Eye for an Eye

to DeFiore, dapper in a double-breasted suit, held for a second, then pulled back to capture the others in the group. At the far end ACC Archie McVicar looked calm and magisterial. The press conference must have gone well. DCS Billy Greaves sat next to McVicar, less relaxed. Shoulder to shoulder with Patterson, DeFiore sat clear-eyed and poker-faced.
    ‘One last question,’ Patterson announced.
    Bertie McKinnon’s voice rose discordant above the others. ‘Detective Chief Inspector DeFiore,’ he demanded, ‘how do you intend to guarantee Prince William’s safety and that of the citizens of St Andrews?’
    The camera zoomed in for a close-up of DeFiore’s white smile and polished skin. With his cropped black hair, red silk tie and crisp white collar, he looked more the City banker than detective chief inspector. His Edinburgh accent purred with unchallenged authority as he spoke of teamwork, commitment and results. Then he brought the press conference to an unambiguous end with ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, ladies and gentlemen,’ and switched off the microphone.
    The camera pulled back to capture a confounded Patterson before the screen switched to a woman with a microphone in her hand.
    And that was that.
    Gilchrist cleaned off his pint, tipped a finger to his forehead and said, ‘Catch you later, Eddy.’
    On his way out, he glanced at the corner table.
    Maggie huddled close to her dark-haired friend, their lips frozen for the moment of his passing. Then he was out the pub, his mind playing out the ramifications of Old Willie’s snippet.

CHAPTER 11
     
    Gilchrist cut up Logie’s Lane to Market Street and remembered he should return Jack’s call. He had not spoken to either of his children for almost two weeks, having managed to track Maureen to her mother’s home a week last Saturday. Gail had answered, but she still had nothing to say after the needless acrimony of their divorce. He had hung on for a full minute before Maureen picked up, breathless and full of apologies for not keeping in contact more often. She sounded pleased to hear from him but was rushing for a date, couldn’t talk, and promised to call back in a few days.
    ‘Why don’t you come up for a weekend?’ he had offered. ‘It’s only an hour’s drive. Bring Stephen with you.’
    ‘I’d love to, Dad. It’s just, you know ...’
    ‘Pressure of work?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    That was eleven days ago and Gilchrist had rationalized her silence by telling himself she was busy, exams were close, boyfriends were hounding her, she was a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old with a life of her own. But deep in his heart he knew if she really wanted to talk to him, all she had to do was pick up the phone. And that was what hurt the most.
    But Jack was worse. Jack almost never called.
    An artist, he spent much of his life hanging around the bars in the West End of Glasgow drinking beer. And Pernod and ice, for God’s sake. And throwing sloppy concrete at walls under the misnomer of art.
    Gilchrist had seen some of Jack’s art, splattered on the wall of one of the local pubs, an ugly mixture of hessian, wood and God knew what else, swilled in concrete that looked as if it had been plastered there by mistake.
    ‘What do you think of the mural, Andy?’ Jack had asked.
    ‘Not quite sure yet,’ Gilchrist had replied. ‘Maybe if it was a little more colourful?’
    ‘That’s the whole point. Everybody thinks they have to see the world through rose-tinted glasses. Life isn’t like that. Life is real. It’s unattractive. It’s dull. It’s brutal. It forces us to look inside ourselves to find our own colour, our own reality. Outside, we’re all the same. Grey, bland, uninteresting.’
    Gilchrist nodded, asked for a pint, while Jack lit up.
    ‘Hope that’s all you smoke.’
    Jack crossed his heart and hoped to die and swore he had never smoked dope. Gilchrist had simply prayed that his son was mature enough never to get hooked on the hard stuff.
    He opened his mobile. After ten rings, he was about to disconnect when a woman answered.
    ‘Hello?’
    For an instant he thought he had dialled the wrong number. ‘Is Jack there?’
    ‘Who’s calling?’
    ‘His father. Returning his call.’
    ‘Oh ...’ Then a voice whispered, ‘The old man.’
    A clatter like a dropping phone, then, ‘Hey, Andy. Long time. How’s it going?’
    ‘Don’t they have phones in Glasgow?’ he replied, and listened to the infectious rush of Jack’s laughter, a