Eye for an Eye

well.
    ‘Granton’s wife,’ he said. ‘Did she report him missing?’
    ‘Nothing logged, but we’re looking into it. By the way, rumour has it Granton was gay.’
    Gilchrist frowned. To date, the Stabber’s victims were all men known to be abusive to women.
    ‘You sure about that?’ he asked.
    ‘Not one hundred per cent, boss.’
    ‘Get onto that, Stan,’ he ordered, then added, ‘No chance of this being a copycat, is there?’
    ‘Doesn’t look like it.’
    ‘Have you seen the body?’
    ‘At my feet, boss. Bamboo stave in the left eye. But the pathologist would need to confirm that the brain’s been stirred.’
    ‘The press don’t know about that. Let’s keep it that way.’
    ‘Got it, boss.’
    ‘Has the harbour been sealed off?’
    ‘Yes, boss.’
    ‘And the body?’
    ‘As we found it. But the seagulls are making one hell of a racket.’
    Gilchrist had seen only one body with its eye sockets pecked clean by birds. Fifteen years on, he was still unable to rid himself of the memory. He squeezed the back of his neck, forced his thoughts to focus.
    ‘Last night’s storm,’ he said. ‘How long did it last?’
    ‘A good two hours.’
    ‘And that’s when Granton was attacked?’
    ‘Looks that way, boss.’
    Gilchrist had crashed out, a combination of too many beers and exhaustion from thirty hours’ sleep a week for the last two months. ‘Have you spoken to Sa?’ he asked.
    ‘You’re the first, boss.’
    ‘Have her meet me at the harbour as soon as.’
    ‘Got it.’
    Gilchrist disconnected and stood up. He lolled his head to the left, then back and around to the right. Steady as a rock. Good.
    In the bathroom he turned on the shower and stared at the mirror. Bags under his eyes. Grey stubble. Forty-five going on sixty. Where the hell had it gone? Twenty-seven years with Fife Constabulary. Should he not be looking forward to retirement instead of dreading the day DCI Patterson would kick him out? And that day was not far off. Of that, he had no doubt. Ever since Patterson had suspicions of his affair with Alyson Baird, Gilchrist had known his days were numbered.
    He picked up his toothbrush and peeled back his lips. At least he still had white teeth, despite having smoked. His only redeeming feature, he often thought. He dropped his silk shorts and stepped into the shower, turned his face into the stream and lathered Badedas soap against his chest. Eyes closed, his fingers searched for the electric razor he purchased last year on a trip to the States. Battery operated and waterproof. Shaving in the shower was now one of life’s small pleasures.
    Ten minutes later, Gilchrist braced himself against the cold wind of an east coast November morning. Dawn was still a good hour away and the skies hung low with the threat of more rain. He walked up Rose Wynd to Castle Street, where his Mercedes SLK Roadster was parked, and pressed the remote. Lights flashed in the darkness. He opened the door and slid inside. With a twist of the key, the Merc’s 2.3-litre engine fired up first time.
    He slipped into drive and accelerated onto High Street. Out of Crail, he put his foot down. St Andrews sat ten miles north on the A917 and he would reach the harbour in fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. He noted the time on the dash. Just after six. Sa might already be there.
    He picked up his mobile and pressed memo 7. His call was answered on the first ring.
    ‘What is it, Andy?’
    He almost smiled. ‘Becoming psychic in your old age?’
    ‘Stan called.’
    ‘You sound perky.’
    ‘Been awake for hours.’
    ‘Trouble sleeping?’
    ‘How about you? Hung over?’
    ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
    ‘Six pints in Lafferty’s?’
    My God. Was that how many he’d had? ‘I left just after you,’ he said. ‘Which reminds me. Why didn’t you stay?’
    ‘What’s with the twenty questions?’
    ‘Just taking an interest in your well-being.’
    ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
    Gilchrist waited for Sa to continue but she was a woman of few words, a loner with a chip on her shoulder. He had not found a way to reach her yet, even though they had been working on the case together since the Stabber’s fourth victim was found with his head staked to the ground two months earlier.
    ‘When can you make it to the harbour?’ he grumbled.
    ‘That’s twenty-one questions.’
    ‘Just be there,’ he said, and disconnected.
    He gritted his teeth. Sa was
his
assistant. Not the other way about. She was thorough and