Eye for an Eye

for the declaration of World War III, announced, ‘ STABBER’S TALLY HITS SEVEN’ . Gilchrist fired awake. ‘The weather,’ he snapped. ‘What was it like?’
    ‘Dry.’
    What? ‘No rain?’
    ‘That’s what’s got everyone in such a tizzy,’ said Jack. ‘And that DeFiore guy, he’s in the firing line. Thought that would bring a smile to your face.’
    Gilchrist read on, barely breathing. Number seven was in conflict with the Stabber’s MO. The victim, Ronnie Turnbull, a professional caddy, had put up some resistance. Footprints were found close to the body, on the path that ran from the Scores to the beach. Moulds were being taken to identify the make and size of shoe. But Gilchrist felt a rush when he read that bloodstains had been found on the victim’s face and on the wall, too. Got the bastard, he wanted to shout. DCI DeFiore was reported as saying that the post-mortem was still to be carried out, and until that time he could not rule out the possibility of a copycat murder.
    Gilchrist slapped the back of his hand across a photo of DeFiore. He recognized the podium at the back of the Office. ‘This guy’s an idiot,’ he said. ‘The last thing the citizens of St Andrews need to hear is that someone could be copying the Stabber.’ He shook his head. ‘You might think it. But you don’t say it. Patterson would have my balls on a plate of fried rice if I’d let that slip.’
    ‘Maybe DeFiore’s balls are ready for the chop.’
    ‘Not a chance. Patterson’s made his choice. He has to stand behind DeFiore no matter what.’ Gilchrist scowled. ‘Is this the only paper you have?’
    ‘Too far left for you? Welcome to the world of socialist Glasgow.’
    ‘No, you daft plonker. I want to read more.’
    ‘Who was it who once said that press conferences were only a hindrance to the investigation?’
    Gilchrist knew Jack was right. How often had he withheld information from the press in order not to jeopardize his investigation? He was about to pull back the sheets when Chloe entered carrying two mugs of tea. A cream silk dressing-gown did little to hide the curves of her slender figure, and from the loose sway of her breasts, Gilchrist could tell she was naked underneath.
    She handed a mug to Jack then turned to Gilchrist. ‘Good morning. Would you like a cup of tea?’
    ‘Once I’ve had a shower,’ he said.
    Then she surprised him by sitting on the edge of his bed. She cocked her head at the canvases on the wall. ‘The eyes are the window to the human psyche,’ she said. ‘They don’t just speak about the painting, they reveal the inner soul of the artist.’
    Gilchrist pushed his newspaper to the side.
    Chloe leaned forward. As she did so, her dressing-gown slipped open to reveal a tiny handful of perfect breast, the nipple wide and proud like a fleshy thimble. As if warding off a chill, she pulled at the material and covered herself with the casualness of someone adjusting a tie.
    ‘I remember working on that one,’ she said. ‘I felt such anger at the needlessness of it all. And pain, too. It was not long after Kevin.’
    Kevin? Gilchrist caught a flicker of concern flit across Jack’s face, and wondered if Chloe was about to explain who Kevin was. But instead she said, ‘All I could feel was this need to release my anger. Free my mind of the pain. I tried to put it into my work.’ She shook her head. ‘But I failed.’
    ‘Why do you think you failed?’ Gilchrist asked.
    ‘Now, when I look at that painting, I don’t feel pain. I see it, though. I see it in the eyes. They remind me of my pain. But I don’t feel it.’
    ‘Perhaps you’ve recovered from Kevin,’ he offered.
    Jack frowned, and Gilchrist regretted his statement. But Chloe seemed oblivious to Jack’s discomfort. ‘I still feel for Kevin,’ she said. ‘He still hurts.’
    Gilchrist said nothing. Jack’s hand moved to the nape of Chloe’s neck and stroked it. She turned to Gilchrist as if an idea had just struck her. ‘I think you need to be asking that,’ she said to him.
    ‘Asking what?’
    ‘What the Stabber thinks of when he kills someone.’
    Gilchrist shrugged. ‘We have reams of psychobabble that supposedly answers that, ranging from the Stabber has one eye or knows someone with one eye, to the murders symbolizing humanity’s blindness against the evils of a cruel world. And everything in between.’
    ‘But why the left eye?’ said Jack.
    Gilchrist smiled. ‘Maybe the Stabber is a