a time. Outside, he felt strangely elated. North Street was still closed. Overhead, a flock of seagulls wheeled from sight, leaving the echo of their harsh cries on the breeze. To his right, four women huddled in a concerned cluster, whispering.
He crossed the street and stood with his back against a wall, waiting for Sa to appear. Ten minutes later she stepped from a door into the brightening sunlight, PC Norris behind her.
‘Any luck?’ he said to her.
She shook her head. ‘Everyone we’ve interviewed saw nothing and heard nothing. Maybe the others are having better luck. We’ll find out at debriefing.’
‘I won’t be there. I’m off the case.’
‘Patterson fired you?’
‘Suspended.’ He walked away, fingers by his ear in a make-believe telephone receiver. ‘Call me later on my mobile. Oh, and some guy by the name of DeFiore is coming up from Edinburgh. He’s with the Scottish Crime Squad.’
‘What?’
‘Your new boss.’
CHAPTER 8
The leather whistles through the air and smacks my mother’s buttocks. I flinch at the strike and start to cry. My father twists the belt with a deftness that is startling, and hits her with the buckle end. I think he will stop when he sees she is bleeding, but the sight of blood seems to drive him on. He shifts his stance and whips the buckle hard across her face. Her left eyeball bursts, weeps black and red.
I scream. Timmy’s hand crushes my mouth, pressing so hard I think he is going to burst my lips.
My father turns his head. Eyes as dark as the Devil’s look into mine. He stumbles over my mother’s body and lunges toward us.
Timmy whimpers, drops his hand from my mouth. I pull at him but he stands there, his skinny body shaking. Something warms the soles of my stockinged feet, and I realize he has wet himself. I try to make him move, shout at him, but it’s as if he is glued to the spot.
I push the window open, wriggle onto the concrete sill. Timmy cries out. I leap.
I never see my father again. Five days later, his body is recovered from the water’s edge. Nor Timmy either. His head was crushed by a blow to the back of his skull.
Gilchrist fought off the urge to walk to Lafferty’s and spend the rest of the day drowning his sorrows. Instead, he walked back to The Pends and stood in the shelter of the crumbling archway. He eyed the grey stone wall and iron railings that bounded the grounds and cemetery of the ruined Cathedral and tried to imagine what MacMillan might have seen as he followed the Stabber into North Street.
He visualized flickering skies, rain thrashing the road, a body hunched against the wicked night, anorak hood tugged tight. He followed the ghost in his mind and reached the corner of North Street.
He stopped, checked his watch. Twenty-nine seconds.
He looked along North Street. The huddles of worried neighbours had dispersed. Two uniformed officers were walking toward the Police Station. His gaze danced along the row of terraced houses on the north side of the road and he wondered why he always looked that way. Why not to the other side? He studied the old stone façades, tried to imagine what MacMillan had been too late to see, and came to realize that thirty seconds was just not sufficient time for someone to disappear from view so completely.
Had MacMillan’s eyes failed him? Had he been blinded by the rain? If not, where could the Stabber have gone?
Gilchrist felt his gaze pulling back to The Pends. From where he stood, he could see the left of the arched entrance. But from the other side of the road, that support pillar would be hidden. Which would mean the converse was true – that someone taking shelter behind that pillar would not be able to see that side of the street.
Gilchrist’s mind crackled with possibilities. What if the Stabber had not turned into North Street, but slipped across the road, as he was doing now, then into the lane that paralleled the Abbey wall and continued toward the hill
He crossed the street and stood with his back against a wall, waiting for Sa to appear. Ten minutes later she stepped from a door into the brightening sunlight, PC Norris behind her.
‘Any luck?’ he said to her.
She shook her head. ‘Everyone we’ve interviewed saw nothing and heard nothing. Maybe the others are having better luck. We’ll find out at debriefing.’
‘I won’t be there. I’m off the case.’
‘Patterson fired you?’
‘Suspended.’ He walked away, fingers by his ear in a make-believe telephone receiver. ‘Call me later on my mobile. Oh, and some guy by the name of DeFiore is coming up from Edinburgh. He’s with the Scottish Crime Squad.’
‘What?’
‘Your new boss.’
CHAPTER 8
The leather whistles through the air and smacks my mother’s buttocks. I flinch at the strike and start to cry. My father twists the belt with a deftness that is startling, and hits her with the buckle end. I think he will stop when he sees she is bleeding, but the sight of blood seems to drive him on. He shifts his stance and whips the buckle hard across her face. Her left eyeball bursts, weeps black and red.
I scream. Timmy’s hand crushes my mouth, pressing so hard I think he is going to burst my lips.
My father turns his head. Eyes as dark as the Devil’s look into mine. He stumbles over my mother’s body and lunges toward us.
Timmy whimpers, drops his hand from my mouth. I pull at him but he stands there, his skinny body shaking. Something warms the soles of my stockinged feet, and I realize he has wet himself. I try to make him move, shout at him, but it’s as if he is glued to the spot.
I push the window open, wriggle onto the concrete sill. Timmy cries out. I leap.
I never see my father again. Five days later, his body is recovered from the water’s edge. Nor Timmy either. His head was crushed by a blow to the back of his skull.
Gilchrist fought off the urge to walk to Lafferty’s and spend the rest of the day drowning his sorrows. Instead, he walked back to The Pends and stood in the shelter of the crumbling archway. He eyed the grey stone wall and iron railings that bounded the grounds and cemetery of the ruined Cathedral and tried to imagine what MacMillan might have seen as he followed the Stabber into North Street.
He visualized flickering skies, rain thrashing the road, a body hunched against the wicked night, anorak hood tugged tight. He followed the ghost in his mind and reached the corner of North Street.
He stopped, checked his watch. Twenty-nine seconds.
He looked along North Street. The huddles of worried neighbours had dispersed. Two uniformed officers were walking toward the Police Station. His gaze danced along the row of terraced houses on the north side of the road and he wondered why he always looked that way. Why not to the other side? He studied the old stone façades, tried to imagine what MacMillan had been too late to see, and came to realize that thirty seconds was just not sufficient time for someone to disappear from view so completely.
Had MacMillan’s eyes failed him? Had he been blinded by the rain? If not, where could the Stabber have gone?
Gilchrist felt his gaze pulling back to The Pends. From where he stood, he could see the left of the arched entrance. But from the other side of the road, that support pillar would be hidden. Which would mean the converse was true – that someone taking shelter behind that pillar would not be able to see that side of the street.
Gilchrist’s mind crackled with possibilities. What if the Stabber had not turned into North Street, but slipped across the road, as he was doing now, then into the lane that paralleled the Abbey wall and continued toward the hill
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