Eye for an Eye

THE BEGINNING
     
    Rain hangs from the sky in silver ropes that dance on the street and spill from choked gutters. Lightning flashes. His face flickers white. Thunder cracks, a close clap that shakes the windowpane by his head. The centre of the storm is near now, no more than a mile or so to the north, somewhere over the Eden Estuary.
    I watch him turn toward me, his eyes small and tight as a pig’s. With a drunken grimace he hitches up his trousers, their short legs concertinaed and blackened by the downpour. He moves from the doorway, tries to face me, stumbles against the wall. He rights himself. ‘Are you looking for something?’ His words are tired and heavy.
    ‘I saw you in Lafferty’s.’
    ‘Oh yeah?’
    I don’t move.
    His eyes struggle to focus, and I tighten my grip on the wooden stave tucked behind my right arm. A tremor shivers my legs, for although I’ve thought about this moment often, I’ve never killed anyone before.
    I step toward him.
    As if to show he has nothing to fear, he tries a laugh, but coughs instead. Despite the rain streaming down his face, spittle forms at the corners of his mouth.
    The skies flash. The air cracks.
    We stand still, shocked by the closeness of the hit.
    Then his eyes narrow.
    ‘Wait a minute,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen you before.’
    I step forward, lift my right hand.
    ‘You’re—’
    I strike.
    The whittled point of my stave pierces his left eye with a sound like wet mud popping. His body stiffens, topples away from me, thumps to the ground.
    I follow him down. I am barely breathing.
    His left eye fills black with rain that spills down his cheek like ink. I tighten my grip on the stave and drive it deep to the back of his brain, then give a hard twist.
    His legs kick. Then still.
    I stand, turn away, keep my eyes to the ground.
    I head toward Louden’s Close then onto Lade Braes Lane, a narrow path hemmed by high stone dykes. I keep my head low and walk with a brisk step. Rivulets of rainwater accompany me down the pathway, like lifeblood flowing from his filthy corpse.
    I reach Queen’s Terrace, no more than ten quick minutes from home. The downpour will obliterate all trace of my passing. And even if by the slimmest of chances someone finds a muddied footprint somewhere, no one will trace the oversized boots to me. I smile.
    Tonight I have started my journey to hell.

CHAPTER 1
     
    Andy Gilchrist stirred awake. Something was ringing at the edge of his mind.
    He squinted at the Hitachi clock radio on his bedside table and in the winter morning darkness read 5:38.
    Not his alarm.
    His phone.
    Something slapped over in his gut as his wakening mind told him why it would ring at that time of the morning. Had he slept through another storm?
    He grabbed his mobile. ‘Gilchrist.’
    ‘It’s Stan, boss. We’ve got number six.’
    ‘Where is it this time?’
    ‘The harbour.’
    ‘Shit.’ CCTV monitoring of the town was still in its infancy and no cameras were installed near the harbour. The chances of anyone being down there at night were slim to non-existent, but with a rush of hope he asked anyway. ‘Any witnesses?’
    ‘No one’s come forward, boss.’
    ‘Damn it.’ That would be a first. ‘I suppose no one from the Division was anywhere near there?’
    ‘We’re stretched thin as it is, boss.’
    Gilchrist cursed again. He had been on at Patterson for the best part of two months, pleading for additional staff.
    And now the Stabber’s tally had reached six.
    He clicked on his bedside lamp, screwed his eyes against the burst of brightness and scanned his dresser for his cigarettes before remembering he had given up.
    ‘Do we have the victim’s name?’ he growled.
    ‘Tommy Carlisle told us who it is, but we’ve not had it confirmed yet.’
    ‘Carlisle?’
    ‘You know Tommy. Owns
The Bitter Alice
. Always first at the harbour. Says he was on his way to load his creels when he almost tripped over the body. One eye staring at the moon. The other, well, the usual. Says it’s Bill Granton, the manager of the Bank of Scotland in Market Street.’
    ‘What time was this?’
    ‘Ten past five.’
    ‘Statement?’
    ‘Being taken as we speak, boss.’
    ‘Granton, was he married?’
    ‘With one son. We’ve sent Nance.’
    Gilchrist drew the back of his hand across his stubble. In years past he’d been responsible for informing next of kin, one of those necessary evils of the job, which no one liked. DS Nancy Wilson would handle it