Eye for an Eye

helped her in the shop. Customers liked that she remembered their names. It made them feel as if they were visiting a friend. But faces, no.
    He had sent a CD rack crashing to the floor. Nothing had been broken, otherwise she would have had no hesitation in reporting the incident to the police. But something in his manner had upset her.
    She had noticed his expression in a wall-mounted mirror as she reached for one of the wooden motorcycles. Since her summer vacation she had lost over six pounds, so her jeans were slacker than usual, and she had caught him leering down the gap at her front. She was certain of that.
    But would any man have done the same?
    Then she saw the answer in the memory of his eyes. They had scared her. Dark and fierce, as if they had no need to blink. And his hair. Matted, as if it had not seen a brush in months. His fingernails, too. Black with grime.
    She crossed onto Abbey Street and walked downhill. It felt good to get away. The shop had been her mother’s dream. Not Beth’s. At the age of twenty-three Beth’s future lay in interior design and she had applied to Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Before her letter of acceptance came through, her father had died of a massive heart attack at the breakfast table. Unwilling to leave her mother alone, Beth delayed the start of her career for a year.
    A small insurance payout provided the cash for her mother to buy the shop. But six months after opening, her mother had complained of blinding headaches and a puzzling inability to control the movement of her fingers. Within four weeks she was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumour. The speed with which the cancer overpowered her was frightening, and three months later Beth buried her mother beside her father in a small cemetery on the outskirts of town.
    By then, she had found to her surprise that she liked the shop. A change in products from miscellaneous domestic knick-knacks to exclusive accessories aimed at the wealthy American tourist market resulted in a feature in the local newspaper. It helped, too, that she was dating the editor – an ambitious, self-centred individual. And it now seemed incredible how close she had come to marrying him.
    She turned left onto The Shore, the road that led toward the harbour, and five minutes later felt the sea breeze on her face. The Kinness Burn ran by her side. With the tide out, it looked nothing more than sodden mud and a trickle black as oil. A family of swans nestled in the grassy bank on the far side, beaks tucked under their wings, as if sheltering from the wind.
    Beth removed her mobile from her pocket, unsure for a moment if she should make the call, then on impulse punched it in. A man’s voice invited her to leave a message and number. That was it. No confirmation that by doing so he would call back.
    ‘Hi,’ she said, and tried to keep her voice lively. ‘I’m calling to remind you about tonight. The West Port Café. Eight o’clock. See you then.’
    She slapped the silver casing shut and walked on, her thoughts filled with the imminent meeting. But in The Pends a memory came back to her of grimy nails and clotted hair and eyes as black as pools of ink. And it struck her then that she had seen the young man before.
     
    After walking the length of Gregory Lane several times, Gilchrist’s sixth sense was compelling him toward the end of the lane, close to where the ‘witch’ lived.
    He had often wondered if the Stabber might be a woman, but had been ridiculed by Patterson when he raised that possibility after the third victim, Henry McIntyre,
a vile excuse for a man
, according to a neighbour, had been found behind Blackfriar’s Chapel with his head staked to the ground, clutching his wallet as if he had been about to pass over money.
Why else would he have opened his wallet?
Gilchrist had argued.
    He checked the brass nameplate: A. Garvie. Alexis Garvie? Lex? He eyed the upper level. No movement. He rapped the brass knocker. It echoed like a hammer-blow.
    The door swung open to reveal a blond-haired woman in a grey sweatshirt and black Lycra. Barefoot, tanned, as if she had spent a few weeks on the Costa del Sol. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. Sweat stained her chest.
    He had seen her before, he was sure. ‘Ms Garvie?’
    ‘If you’re selling anything, I’m not interested.’
    He noted the English accent. Yorkshire, as best he could tell. He tried a smile as he held out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector