Eye for an Eye (26 page)

She backed away from him, almost bumped against the wall.

‘I’m with Fife Constabulary,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been attacked. The man who hit me came out of that building.’ He pointed at Beth’s door, saw a scowling face and a finger tap a temple with the power of hammering a nail.

‘That’d be thon young man then, so it would,’ she said, looking at him with distress.

Gilchrist wiped sweat from his brow, surprised to see his fingers smeared with blood.

‘Which way?’

‘Down by the West Port.’

At school, Gilchrist had been useless as a sprinter. Too gangly and no muscle mass to fight the lactic acid, his gym teacher had told him. But he was a natural distance runner, with long limbs, light frame and a pain threshold way above the norm.

He reached the roundabout in front of the West Port and stopped a man walking his Highland terrier. The man’s face reddened and he backed off. When the terrier started to bark, Gilchrist cursed and ran to the next pedestrian.

Same response. A stunned look that turned to fear, then relief as he moved on. He knew he looked a mess, but he ran on, hands at his ribs where something hotter than a burning poker dug into his side.

For Christ’s sake. Someone must have seen something.

‘That way, mister.’

Gilchrist spun around, grabbed the youth by his arms, saw he was frightening him, and let go. ‘What did you say?’

‘That way.’ The youth’s voice was less enthusiastic. ‘I seen him go that way—’

‘Where?’

‘Down Lade Braes—’

‘Who?’

The youth seemed puzzled. ‘The man you’re chasing, mister.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Young old thin fat what?’

The youth shrugged. ‘Skinny,’ he said. ‘Skinny as a rake. Wi’ long hair, like.’

‘Jeans?’

The youth nodded. ‘And nae jacket.’

Gilchrist sprinted down Bridge Street but had to pull to a halt at the entrance to Lade Braes Lane. Pain as sharp as shards of glass gouged into his ribs and he concentrated on keeping his breathing shallow. He gripped the back of his neck. His hair felt damp and sticky. He looked at his clothes, the first time he had done so since the attack. His shirt hung out, smeared with blood. He pulled at his shirt collar, felt the material stick to his skin. When he looked at his hands they were as bloodied as a slaughterer’s.

He clenched his teeth and eased into a jog.

Every step drove a six-inch nail into his head, twisted the broken bottle deep into his ribs. He groaned for breath. His attacker could have gone anywhere, could have jumped over any of several high walls that bordered the lane, could be running to places unknown.

He passed the end of Louden’s Close, but his sixth sense forced him on, and he jumped down a set of concrete steps that opened up to a steep lane on his right. A short bridge at the foot of the lane crossed the Kinness Burn.

Where now? Left? Right?

His sixth sense took him left.

He stumbled along a muddy track at the edge of the burn, hands pressed to his side, fingers prodding and testing his ribcage for breaks. But his ribs were in the right place and seemed to spring back when he let go. Maybe torn cartilage. That could take months to heal.

The track ended at Kinnessburn Road and he turned left again, but had to stop at the bend.

His lungs burned, his head pounded and his left knee throbbed where the cricket bat had tried to reconfigure his kneecap. He leaned forward, gripped his leg, and through his jeans felt the swelling to the side of his knee. His world spun again, and he had to cling to the metal railing. He eased the weight off his left leg and at that moment heard something scuffle behind him.

Claws gripped his ankles. Heaved up. And over.

He was flying through the air before he understood that his grip had been torn from the railings.

He thumped onto his back.

He lay there, winded, mouthing for air like a landed fish, his senses only peripherally aware of a hard fluttering, raucous quacking, the feathered panic of flapping wings and slapping feet.

He had been lucky. His fall had missed the shallow water with its hard stony bed. Mud from a sodden bank squelched through his fingers as he struggled to fight off the darkness.

Before he slipped into unconsciousness, he was aware only of a white face peering down at him.

CHAPTER 25

I think of the killing place. I think of his home.

I have studied the layout of his drive, the way the hedge overhangs the slabbed path to the front door, how the gate is hidden from the living-room window. I know where he will park his car. And I know where I will hide. He will be surprised when he sees me. But he will trust me as I walk up to him.

I know that from experience. They all do.

That is their fatal mistake. It will be his, too.

Heavy rain is forecast for tonight, worsening to sleet that may turn to snow, unusual for this time of year. Tomorrow it will be December. But tonight Mark Patterson will lose his life.

Tonight Mark Patterson will become number eight.

I have never killed in the snow. I smile.

Perhaps we will have a white Christmas after all.

Gilchrist came to seconds later. He knew it was only seconds because several ducks were still paddling away from him with that neck-forward action, as if undecided whether to fly or swim.

He looked up at the railings. The black bars fluttered like wings. Then steadied. The white face was gone.

He took a long blink, not sure if he felt disappointed or relieved. He tried to sit up. Fire scorched his ribcage. He slumped back, took a few shallow breaths and decided he felt relieved. He pushed to his feet, felt his legs buckle, and sank to his knees. He tried to stop from toppling by throwing both arms forward, but splashed face-first into the shallow waters.

He lay there, head twisted to the side. The water by his face felt refreshing. He swabbed the bloodied gunk from his hair, then thought of all the wildlife fornicating and crapping, and pushed himself upright.

This time, he managed not to fall, and slumped against the stone wall at the opposite side of the burn. The top of the wall lay at shoulder level and he wondered how he would pull himself out. But he reached up, tried a leap, slipped a leg onto the flat and heaved himself up.

He lay there, gasping for air, and realized with stunning clarity that the job was becoming too much for him. That is, if he still had a job. He remembered his phone and cursed for not calling earlier. He rolled onto his back and retrieved his mobile from his jacket. He pressed
CONNECT
, and the light came on. A small miracle. He dialled 999, requested police and ambulance, provided a brief description of what had happened, and gave Beth’s name and address. Then he eased himself to his feet and stumbled along Dempster Terrace.

It never failed to amaze him how quiet the side streets could be, despite the busy town centre no more than a couple of rows of houses distant. Back gardens spilled down the hill to congregate their bushes and shrubs behind low walls like dams that prevented them from pouring into the burn. Windows glittered in the sunlight. He thought he saw movement at an upper window on the house two along, but could not be sure. Maybe someone in one of those houses had seen his attack. But that was a job for others.

By the time he reached Beth’s, two police cars, with blue and yellow Battenberg checks, were parked on the pavement, lights flashing.

Gilchrist pushed toward the front door.

‘Excuse me, sir?’

Gilchrist watched the young constable’s face shift from surprise to concern then on to puzzled recognition as he pushed past him.

Entering the hall, Gilchrist was struck by how filthy he was. The rancid smell of the burn clung to him like sour body odour. He slipped off his shoes and dumped his jacket on the floor. His jeans were caked with mud, his shirt bloodied. But other than strip to the skin, he would have to live with it for the time being.

Beth was seated on the living-room sofa. A woman Gilchrist recognized as PC Jane Browning sat next to her, police jacket and cap off, starched blouse laundered white. Browning glanced at Gilchrist as he stepped into the room. She seemed unfazed by his appearance and the nod she gave him was one of recognition rather than permission to come closer. Then her legs turned in toward Beth, and her fingers twiddled with the patterned quilt that covered Beth’s shivering body.

Beth looked up at him then, her eyes seeking an answer to her unspoken question, and all of a sudden Gilchrist felt out of place, as if he was violating some private moment. He gave a tiny shake of his head, telling her he had failed, then watched in utter helplessness as she buried her face in her hands and her shoulders heaved in short silent sobs. Browning pulled Beth into her and gave Gilchrist a glance that told him she would take it from there.

Defeated, he left the room.

‘Boss.’

Stan emerged from Beth’s bedroom, Sa behind him.

‘Holy shit, boss.’ Something swept across Stan’s face, the beginnings of a joke, perhaps. ‘Want to step outside?’ he offered. ‘It’s less ...’

‘Smelly?’

‘You said it.’

Standing on the pavement, with no jacket or shoes, a shiver gripped Gilchrist’s body.

‘I’d invite you into my car, boss. But under the circumstances ...’ Stan’s gaze roamed over his face. ‘Jesus, boss. He’s made a real mess of you.’

‘He?’

Stan gave a twisted smile. ‘You called it in.’

Gilchrist nodded. He’d forgotten he’d mentioned Beth’s assailant was a man. Maybe the blow to his head was worse than he thought.

‘Let’s have a look,’ said Stan, and probed his fingers at the base of Gilchrist’s skull. ‘I wondered whose hair was on the cricket bat. Now I know.’

Gilchrist gasped, almost pulled away.

‘Sorry, boss. Just pressing.’

‘Well, press lighter, will you?’

‘You’re going to need stitches, I’m afraid. Best guess, ten or so. Quite a gash you’ve got back there.’

Stan came round to the front again, and Gilchrist had the oddest sensation that fingers were still pressing and prodding and fiddling with his wound, as if Stan were in two places at the one time.

Then Sa was facing him, her face pale. ‘She says she wasn’t raped, Andy. She says nothing happened.’ The words were spoken almost as if Sa was disappointed. ‘I don’t believe her. She’s hiding something. Can you give a description of the sick bastard?’

Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I saw his shoes.’

‘His shoes?’

‘Trainers. White.’

‘Is that it?’

Gilchrist nodded, ashamed by his failure to catch the man. ‘Have you asked Beth?’ he tried.

‘As I said, she’s hiding something.’

All of a sudden, Gilchrist felt leaden, as if his limbs had lost their power to support his body. He turned to Stan, but the pavement seemed to shift then tilt up at him. Stan’s hand slapped hard under his armpit. ‘Steady, boss.’

‘Stan ...’

‘Looks like I’m going to have to seat you in my car after all.’

‘I think ...’

‘Sa,’ Stan shouted. ‘Give me a hand.’

Together they manhandled Gilchrist into Stan’s car and strapped him in. Sa threw in Gilchrist’s jacket and shoes and slammed the door as Stan floored the pedal. Gilchrist fought off the almost irresistible urge to close his eyes and go to sleep. But halfway along South Street, he slapped the window.

‘Stop the car.’

‘Steady on, boss, you’ve had a right—’

‘Stop the car, Stan. Stop the car.’

Stan pulled his Ford Mondeo over and ratcheted the handbrake like a learner driver. ‘You going to throw up?’

Gilchrist fumbled for the door lock, but his fingers felt as if they belonged to someone else. He twisted around in his seat and stared behind him. He had caught something, some innocent action or movement, some thing that had flashed like a bolt of lightning deep into his mind. He looked back at the passers-by, struggling to see what had triggered his thoughts. But his mind was leaden now, conscious only of Stan’s hand on his shoulder, tugging, his peripheral vision tunnelling, darkness swelling. He heard humming in his ears, like a whistling wind.

Then Stan’s voice came back to him.

‘... to the hospital, boss.’

‘The man,’ said Gilchrist. ‘The old man.’

‘What old man?’

Stan was spinning before him, whirling out of focus, like one of Chloe’s paintings. ‘Beth,’ he tried.

‘Beth’s okay, boss. She’s had a fright.’

Gilchrist hung his head. Images of Beth swamped him, her eyes beseeching in silence. He had failed again. Failing seemed to be what he was best at. He had failed Gail. He had failed Jack. He had failed Maureen. It seemed as if he’d gone through life failing those who depended on him until it culminated in the Stabber investigation and his failure to bring that case to closure. Patterson was doing his damnedest to kick him out because he had failed him, too. He had failed his team, failed the men and women who worked with him on the case, failed the townspeople of St Andrews who looked to him to bring an end to the reign of terror.