Eye for an Eye

answer.’
    ‘We’re doing everything in our power to—’
    ‘
Everything?
’ Cruel eyes grinned back at him from above a dirty beard that bushed to the neck of a threadbare sweater. Grey hair slicked back in a greasy ponytail. Blackened teeth parted beneath a moustache yellowed from forty years of sixty a day. ‘Have you given any thought to turning the case over to someone who could deliver results?’ Before Gilchrist could respond, McKinnon added, ‘Have you been asked to step down?’
    Gilchrist caught the gleeful tone of victory and in that instant knew that Patterson had confided in McKinnon, had told him he was about to be kicked off the case.
    Gilchrist tried a wry smile. ‘Not yet,’ he said.
    Laughter fluttered into the damp air.
    ‘Are you saying you expect to be removed from the case?’
    ‘I haven’t heard anything to suggest that. Have you?’
    ‘We understand St James’s Palace has expressed concern about the lack of progress.’ A woman’s voice from the back.
    Gilchrist looked up, thankful for the respite from McKinnon. The American accent did not surprise him. Ever since Prince William had commenced undergraduate studies at St Andrews University, the town had become a haven for royal-watchers. With the young royal residing in the same town as a rampant serial killer, this made for international news.
    ‘What are you doing to reassure the Palace of Prince William’s safety?’ she asked him.
    ‘Prince William has nothing to fear from the Stabber.’
    ‘How can you say that?’ Her voice snapped with such emotion that heads turned. ‘This town is gripped by fear,’ she continued. ‘A fear that grows each day the Stabber is allowed to roam the streets. Any one of sixteen thousand residents will tell you they’re afraid to go out at night. How can you possibly say Prince William is not in danger?’
    Gilchrist tried to keep his tone even. ‘Firstly, Miss ...’
    ‘Reynolds,’ she hissed. ‘Jennifer Reynolds of
Newsweek
. And it’s Ms.’ The word buzzed.
    Gilchrist felt the dry warmth of a flush creep into his face. Focus, he heard his mind order. Focus on a response. He stared at her. ‘Prince William in no way fits the profile of the Stabber’s victims,’ he said. ‘Quite apart from that, he is protected by his own security personnel at all times.’
    ‘How does that fact help the other sixteen thousand residents of this town?’ she persisted. ‘Is it or is it not safe for people to walk the streets at night? Especially during a thunderstorm?’
    Gilchrist felt his face grow hotter and decided to be non-committal. ‘On the whole,’ he said, ‘the streets of St Andrews are as safe at night as those of any other town.’
    ‘But this isn’t any other town,’ sniped Reynolds. ‘This is the town in which the future king of England is attending university.’
    Gilchrist felt his flush evaporate, as if a wind had risen from the East Sands and chilled the air. ‘Britain,’ he announced.
    Reynolds frowned.
    ‘St Andrews happens to be in Scotland,’ he said.
    Someone whistled the opening bars of ‘Flower of Scotland’ and Gilchrist decided to draw the conference to a close.
    ‘One last question.’
    He turned his body to shield his face from the cameraman by his side and nodded to a grey-haired man in a dark blue suit, white shirt and bold red tie.
    ‘Can you confirm the rumour that the Stabber is a young man, perhaps even a student?’
    ‘Who told you that?’
    ‘Do you deny it?’
    ‘No comment.’
    ‘From that response, can we assume the rumour is true?’
    ‘No comment.’
    McKinnon’s gravelly laugh rasped.
    ‘No further questions,’ said Gilchrist, and stalked from the podium, ignoring the cries that erupted in his wake.
    He slammed the door behind him.
    How the hell could he control his murder investigation when one of his own team was talking to the press?

CHAPTER 5
     
    My father hit my mother.
    I was five years old when I first saw him hit her, too young to understand why she was lying on the kitchen floor, crying and screaming with her legs curled up into her stomach, arm flailing while my father pounded away at her with his black boots, white spittle drooling from his bristled chin, eyes red and wild and crazed as a raging bull.
    I now recognize that single point in time as the moment when the hatred first began, like some cancer seed that floats in on a cold wind and settles deep in the soul to germinate into something foul and