Eye for an Eye (21 page)

‘Gone tattie bye-byes. Doesn’t live here any more.’

‘Moved, has he?’

‘You could say.’

Nance’s smile thinned. ‘Where’s he moved to?’

‘How would I know?’

‘We need to talk to him.’

‘Well, when you find him, tell him he owes Robbie for the mess in here.’

‘Robbie?’

‘The punter who owns this dump.’

‘What’s Robbie’s surname?’

‘His what?’

‘His last name.’

Kev sniffed. ‘McRoberts.’

‘Robbie McRoberts?’

‘That’s him.’

‘So, this Robbie McRoberts, he’s the landlord, is he?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘So who are you?’

‘Assistant landlord.’

‘And your name?’

‘Am I being interrogated, or what?’

‘Not yet,’ said Nance, and let her smile go. ‘Name?’

‘Kev.’

‘Short for Kevin, is it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Kevin what?’

‘It’s Kev.’

Nance waited.

‘Morris,’ said Kev.

Nance glanced to her side. ‘Like blood from a stone, Stan.’ She gave a sliver of a smile, and said, ‘That wasn’t too hard now, was it, Mr Morris?’

Silence.

‘You live here, do you?’

Kev’s face shifted with indecision. ‘Yes and no.’

‘Which is it? Yes? Or no?’

‘No.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘Clearing up the mess.’

Nance pushed past Kev’s stubby bulk and into the hallway.

‘Oh, that’s great, that is,’ complained Kev. ‘Why don’t you come in and make yourself at home?’

‘Thanks,’ said Stan, and followed Nance inside.

Bare floorboards stretched the length of the short hall and spread into the kitchen and living room. Two doors either side were closed, suggesting cupboards. The place smelled of stale food and sweat, the air thick with dust.

‘Quite a mess.’

‘You should’ve seen it before we kicked him out.’

Nance pushed through to the kitchen.

Black plastic bags lay stacked against the wall in one corner. Cracked linoleum had been ripped up to expose boards blackened with rot. A sledgehammer stood on its head by the sink. Nance lifted it up and turned to Kev. ‘Kicked out, you said?’

‘That’s right. Evicted.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cause we couldn’t kick him out in the morning.’

‘Fancy yourself as a comedian, do you?’ Nance shifted her stance as if preparing to thud the sledgehammer onto the sink.

Kev stared at her.

‘Just answer the question.’

‘What one?’

Nance sighed. ‘We’ve got a right comic here, Stan. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘Regular laugh a minute,’ Stan replied. ‘Should be on the telly.’

‘Do stand-up, do you?’ Nance sniffed. ‘Something stinks in here. And it isn’t the floor, Kev.’

Kev eyed the sledgehammer.

‘I’ll ask the question again,’ offered Nance. ‘Why was Mr Hamilton evicted?’

‘’Cause he wasn’t paying his rent.’

‘That sounds like a fair comment. Evicted because he wasn’t paying his rent. Don’t you think that’s a fair comment, Stan?’

‘Very fair.’

‘How many months behind was he?’ Nance continued.

‘Dunno.’

‘And here was me believing you really are the assistant landlord.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t know everything.’

‘Do you know anything?’ Nance shifted her grip on the sledgehammer. ‘Is this the same sledgehammer that knocked the hole in the back door?’ she asked.

Kev scratched his head with his little finger.

‘I take it that’s a yes.’

Kev shuffled his feet.

‘Where can I get hold of this Robbie McRoberts?’

Kev shrugged.

Nance stepped closer. ‘We can do this the easy way,’ she said, ‘or we can take you down to the Station and do it my way.’

‘Got his mobile number. That do?’

‘Only if we get through.’ Nance placed the sledgehammer on the floor then picked up the kitchen phone. The receiver had not been cleaned for years, she guessed, but she had seen worse.

‘That costs money that does.’

‘Keep the comedy routine for the stage,’ she said, ‘and give me the number.’

After ten rings, she hung up.

‘Mr McRoberts wasn’t available,’ she said to Kev.

‘He’s a busy man is our Robbie.’

‘Owns a lot of property, does he?’

‘He’s got a few bob.’

‘Enough to get you bail?’

Kev’s gaze darted to Stan, then back to Nance.

‘You’re booked,’ said Nance.

‘You can’t do that. I’ve done nothing—’

‘Breaking and entering,’ she snapped. ‘Loitering with intent. Vandalism.’ She glanced around the kitchen. ‘Loot anything, did you?’

‘Now wait a fucking—’

‘Public nuisance, too, Stan. Got that?’

‘Nuisance? I’m not annoying anyone.’

‘You’re annoying me,’ she said. ‘Oh, and violation of the Landlords Act.’ She was making it up, but she couldn’t care less. ‘Like me to think of anything else while we’re at it?’

‘I’m not the landlord,’ cried Kev. ‘Robbie is.’

‘Well, you’d better get Robbie’s arse over here pronto,’ she said, handing Kev the phone. ‘Right now.’

Garvie’s kitchen window lay straight ahead, the lounge window to the side, its polished glass reflecting the crescent of a cold moon. Garvie had not drawn the curtains and from the glow of a night light by the television, he could see through into the dining room and beyond to the heavy velvet curtains that offered privacy from the lane.

He slipped his hand inside his leather jacket and removed his pencil-torch. Its thin beam danced by his feet where the grass lay flattened. He moved toward the kitchen door, his steps long and light in an effort to minimize his trail.

The window by the door had no strips of metal tape or electric wire stapled to it, making him conclude that Garvie had no alarm system installed on her property. A glance at the catch confirmed the window was locked. He shone the beam at the coal bunker then pointed behind it, into a six-inch gap wide enough for a cat to hide, illuminating yellowed pages of a sodden newspaper, a blue bottle cap, a plastic yogurt carton.

On the off-chance Garvie had forgotten to lock her door, Gilchrist gripped the weather-worn metal handle and gave a firm twist.

The mechanism squeaked until metal bit metal.

Locked.

He faced the garden area, his sixth sense telling him he was not alone. He scanned the open space, let the torch beam settle on a narrow strip of flattened grass, Pitter’s feline pathway to the rest of the world. In the corner, two beads of light stared back at him, steady as twin moons. He could just make out Pitter, hunched on top of the wall.

Gilchrist swept his beam around and found another trail that led to the far edge of the lounge window. Someone had walked to the window within the last day or so. Garvie had said,
Gardening’s not my forte
, but the fresh trail confirmed that she, or someone else, had at least been outside.

Doing what? Cleaning windows?

A quick glance confirmed the windows could be cleaned from indoors by flipping the frame up and over a central swivel pin. So, why come out to her garden?

Then he saw it. At first, he thought it was a shadow on the building’s stonework. From another angle, he realized it was a ventilation grille, close to the ground, with one of the stone blocks that formed the opening not flush with the others.

He crept along the side of the house until he reached the grille and kneeled on the grass. Damp soaked through his jeans. The grille was constructed of precast concrete, no more than two bricks in size, with square holes for ventilation. Chicken-mesh was fixed over the face to keep out small rodents. But the mesh was loose, and bent up at one corner. Pencil-torch gripped between his teeth, he squeezed a hand under the mesh, gripped the grille, and pulled.

It slid from its slot.

He placed it on the ground and shone the beam into the hole. The light danced over grey joists that resembled the ribbing of a ship. The dirt area at ground level looked dry and tidy and flat as a beach. But why was the grille loose?

He shoved an arm through the opening and patted the earth. Nothing.

He tried scanning his pencil-torch in a wide arc that took in the underfloor void from one side of the house to the other. Again, nothing.

The space was dry and clear.

He was missing something. He was sure of that.

Why was the grille loose? And why had Garvie come over this way? He touched the opening and noticed a stain on one of the stones that formed the joint between the grille and the structural stonework. He scraped it with a fingernail. A crusted piece cracked free. Dried blood? Dirt? He put his finger to his nose. Nothing. He rubbed his fingers, watched whatever it was crumble to dust and realized that was all it was. Dirt. Not blood. But dirt from where? From the soil under the floor? From the garden area? Wherever the dirt had originated, it had to have found its way onto the exposed joint by someone putting it there.

He thrust his hand through the opening again and felt the bottom of the wall beneath the grille, that area of underfloor void his pencil-light could not reach and he could not see.

This time, he dug.

His fingers scratched the dirt, cold from its proximity to the outside wall. He scraped to the left, then back to the right. Tried closer to the wall. Then stopped.

He felt something.

He scrabbled at the earth, his fingers fumbling, found it, touched it. Something thin. Pointed. He clasped it.

Then dropped it.

He fumbled again, caught it, and pulled it out.

A nail. About two inches in length. Orange with rust.

He held it between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed its discoloured surface. He shone his light on it. The nail glinted with a metallic sheen where his fingers had—

Something moved.

From behind.

He spun around, breath locked in his throat.

The sudden movement stopped Pitter dead in her tracks, her body settling low to the grass. Amber eyes glowed at him from the dark.

‘Jesus,’ whispered Gilchrist. ‘You little rascal.’

Pitter’s glowing eyes vanished in a long blink, then she high-pawed it over the long grass, tinkling in the dark like fairy music and leapt onto the coal bunker, then the kitchen window sill, where she settled on her haunches, as if waiting for the window to be opened in the morning.

Gilchrist switched off his torch and dropped the nail into his pocket. His watch read 10:57. He slid the grille back into its slot, crimped the chicken wire into place. From the window ledge, Pitter eyed him with feline indifference.

Gilchrist retraced his steps.

At the rear wall, he eyed the scene.

The unkempt grass looked flattened where he had trodden through it. Dark patches lay like whorled love-nests. In the morning, evidence of his prying might be noticeable.

But he could do nothing about that now.

He pulled himself back over the wall and crept through the neighbouring gardens until he reached Gregory Lane. Seconds later he was back on North Street, shoes and jeans soaked through. Icy dampness at his knees worked its way to his feet. A hot shower was what he needed.

He walked quickly, for warmth, his thoughts firing with possibilities. The trail to the ventilation grille could be important. McLaren’s son had seen Garvie in her back garden around midnight. But she had denied that, saying she was on sleeping pills. Out like a light. Wouldn’t have heard a bomb go off in the kitchen. But the trail looked no more than a day or two old. If not Garvie, then who? Or was she lying?

Gilchrist thought he had a knack for reading guilt. If Garvie had been hiding something from him, he felt certain he would have known. He had seen it before in a thousand faces – the fear of being caught – but he had seen nothing in Garvie’s manner to persuade him she was burdened with the secrets of a serial killer.

The east end of Market Street was not much more than a cobbled alley bordered by centuries-old homes. This was a popular route of Gilchrist’s, a historical part of the town that conjured up images of beggars and thieves and horse-drawn carts, women with babies wrapped in shawls, town skies thick with the grey murk of damp smoke.

His route took him past the spot where they had found the Stabber’s fourth victim, Johnny Gillespie. Less than thirty feet ahead, two women strolled shoulder to shoulder. As he approached, they parted, their hands slipping away to touch with only the tips of their fingers, then drift farther apart until a gap separated them.