Eye for an Eye

that the courtyards were too open, windows from one house backing onto another, providing no privacy or obscurity, even at night.
    He approached the ruins of the Castle, focusing on the houses that overlooked the sea. He ambled like a tourist interested in local architecture. He took in the glistening paintwork, the washed steps, even ventured up to the windows and capped his hand to his brow as he peered inside. A thin face with hollowed cheeks reflected back at him, making him think that perhaps the pressure of work had indeed overtaken him. Maybe Patterson was right. Maybe someone with fresh input would solve the case in a matter of minutes. Maybe pigs would fly.
    Most of the houses looked empty, but the shiver of a curtain in a downstairs window caught his eye. A ceramic nameplate announced the resident as McLaren. He gave a quick rap.
    A woman in her fifties wearing an apron powdered flour-white opened the door.
    ‘Mrs McLaren?’
    ‘Yes?’ she asked, with more than a hint of impatience.
    ‘I’m Detective Inspector Andy Gilchrist of—’
    ‘I’m in the middle of baking.’
    ‘I won’t keep you long.’
    She yielded with a sigh. ‘I suppose it’s that young one you’ll be wanting to talk to then.’
    Inside, the warm smell of baking reminded Gilchrist of Saturday mornings at home as a boy. Mrs McLaren tilted her head to the ceiling and shouted, ‘Ian. Come down here.’ She glanced back at Gilchrist. ‘God knows what’ll become of that lad. Does nothing but sleep all day. Then when it’s time to go to bed, he goes out.’
    ‘Was he out last night?’
    ‘In all that thunder and lightning? Not a chance. He’s more scared of getting wet than that cat of hers next door.’ She stomped into the kitchen. ‘Ian,’ she shouted again. ‘Get yourself down here. Right this minute. It’s the police here to see you.’
    Gilchrist heard a stampede of thuds down the stairs.
    ‘What is it, Mum?’
    A teenager stood in the kitchen doorway, barefoot and stripped to the waist. Ribs corrugated his sides. A tattoo of sorts stained his left biceps. Denim jeans that seemed to defy gravity covered stick legs.
    ‘This is the police, Ian. Tell him.’ Mrs McLaren, her back to Gilchrist, sprinkled flour over a wooden board and banged her rolling pin onto the work surface. ‘And don’t go telling lies, now. Do you hear me?’
    Gilchrist tried to soften his manner. ‘What do you have to tell me, Ian?’
    The boy rubbed his upper arms. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
    The rolling pin thumped onto the wooden board.
    ‘It might be warmer in the living room,’ Gilchrist said, sure that the boy would not talk freely with his mother close by.
    Gilchrist took a chair by a tiled square on the wall, all that remained of the original fireplace. An electric fire with a wood-stained top centred the hearth.
    The boy stood by the chair opposite.
    ‘Would you like me to put the fire on, Ian?’ Gilchrist asked.
    Ian shook his head.
    ‘You’re shivering.’
    ‘I didnae start it.’
    Gilchrist almost frowned. ‘I didn’t say you did.’
    ‘He hit me first.’
    ‘Self-defence, was it?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘And where and when did this fight take place?’
    The boy grimaced. ‘Outside the Whey Pat. Last Friday, like. I’ve already been up at the Police Station.’
    Gilchrist saw no bruises. Probably a minor tussle. ‘Did you win?’ he asked.
    The boy’s fists clenched, then relaxed. ‘Aye.’
    ‘I’m not here to talk about the fight, Ian. I want you to tell me where you were last night.’
    ‘Upstairs.’
    ‘All night?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘Not go out at all?’
    Ian shook his head. ‘It was raining. I cannae stand the rain. I cannae stand this place.’
    Gilchrist was not sure if he was talking about his home, the town, Scotland, or all of the above.
    ‘What did you do all night, Ian?’
    ‘Played my guitar until it got light. Then I went to sleep.’
    Gilchrist nodded. As a boy he had taught himself a few chords, but felt embarrassed singing. He found more pleasure in writing songs, though he hadn’t tried to sell any, never even knew he could.
    ‘Have you asked her next door?’ the boy was saying.
    ‘Who’s
her
?’
    ‘Lex Garvie.’
    ‘Lex? She a friend of yours?’
    ‘No.’
    Gilchrist leaned forward. ‘Why should I ask her?’
    ‘She keeps odd hours.’
    ‘Does she?’
    ‘Aye. And I know for a fact she was up late last night.’
    ‘How do you know that?’
    ‘I seen her.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Out the