Eye for an Eye

The light danced over grey joists that resembled the ribbing of a ship. The dirt area at ground level looked dry and tidy and flat as a beach. But why was the grille loose?
    He shoved an arm through the opening and patted the earth. Nothing.
    He tried scanning his pencil-torch in a wide arc that took in the underfloor void from one side of the house to the other. Again, nothing.
    The space was dry and clear.
    He was missing something. He was sure of that.
    Why was the grille loose? And why had Garvie come over this way? He touched the opening and noticed a stain on one of the stones that formed the joint between the grille and the structural stonework. He scraped it with a fingernail. A crusted piece cracked free. Dried blood? Dirt? He put his finger to his nose. Nothing. He rubbed his fingers, watched whatever it was crumble to dust and realized that was all it was. Dirt. Not blood. But dirt from where? From the soil under the floor? From the garden area? Wherever the dirt had originated, it had to have found its way onto the exposed joint by someone putting it there.
    He thrust his hand through the opening again and felt the bottom of the wall beneath the grille, that area of underfloor void his pencil-light could not reach and he could not see.
    This time, he dug.
    His fingers scratched the dirt, cold from its proximity to the outside wall. He scraped to the left, then back to the right. Tried closer to the wall. Then stopped.
    He felt something.
    He scrabbled at the earth, his fingers fumbling, found it, touched it. Something thin. Pointed. He clasped it.
    Then dropped it.
    He fumbled again, caught it, and pulled it out.
    A nail. About two inches in length. Orange with rust.
    He held it between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed its discoloured surface. He shone his light on it. The nail glinted with a metallic sheen where his fingers had—
    Something moved.
    From behind.
    He spun around, breath locked in his throat.
    The sudden movement stopped Pitter dead in her tracks, her body settling low to the grass. Amber eyes glowed at him from the dark.
    ‘Jesus,’ whispered Gilchrist. ‘You little rascal.’
    Pitter’s glowing eyes vanished in a long blink, then she high-pawed it over the long grass, tinkling in the dark like fairy music and leapt onto the coal bunker, then the kitchen window sill, where she settled on her haunches, as if waiting for the window to be opened in the morning.
    Gilchrist switched off his torch and dropped the nail into his pocket. His watch read 10:57. He slid the grille back into its slot, crimped the chicken wire into place. From the window ledge, Pitter eyed him with feline indifference.
    Gilchrist retraced his steps.
    At the rear wall, he eyed the scene.
    The unkempt grass looked flattened where he had trodden through it. Dark patches lay like whorled love-nests. In the morning, evidence of his prying might be noticeable.
    But he could do nothing about that now.
    He pulled himself back over the wall and crept through the neighbouring gardens until he reached Gregory Lane. Seconds later he was back on North Street, shoes and jeans soaked through. Icy dampness at his knees worked its way to his feet. A hot shower was what he needed.
    He walked quickly, for warmth, his thoughts firing with possibilities. The trail to the ventilation grille could be important. McLaren’s son had seen Garvie in her back garden around midnight. But she had denied that, saying she was on sleeping pills. Out like a light. Wouldn’t have heard a bomb go off in the kitchen. But the trail looked no more than a day or two old. If not Garvie, then who? Or was she lying?
    Gilchrist thought he had a knack for reading guilt. If Garvie had been hiding something from him, he felt certain he would have known. He had seen it before in a thousand faces – the fear of being caught – but he had seen nothing in Garvie’s manner to persuade him she was burdened with the secrets of a serial killer.
    The east end of Market Street was not much more than a cobbled alley bordered by centuries-old homes. This was a popular route of Gilchrist’s, a historical part of the town that conjured up images of beggars and thieves and horse-drawn carts, women with babies wrapped in shawls, town skies thick with the grey murk of damp smoke.
    His route took him past the spot where they had found the Stabber’s fourth victim, Johnny Gillespie. Less than thirty feet ahead, two women strolled shoulder to shoulder. As he approached,