‘Would it have made a difference?’
Gilchrist chose not to answer and sat on a beige leather sofa that felt creased and soft. On a polished side table stood four framed photographs of an aged corgi. On a wooden bookshelf, another two. But no family photographs, or any evidence that Mrs Granton had shared the house with a man.
‘So you must know Sam MacMillan as well,’ he said to Sa.
Sa shook her head. ‘His name cropped up but I had no idea he and Bill were so – how do I say it? – close.’
Gilchrist glanced toward the kitchen. ‘Did Mrs Granton know about her husband’s relationship with MacMillan?’
‘If she did, she chose to live with it. She’s a devout Catholic. Divorce was not an option.’
‘Children?’
‘Only the one. Alex.’
Alex. Alex Granton. Gilchrist ran the name through his mind, but could not pull up why it sounded familiar. It would come to him.
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Glasgow. Last I heard he was a nurse in the Royal Infirmary. Never married.’
Mrs Granton reappeared carrying a large silver tray laden with a pot and cups and two side plates heaped high.
‘Some home-made shortbread,’ she announced.
Silent, Gilchrist watched her fuss around them, filling three bone-china cups with the weakest of tea and asking whether they liked milk or sugar, and would cubes be all right, and how many. It seemed surreal to think that her husband’s corpse now lay in the Police Mortuary in Dundee.
When everyone was served, Mrs Granton sat in a floral-patterned chair by the fireplace, patted down her pleated skirt and took a delicate sip.
‘Okay, dear,’ she said to him. ‘Why are you here?’
Gilchrist hesitated at her odd behaviour, then said, ‘Firstly, on behalf of Fife Constabulary, I would like to offer our deepest sympathy over the tragic death of your husband ...’
‘Another, dear?’
‘Pardon?’
Mrs Granton nodded at his side plate. ‘Would you like another finger of shortbread?’
‘No thank you, Mrs Granton, I’m—’
‘Call me Liz,’ she said. ‘Please. Everybody knows me as Liz. Liz Cockburn.’
‘Cockburn?’ he repeated.
‘That was my name before I met William.’
The name niggled somewhere in the depths of Gilchrist’s mind. ‘And you were married for how long?’
‘Forty years next March. The eighteenth.’
‘Forgive me. But why would everybody know you as Liz Cockburn?’
‘Because that’s my name.’
‘Yes, but why not Granton?’
‘I’ve never liked Granton. I much prefer Cockburn. It sounds so much more Scottish, don’t you think? Another piece of shortbread, dear? It’s my own recipe.’
‘No, thank you, Mrs, eh, Liz, I’m all shortbreaded out.’
She smiled. ‘I can tell Sa was right about you. She said you were a nice man. There’s not a lot of you around.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Nice men,’ she said. ‘You’re few and far between.’ Her eyes misted over, then she blinked and said, ‘More tea, dear?’
‘No, really, Mrs—’
‘Liz.’
‘Right. Liz. No. Thank you.’ He glanced at Sa. He could have been a mouse between two cats. He forced himself to focus and said, ‘I was told you declined to identify your husband’s body.’
‘Alex can do that.’
‘Your son?’
‘I called him this morning as soon as I heard. He said he’d be very pleased to identify the body, and that it wasn’t before time.’
‘Are you saying Alex was pleased to hear ...’
‘Not pleased, dear. Delighted.’
‘Oh.’ Gilchrist sat back.
‘He didn’t like him.’
‘Did he have good reason?’
Mrs Granton glanced at Sa, and Gilchrist had a sense of Sa having given her permission to speak out. ‘He knew William hit me.’
‘He
hit
you?’
She tilted her head back in an act of silent defiance. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He hit me. Many times.’
Gilchrist leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask. How, exactly, did he hit you?’
‘Usually with his fist. Never in the face. William was clever that way. Sometimes he would whip me across my back with his belt.’
Gilchrist struggled to keep his voice level. ‘How long had that been going on?’ he asked.
‘Since before we were married.’
Gilchrist clawed a hand through his hair. He wanted to ask why she had married someone who beat her, but instead said, ‘Were you ever injured?’
‘Often. William once cracked six of my ribs. I was in bed for over two months.’
‘What did you tell the doctor?’
‘That I fell down the stairs.’
‘And he believed you?’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
Something swept through Gilchrist then. A sense of the futility of it all. ‘And the belt whippings?’ he pressed on.
‘I never went to the hospital unless anything was broken. He fractured my arm once.’
‘And you reported none of this to the police?’
‘No.’
‘What about Alex? Did he do anything?’
‘He threatened to report William to the authorities.’
‘And did he?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I asked him not to. William said he would throw me out of my home and leave me penniless if I reported him.’
‘But surely you—’
‘It was my choice, Inspector. For better or for worse. Those were the vows I took. The worse was the beatings. But the better was full of kindness. William could be the most charming man at times.’ She smiled, and the years seemed to fall away from her. ‘Most charming. And that’s the way I would like to remember him.’
Something in her tone told Gilchrist the meeting was over. He stood. Sa did likewise.
‘No need to get up,’ he said to Mrs Granton. ‘We’ll let ourselves out.’
But the old woman struggled to her feet with a dazed smile that had Gilchrist thinking she was not all there and that forty years of beatings had finally taken their toll.
‘I may come back later for a statement,’ he said to her.
‘Oh, that would be nice, dear. Do let me know when, and I’ll have some fresh shortbread ready.’
‘Right. Okay. Sa?’
‘And there’s no need to climb over the wall,’ Mrs Granton added. ‘The front door’s always unlocked.’
Outside, the wind felt light and fresh and free of the sense of gloom that cloyed the Grantons’ cottage. Gilchrist chose not to speak until they turned onto South Street.
‘Tell me, Sa. How can we help the public if they’re not willing to help themselves?’ He shook his head. ‘Abused for all these years by some, some ...’
He sniffed something in the air. Cigar smoke. A tourist in a Stars and Stripes tracksuit and running shoes stood at the edge of the pavement, newspaper stuffed under his arm, fat cigar tucked into the corner of his mouth.
Gilchrist fought off the urge to nip into a shop and buy a packet of fags. Just twenty. That’s all. He would make them last, take one a day for the next three weeks. The tourist stepped off the pavement. Gilchrist inhaled, then opened his eyes, surprised to find he had closed them. Was this what his life had come to? Sniffing passive smoke like some tramp trawling bins for food? He had never believed he suffered from nicotine addiction, but at that moment the strength of its grip shocked him. Was physical abuse an addiction, too? Did wife-beaters have an addictive need to bully their victims? If so, Gilchrist despaired at the depth of their turmoil. He started to walk.
‘Didn’t you know she was a victim of abuse?’ he asked.
‘Not until recently.’
‘How recently?’
‘Only a few months—’
‘I find that hard to believe—’
‘What are you trying to tell me, Andy?’ Anger blazed in Sa’s eyes. ‘That it’s all my fault? That I should have found out sooner? You heard her. Bill was a sneaky bastard. He hit where it wouldn’t show. How the hell am I supposed to know, when she wouldn’t even let her own son report it? As far as I’m concerned, that bastard got what was coming.’
Gilchrist said nothing.
‘Did it ever cross your mind that the Stabber might be the best thing that ever happened to this piss-pot of a town?’ she went on. ‘Maybe we should just let him run wild and kill all the abusers in the country. That way we’d be rid of the lot of them.’
‘You know that’s not the way.’
She flinched.
‘Look, Sa—’
‘Fuck off, Andy.’
CHAPTER 7
He returned before midday and spied on her shop from behind a car on the opposite side of the street. Annoyance flitted over him like flies on his skin. He scratched the inside of his left arm and drew blood from an old scab. An elderly couple stepped into the entrance alcove, and he held his breath as they took hold of the handle and pushed inside.
The bitch. She had cleaned it up. The thought of her fingers touching his sperm stirred something deep inside him and he felt an overpowering need to see how upset she was. He had changed his clothes and now wore an old white sweatshirt, curry-stained on the left sleeve, and black jeans that hung loose around his waist, and felt sure she would not recognize him.
Her shop was an upmarket novelty store. Two Laurel and Hardy face masks centred the window. Mobile phones designed as Ferrari sports cars, bars of soap, multi-coloured chameleons, reflected off stainless-steel shelves. A CD rack that looked like some skeletal saxophone hugged the corner.
Through the glass he saw her talking to a customer. She smiled an easy smile and tucked loose strands of blond hair behind her ears. He gripped the handle.
Inside, the shop smelled of pot-pourri and was crammed from floor to ceiling with photo frames, posters, face masks. Wooden puppets with glossy painted faces lay lifeless on flat surfaces, or hung limp from hooks in the ceiling. Shelves glittered with ornaments, stainless-steel pieces shaped into objects that looked like bookends, bottle openers, key rings. All of it priced way up there. Jazz segued over the ambient buzz of voices.
He stood with his back to the counter and studied the shelves. Not much took his fancy, except perhaps the painted motorbike carved from wood, with wheels that spun, handlebars that turned and a minuscule Harley-Davidson logo on the—
‘Can I help you?’
Sebbie’s breath locked in his throat as he stared into grey eyes that levelled with his own. Her height surprised him. For a moment, he thought she recognized him, then teeth as white as sun-dried bone appeared from beneath moist lips.
‘It’s handmade,’ she said. ‘I have three others. Would you like to see?’
He nodded.
She reached for one of the upper shelves. Long fingers clasped another model, larger than the one he held.
‘Here.’ She handed the model to him and stretched up for another. A sliver of white skin flashed at her waistline. He caught the pale swell of her tummy, the finest of blond hairs at her navel, and lower, a glimpse of black at her panty line. He felt his mouth dry up. Black panties. He never imagined she would wear black, had thought she would wear knickers as white and clean as the image she portrayed.
But now he knew. Black. The bitch. The dirty bitch.
‘Here.’ She held out another model. ‘This range is one of our best sellers,’ she said. ‘They’re popular with collectors. One told me he had upwards of fifty. And going up in price every year.’ His fingers looked rough and unclean beside hers. He read the hand-printed price tag.
Seventy pounds?
‘Do you collect?’
‘Uh, no, I, uh, was just looking.’
‘Your arm’s bleeding.’
He frowned at the bloodstain on his sleeve, then looked into her grey eyes. But it was the top of her black panties he saw. He smiled, almost laughed, then turned to the shelves again. ‘How about that one?’
She seemed to hesitate for an instant, stiffened then faced him. Her eyebrows flickered.
‘Excuse me.’ She drew away. ‘I have to ...’
She returned behind the counter.
Silent, he watched her, intrigued by the hesitant tug of her lips, as if she was holding back a smile. What would he give for that bitch Alice to see him walk into a restaurant with her on his arm? He thought he saw her whisper from the corner of her mouth. As he turned to replace the model, he brushed against a CD rack, which toppled onto a shelf with a hard crack.
‘Fuck.’
The word was out before he knew it. A couple shifted away. From behind he felt the bitch’s eyes crawl over him.
‘Sir?’ A fresh-faced girl with green eyes that stung appeared by his side. ‘Would you like to buy something?’
‘I, uh. No.’
‘In that case, I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
At the counter, the bitch stood with her back to him, her hand on the phone.
‘Now, sir. Please leave.’
He spun round to face her.