Eye for an Eye

would I know?’
    It was the first time Gilchrist had heard anger seep into MacMillan’s voice, and he was aware of standing with his back to the harbour. It would not take much for MacMillan to push him over.
    ‘We know Bill was embezzling from the bank,’ he said.
    MacMillan pressed closer, as if willing Gilchrist to take a step back. But Gilchrist held his ground until MacMillan’s face was inches from his own, the sour stench of whisky warm on his breath.
    ‘What are you implying, son?’
    ‘I’m asking if you knew about it.’
    MacMillan’s eyes flared for an instant. ‘I know bugger all about that,’ he growled, and adjusted the strap of his binoculars with an angry snap. ‘You’re fishing, son. You know nothing. I can read it in your eyes.’
    ‘You think so?’
    ‘I know so.’ MacMillan straightened, as if readying to face the firing squad. ‘Are you going to arrest me, or what?’
    Surprised by the question, Gilchrist said nothing.
    MacMillan snorted again. ‘I thought so. Now if you’ve nothing more to say, sonny Jim, I’m going home to bed.’
    Gilchrist stood silent as MacMillan’s broad back slipped into the darkness and faded to a hulking shadow.
    Then he faced the sea and took a deep breath. Air rushed into his lungs, as clean and clear as his thoughts. The faintest of ideas was manifesting in his brain. In all the years he had known Old Willie, his snippets were never wrong. If his latest one was correct, then Granton was an embezzler and sexual deviant who got his thrill from flashing his cock at an old friend for two hundred quid a pop. But what happened to the money once it was handed over? From his appearance, Sam’s standard of living was far from extravagant.
    So, what did he do with it?
    Gilchrist stared into the dark expanse before him, his thoughts riding the wild waves, fighting the cold wind.
    After another minute, he thought he knew.
     
    Sebbie pushed through the shrubbery onto the pavement. He had wanted to use a kitchen knife, the black-handled one with the serrated blade that could cut through tin and still be sharp enough to slice tomatoes and slivers of paper. But he decided against that as being impossible to explain if he was stopped by the police. In the end, he chose a Swiss Army knife that doubled as a key ring.
    He reached the car, knife out, blade open, pressed it along the side, from front to rear. Then blade folded, and into his pocket. He walked on and stopped at the corner by the mini-roundabout.
    The street was deserted. He waited two minutes then retraced his steps, this time stopping at the boot. The knife bit into the polished paint and screeched like chalk on a blackboard. He dug deeper and finished off with an artistic flourish.
    One minute later, he was jogging down Lade Braes Lane, a smile on his lips. His act of vandalism gave him a sense of power that cleared his mind and soothed his thoughts.
    Already, he was thinking ahead.
    Next time he would use the kitchen knife.
    The big one.

CHAPTER 13
     
    The total is six now. But six is not a lot.
    Six is only the beginning. I have always known that.
    What I hadn’t known until now was that my modus operandi would change. I had thought the killings would be controlled by the weather. Nothing else.
    I am puzzled by this misplaced feeling, like a smile that tickles your lips at a funeral. Like the vagaries of life, the reasons for death are every bit as whimsical. Before each of the killings my libido peaked, and I wonder why I never noticed before. Are the storms nothing more than weather patterns that coincide with my increase in sexual desire?
    I see now that the killings have changed me. I feel my hate swell, my anger rise, the need for release as relentless as a sexual stirring. Something grips me, and I hear a quiet hiss that repeats itself like a sibilant echo. I wonder where it is coming from, until I recognize it as a voice.
    ‘Seven,’ it whispers. ‘Seven. Seven.’
    Tomorrow night I will kill again.
     
    Beth wakened to a dark morning, the streets black from a pre-dawn squall. She had not slept well and longed for another thirty minutes in bed. But she had a busy day ahead, stocktaking.
    As she soaked in the bath, the previous day’s events hung in her thoughts like smoke in wool. She had arrived at the West Port Café on time but had to wait half an hour before Tom turned up. She might have forgiven him his tardiness if her day had gone better, but not after everything that had