Eye for an Eye (24 page)

In the dimmed light, the bodies on the floor looked out of place, like nameless corpses waiting to be carted off by the undertaker. He caught a whiff of something foul, fetid, like rotting eggs.

He pressed a foot onto Dieter’s stomach. The whisper of flatulence was followed by a stench so powerful he had to press a hand to his mouth. He cursed and rushed from the room.

A few minutes later, he returned, face wrapped in a dish towel, hands covered with a pair of yellow rubber gloves he had found beneath the sink. Under his arm, he held two cotton sheets stripped from a double bed.

Dieter’s body was less bloodied. Sebbie had stabbed him as he kneeled over Alice. He rolled the body onto the sheet then dragged it from the living room, down and across the hall, and into a back bedroom.

Alice presented more of a problem. He had stabbed her in the chest and she had bled like a slaughtered pig. He smiled as he looked down at her. The irony had not struck him until that moment. Alice stabbed through her heart, the same way she had stabbed him through his. Dieter stabbed in the back, the same way he had stabbed Sebbie by screwing Alice while they were still dating.

He grabbed Alice’s bare legs and twisted her body so that it rolled over onto the sheet, face down. Thick lumps of dark red slime like bloodied slugs slipped over her ribs and dripped onto the sheet. In a rush of disgust, he grabbed the corners of the sheet and threw it over the body, then dragged it from the room to join Dieter.

Back in the living room, he spent ten minutes scrubbing the worst of Alice’s blood off the carpet. Not perfect, but by evening it would have dried, and he would—

The telephone rang.

He froze.

On the sixth ring, the answering machine kicked in, and Alice’s annoying voice told the caller to leave a message after the long beep and have a great day. Bitch.

‘Alice. This is Margo. You never called, and I wondered if you needed me to bring anything over this evening. If I don’t hear from you, Jim and I will be round at eight. We’re looking forward to it. See you then. Byeee.’

Sebbie stared at the phone. This evening? At eight?

What was she coming round for? Dinner? A party? Was that what the food in the fridge was for? Were friends expected?

Sebbie paced the room. His perfect hideaway was about to be ruined on day one. He could not afford to lose this flat. He could not let that happen. But if he stayed, he would be discovered.

He would need to find somewhere else. But where?

He stared at the dried blood on the floor as the seed of an idea sprouted in his mind.

He knew just the place.

CHAPTER 23

Gilchrist walked up the hill toward Kirkhill, the Cathedral ruins on his left, on his right the black craggy cliffs that separated the West Sands from the East. By the time he stood outside Garvie’s front door it was after eight.

He pressed the bell.

Lex Garvie seemed not in the least surprised to see him.

‘Up bright and early, I see. I take it this is a personal call.’

‘Been expecting me?’

‘Rumour has it you’re suspended.’ She stepped to the side. ‘So in that case, you can come in.’

‘Word travels fast,’ he said.

‘It’s a small town. And small-town people love small-town gossip.’

‘Got any for me?’

‘Gossip?’ she said. ‘Or tea?’

‘A bit of both,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got it.’

‘I can give you tea. But no gossip.’

Lex Garvie was showing another side to him, a side unlikely to belong to someone who had filed a complaint against him. He followed her through to the kitchen, pleased to find Pitter seated on her spot by the sink. He stroked her chin and felt the press of her neck as she searched for maximum pleasure. He looked out of the window, relieved to see his trail through the back garden was not noticeable. He stepped to the side as Garvie put on the kettle and popped two teabags into a silver teapot.

As Garvie pottered about in silence, it struck Gilchrist that she seemed strangely unfazed by his presence. Her light-tanned skin and short blond hair shone with a healthy glow and gave off a fragrance that reminded him of his father’s hair oil. She was barefoot, in black Lycra shorts and a white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, so he could see her firm muscle tone and smooth skin almost all the way to her bra-free nipples.

‘Do you mind if I ask a few questions?’ he said. ‘Off the record, of course.’

‘If you must.’

‘Force of habit, I suppose.’

‘I’ve already told that Inspector Whatsisname—’

‘DeFiore?’

‘That’s him. I’ve already told him all I know.’

‘It won’t take long.’

‘That’s what DeFiore said.’

‘Did he stay for a cuppa, too?’

She laughed and lifted her hand to run it through her spiked hair. Her upper arms flexed with sinewed ease. ‘Care for a biscuit?’ she asked, and removed a plastic container from the cupboard above the kettle. ‘KitKat. Toffeepops. Happy Faces. Got them in for my sister’s kids. Or just plain old suggestive digestive?’

‘Whatever you’re having.’

‘I don’t take chocolate.’

‘Plain old suggestive digestive sounds fine, then.’

She giggled, which seemed out of character. But the ring of her laugh triggered something in his brain. He had heard a giggle like that somewhere before, but could not place it.

Garvie collected a couple of mugs and a side plate from the dishwasher, then opened the fridge and removed a crockery ramekin from the second shelf. ‘Homemade pâté?’ she asked. ‘It’s vegetarian.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Well, seeing as how you’re here, let’s have it.’

Gilchrist waited until she spread two knife loads of pâté onto her side plate and returned the ramekin to the fridge before he said, ‘Your complaint.’

‘Complaint?’

‘Your complaint against me.’

She hesitated, then said, ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

Undecided if she was telling the truth, Gilchrist chose not to press. ‘Must have picked it up wrong,’ he said.

‘Must have.’

He waited while she dabbed a damp cloth over the work surface by the sink, then hung it over the stainless-steel taps. It was only then that he noticed a small ashtray in the corner of the work surface by the side of the fridge. ‘How did you sleep last night?’ he asked her.

She lifted the teapot, and Gilchrist suspected he was about to hear the beginnings of a lie. ‘Never heard a thing,’ she said.

‘Sleeping pills?’

‘Where would I be without my pills? Sugar? Milk?’

‘Milk only.’

‘I sometimes worry about taking too many pills. But for the life of me I can’t seem to sleep any more without them.’

‘Guilty conscience?’

‘Never miss a trick, do you?’ She poured milk from an opened carton. ‘Skimmed. It’s all I’ve got.’

‘Perfect.’

She split the wrapper off a packet of digestive biscuits and spilled half a dozen onto a plate. ‘With or without butter?’ she said, breaking one into several pieces and placing them on Pitter’s tea towel.

‘Without is fine,’ said Gilchrist, and added, ‘I’ve never seen a cat eat biscuits before.’

‘She’d eat the food from your plate, given half a chance.’

He watched Pitter crunch one of the broken pieces then shake her head with a quick movement that spread crumbs across the sink. He could not resist stroking her, and smiled when she started purring. ‘She has lovely colours,’ he said. ‘The whitest white. The blackest black. Nothing in between. Such a distinctive coat.’

‘You like cats?’

‘Never had one. But yes, I suppose I do.’ He stopped scratching Pitter, then reached for the soap on a dish by the window. He washed his hands and removed a paper towel from a roll by the oven. ‘You never gave me an answer,’ he said.

‘To what?’

‘About the guilty conscience.’

She held out the biscuits. He took one. She shook the plate and he obliged her by taking another.

‘I don’t sleep because I spend a lot of time on the computer in the late afternoon and early evening. My work is demanding. But it’s creative and stimulating. Once my brain is fired up, it keeps me awake.’

‘Why not work earlier in the day?’

‘I’m not a morning person when it comes to brainpower. I prefer to exercise in the morning.’

‘Had any work done on your home recently?’

She frowned, puzzled by the non sequitur. ‘Like what?’ She dabbed a biscuit into the pâté then took a bite.

‘Roof tiles,’ he said. ‘New doors. That sort of thing.’

She shook her head, sipped her tea.

He tried a bit closer to the bone. ‘Replacement windows? Underfloor ventilation?’

‘All that was done by the previous owners. That’s why I bought the place.’ She eyed the rear garden. ‘Although that mess out there needs fixing. But I’m getting it landscaped in the spring. Grass out. Slabs and gravel and shrubs in. All mulched. No grass to cut. No weeds to pull. Efficient.’

‘Just like you.’

She looked at him, as if not sure how to take his remark, then smiled. ‘You should hear some of my clients complain about how long I take to construct their websites.’ She shook her head. ‘Efficient is not in their vocabulary. Another?’ She shoved the plate at him.

‘No, thank you.’ He watched Pitter slip through the gap in the kitchen window. ‘Last time we spoke, you said you were gay.’

‘That’s right. Nothing’s changed.’

He did not fail to catch the bite in her reply, nor the steely haze that settled behind her eyes. ‘Do you have friends stay over from time to time?’ he asked.

‘That’s an odd question to ask.’

‘Why do you say that?’

She tutted. ‘One question after another. You really must break that habit of yours.’

He took a sip of tea. It tasted a tad on the weak side. But it was hot.

‘Like a refill?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ He waited while she returned the biscuits to the cupboard and wiped the work surface with a damp cloth, then said, ‘About those friends of yours.’

‘Which ones?’

‘The ones that might or might not stay over.’

‘What about them?’

He kept his voice level and repeated, ‘Do any of them stay over from time to time?’

‘As in do I have sex with any of my girlfriends?’

‘Not quite what I had in mind,’ he said, surprised by the ease with which anger lit her eyes.

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Anyone stay over last night?’

‘None of your damned business.’

‘Any of your friends have a house key?’

‘Why?’

‘Just asking.’

‘I know you’re just asking. But why?’

‘I’m curious.’

‘You can say that again. You’re becoming curiouser and curiouser.’

‘I take it that’s a yes.’

‘That’s a mind your own bloody business, is what it is.’

He placed his mug of tea on the work surface. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I seem to have upset you.’

‘I wouldn’t go as far as that.’

‘How far would you go, then?’

‘My private life is just that. Private.’ She replaced the cloth over the tap and turned to face him. ‘Look, I’ve got some work to get on with.’

‘Thought you weren’t a morning person.’

‘Exercise, then. Is that better?’

Gilchrist poured out what was left of his tea, rinsed his mug and placed it on the drip-tray. Then he picked up the last of the digestive biscuits and took a bite, but dropped a piece onto the floor.

‘Sorry,’ he said, and picked it up. He flipped open the metallic bin, dropped the crumbs into it, and closed the lid. But not before he noticed an empty packet of Camel lying in the rubbish.

‘Thank you,’ he said to Garvie, and patted his stomach. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

At the front door, he paused. ‘You could make my job a lot easier by just telling me which of your friends stayed over last night.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘It could be.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That I could have you come down to the Office.’

‘Don’t you have to be un-suspended to do that?’

‘You knew I was suspended,’ he said. ‘Who told you?’

Sunlight toyed with the blue specks in her eyes.

‘It’s not common knowledge,’ he added.

She pressed a hand to his back. ‘As I said, my private life is private. Please don’t come back. Suspended or otherwise.’ And with that, she closed the door.

He thought it odd how hard some people fight to keep certain parts of their lives to themselves. Which was the wrong thing to do where he was concerned.

He cut along South Castle Street onto Market Street, avoiding the Police Station. Beth often had breakfast in the Victoria Café. If he was quick, he might just catch her.