘Let’s give it a try,’ said McVicar, ‘shall we?’
They pulled into Market Street before quarter to eleven. Gilchrist thought he had missed her, then saw a Discovery parked near the Whyte-Melville Memorial Fountain. He could not be sure it was Maggie’s. He walked toward it, brushed his hand over the driver’s door, felt the dent.
McVicar stood beside him. ‘Care to share your thoughts, Andy?’
Gilchrist shrugged. ‘Another one of my hunches, sir. I could be wrong.’
‘I see. Do I need to call for reinforcements?’
‘Not yet,’ said Gilchrist, and crossed the street.
The painkillers were wearing off and the fire had returned to his side. He tried to hide his discomfort from McVicar, but once, when he almost tripped and grunted in pain, McVicar said, ‘Is this a good idea, Andy?’
‘Probably not.’
They reached Maggie’s cottage, and Gilchrist was pleased to see a light in the dormer window and Patter sitting on the boundary wall. Once again, he worried that he had it wrong. He chucked Patter under the chin, felt the throat vibrate and his own lips tug into a smile. ‘Do you like cats, sir?’
McVicar gave a wry grin. ‘Prefer to have a dog if it came down to it.’
‘Ever had a cat solve a murder case?’
‘Can’t say that I have.’
‘Say hello to Patter.’
McVicar looked at Gilchrist as if he had lost his mind. But Gilchrist ignored him, pressed the doorbell, and kept his finger on it.
From within, a voice complained, ‘All right, all right, hold your bloody horses.’
The door opened with a jerk, and Maggie Hendren stepped onto the threshold.
‘What the bloody hell’s the ... Oh, it’s you.’ Her anger softened into bewilderment as she took in his condition. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.
Gilchrist knew he looked dreadful. The paramedics had covered his stitched wounds with a bandage, which he had not even noticed until McVicar commented on it in the car. He caught Maggie’s shock of recognition as she noted McVicar’s uniform.
‘May we come in?’
‘What for?’
Gilchrist ignored her defiant tone. ‘It’s to do with Sa.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead.’
Maggie’s lips threatened to purse, then broke into a forced smile that showed large teeth. ‘This is a joke. Right? A sick joke.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gilchrist, and watched tears well in her eyes. ‘We’d better come in.’
Maggie gave the slightest of nods.
Gilchrist ushered McVicar ahead, then followed him into a small lounge with a low ceiling. The room lay dark. A table and chairs sat at one end, a sofa and single seat at the other. Three suitcases lined the back wall. Near the corner by the front window a faded rectangle of wallpaper, as tall and narrow as a bamboo bookshelf, overlooked a strip of clean carpet like a spectral shadow of what used to stand there.