She crossed onto Abbey Street and walked downhill. It felt good to get away. The shop had been her mother’s dream. Not Beth’s. At the age of twenty-three Beth’s future lay in interior design and she had applied to Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Before her letter of acceptance came through, her father had died of a massive heart attack at the breakfast table. Unwilling to leave her mother alone, Beth delayed the start of her career for a year.
A small insurance payout provided the cash for her mother to buy the shop. But six months after opening, her mother had complained of blinding headaches and a puzzling inability to control the movement of her fingers. Within four weeks she was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumour. The speed with which the cancer overpowered her was frightening, and three months later Beth buried her mother beside her father in a small cemetery on the outskirts of town.
By then, she had found to her surprise that she liked the shop. A change in products from miscellaneous domestic knick-knacks to exclusive accessories aimed at the wealthy American tourist market resulted in a feature in the local newspaper. It helped, too, that she was dating the editor – an ambitious, self-centred individual. And it now seemed incredible how close she had come to marrying him.
She turned left onto The Shore, the road that led toward the harbour, and five minutes later felt the sea breeze on her face. The Kinness Burn ran by her side. With the tide out, it looked nothing more than sodden mud and a trickle black as oil. A family of swans nestled in the grassy bank on the far side, beaks tucked under their wings, as if sheltering from the wind.
Beth removed her mobile from her pocket, unsure for a moment if she should make the call, then on impulse punched it in. A man’s voice invited her to leave a message and number. That was it. No confirmation that by doing so he would call back.
‘Hi,’ she said, and tried to keep her voice lively. ‘I’m calling to remind you about tonight. The West Port Café. Eight o’clock. See you then.’
She slapped the silver casing shut and walked on, her thoughts filled with the imminent meeting. But in The Pends a memory came back to her of grimy nails and clotted hair and eyes as black as pools of ink. And it struck her then that she had seen the young man before.
After walking the length of Gregory Lane several times, Gilchrist’s sixth sense was compelling him toward the end of the lane, close to where the ‘witch’ lived.
He had often wondered if the Stabber might be a woman, but had been ridiculed by Patterson when he raised that possibility after the third victim, Henry McIntyre,
a vile excuse for a man
, according to a neighbour, had been found behind Blackfriar’s Chapel with his head staked to the ground, clutching his wallet as if he had been about to pass over money.
Why else would he have opened his wallet?
Gilchrist had argued.
He checked the brass nameplate: A. Garvie. Alexis Garvie? Lex? He eyed the upper level. No movement. He rapped the brass knocker. It echoed like a hammer-blow.
The door swung open to reveal a blond-haired woman in a grey sweatshirt and black Lycra. Barefoot, tanned, as if she had spent a few weeks on the Costa del Sol. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. Sweat stained her chest.
He had seen her before, he was sure. ‘Ms Garvie?’
‘If you’re selling anything, I’m not interested.’
He noted the English accent. Yorkshire, as best he could tell. He tried a smile as he held out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Gilchrist. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
Her eyes widened as if in expectation of being charged and handcuffed and marched to the nearest cell.
‘Is it to do with this Stabber thing?’
He nodded. ‘May I come in?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘It won’t take long.’
She turned away, leaving the door wide open, and it took him a moment to realize he was expected to follow.
The house smelled of soot and furniture polish. Bright rugs covered the backs of the sofa and chairs like oversized antimacassars. More hung on the walls, unframed canvases of reds, greens, yellows, blues.
In the kitchen a television sat on the countertop, its volume muted. A reporter mouthed to him from St Andrews harbour then slipped from view as the camera panned the length of the pier.
‘Tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Do you mind if I have a cup?’
‘Of course not.’
She filled a kettle. The water drilled into it, as if to emphasize her displeasure at his presence. The kitchen window was ajar and looked onto a tiny garden area that ended at a stone wall. A black-and-white cat sat on the window sill, as if deciding whether to enter or stay outside.
‘What’s his name?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘The cat.’
‘Pitter.’
‘Peter?’
‘No.
Pitter
.’
Sun burst onto the back garden, and Pitter’s eyes closed.
‘That’s an unusual name.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘You didn’t name him, then?’
‘He’s a she, and I inherited her from a friend.’
‘You live alone?’
‘Is this it?’
‘Is this what?’
‘The interrogation.’
He gave her a small smile. ‘You could say.’
‘Well, in that case, yes, I live alone. I’m not married. Never have. Never will. Don’t have any children. And don’t want any, God forbid. Just a cat. That’s enough trouble, thank you very much. You’ve already been introduced to her. I’ve lived here for two years. Moved up from London. And before that, Tadcaster, Yorkshire. Don’t have a mortgage and design websites for a living. Don’t charge much, so it’s not much of a living. But I’m happy.’ She pulled open the fridge door and a waft of cool air brushed his legs. He moved to the side. ‘Except, this bloody kitchen’s too small.’ She pressed a can of apricots under an electric can opener. ‘Anything else you’d like to know?’
He watched her shove a teaspoonful of bright orange fruit into her mouth. ‘Were you at home last night?’ he asked.
She nodded. Another spoon-load.
‘Alone?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Juice dribbled from her lips and she turned to the sink, grabbed a paper towel and dabbed her chin. She loaded up the spoon again, held it out to him. ‘Want to try some? They’re delicious.’
‘No thanks.’
Something tinkled and he turned as Pitter padded onto a folded tea-towel by the edge of the steel sink and sat down.
‘She sees the tin. Thinks she’s going to be fed.’
Gilchrist smiled. ‘Friendly?’
‘Very.’
He reached out and stroked the top of Pitter’s head, worked his fingers down and under her chin. He felt her throat vibrate with delight.
‘Keep that up and you’ll have a friend for life.’
He scratched some more. ‘Why Pitter?’
‘Pitter patter. She was one of two.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘A friend has the other one.’
‘The friend who gave you Pitter?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She opened the cupboard door under the sink and dropped the emptied can of apricots into a plastic bag. Then she dabbed her lips with the paper towel and dropped that into the plastic bag, too.
‘Boyfriend?’
‘You’re joking.’
Garvie’s blond hair, short at the back and sides, was spiky on the top. Perspiration darkened it at the neck and ears.
‘You keep yourself fit.’
She nodded. ‘I was exercising when you knocked.’
‘Exercise a lot, do you?’
‘Try to. No more than a couple of hours a day, though.’
‘That’s a couple of hours more than most people.’
‘Still not enough.’
‘And at night?’ he said. ‘Do any exercises then?’
‘Rarely.’
‘How about last night?’
She shook her head and reached for a teapot. ‘Sure I can’t talk you into a cuppa?’
‘Positive.’ He eyed the coloured rugs in the lounge. ‘Travel a lot?’
‘Used to. In my last job.’
‘Which was?’
‘Chartered accountant.’ She smiled. ‘God, I hated it.’
‘Doesn’t it pay well?’
‘Money’s not everything. But it paid for this place.’
‘Why give it up?’
She shrugged. One hand held a mug, World’s Greatest Lover printed on the side. The other, a ceramic teapot. ‘I couldn’t stand the sexual innuendo,’ she said, and tipped the teapot. A stream of golden brown tea steamed into the mug. ‘It’s different for a man. Men get laid. Women get fucked. But what do I care?’ she added. ‘I’m gay.’
He was not altogether surprised by her bluntness. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Patter must stay with your partner?’
‘I’d heard you were good.’
‘That’s an odd thing to say.’
‘St Andrews is a small town, Inspector. And you’re the small-town hero.’
‘We all have our crosses to bear.’
‘And your reputation precedes you.’
‘In what way?’
‘You always get your man.’
Or woman, he thought.
‘Besides, I’ve seen you about.’
‘In the pub, no doubt.’
‘And on the telly.’ The sinews of her neck stood out like rods of flesh as she turned to the window.
The strength of her physical attraction unsettled him.
‘No one likes us,’ she said. ‘Gays, that is. No one likes to have us living next door.’
MacMillan’s words came back to him.
I dinnae think I could stand the looks.
‘Ever been called a witch?’ he asked.
She laughed without humour. ‘You must have been talking to young Ian next door.’
‘Why would he call you a witch?’
‘It’s not Ian. He’s a nice lad. But some of his pals tried to pick me up in the pub about three months ago. It started out as a bit of fun, then got out of hand. The bar staff had to call the police. Surprised you don’t know about it.’
‘I don’t know everything that goes on.’
‘That’s not what I heard.’
Gilchrist ignored the compliment. ‘So what did you do last night?’
‘Stayed in. Ate a carryout Chinkie. Drank a few glasses of wine. Watched
Runaway Bride
for the nth time. Then crashed out at half-ten.’
‘That’s early.’
‘I need my beauty sleep.’
‘Did you hear anything? See anything?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m on medication. I don’t sleep well. Popped a couple of pills last night, and that was that. Out like a light. On top of the wine, I wouldn’t have heard a bomb go off in the kitchen.’
‘I see. So you wouldn’t have been out in the back garden last night after midnight?’
‘No, of course not. Why?’
‘Does anyone else have a key to your house?’
She shook her head.
Gilchrist moved to the back door by the side of the sink and asked, ‘Mind if I look outside?’
‘If you don’t mind long grass. It’s not been cut since the summer. Gardening’s not my forte. As you will soon see.’
Gilchrist twisted the key, felt the old-fashioned lock turn over. He opened the door.
The grass lay flattened by rain. A worn trail from the window to the corner of the wall defined Pitter’s route. A few slabs formed a pathway to a concrete coal bunker. Overhead, a lone seagull wheeled, and he followed its flight toward the sea. He heard the rush of waves over rocks.
Or maybe it was just the wind.
He looked up at the roof. He could not see Ian’s bedroom window, and took three steps back before he caught the tip of a dormer.
‘I see you still have a coal fire,’ he said.
‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’
‘Do you light it often?’
‘Not in the summer. In winter I have it on every night.’
‘Did you have it on last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it still burning when you went to bed?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Just asking.’
‘I have a fireguard,’ she protested. ‘The fire was low.’
He lifted the bunker lid and peered inside. It was half-full of coal. ‘What do you burn?’
‘Coal. What else?’
The bite in her voice surprised him. ‘Logs,’ he offered.
She said nothing as he leaned over the edge of the bunker, then straightened. He closed the lid.
‘You don’t burn logs then?’
‘No.’
He brushed past her, through to the lounge. ‘You burn any wood at all?’ he asked, and kneeled in front of the fireplace. The hearth was clean, the grate filled with ashes. He removed a pen from his pocket and poked at the ash.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Nothing in particular.’
‘I’m not sure I like what you’re doing.’
‘Want me to stop?’
She stood by his shoulder for several seconds before saying, ‘Yes. I think so. I think I’d like you to stop.’