Eye for an Eye

came to power. It made her own life story seem mundane. The years were racing by while she stood still. And as she felt that familiar heaviness encircle her heart, she knew she had to make a change.
    That evening, she thought. She would end it that evening.

CHAPTER 3
     
    Gilchrist opened the door to the larger of the two interview rooms and followed Sa inside, a polystyrene cup of coffee in his hand. The room was nothing more than four walls painted a light shade of blue, large enough to accommodate six metal chairs with black plastic seating. A low table centred the floor. Two small windows looked onto North Street, high enough to permit privacy from passers-by.
    Sam MacMillan sat alone on a seat in the corner, a white-haired man in his sixties. His complexion, ruddied from decades in the east coast wind, took years off him. He glanced at Sa, then fixed his gaze on Gilchrist as if comparing the man in the flesh with the photographs in the newspapers.
    Gilchrist sat in the chair to Sa’s right. He sipped his coffee. It tasted hard, like an espresso. But it worked for him. He leaned forward. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Andrew Gilchrist.’
    ‘Aye, son. I know.’
    ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Sa Preston,’ Gilchrist added. ‘I’m going to tape this interview. All right?’
    MacMillan nodded.
    Sa pressed the RECORD button on the micro-cassette recorder.
    Gilchrist cleared his throat. ‘The date is Wednesday, 27 November 2002. The time’ – he stretched his arm – ‘is eight-sixteen a.m. Those present are DI Gilchrist speaking, DS Preston and interviewee, Sam MacMillan. Although Mr MacMillan offered his statement, he has been advised that he can have a lawyer present, but has waived that right.’ Gilchrist looked at him. ‘Is that correct, Mr MacMillan?’
    MacMillan nodded.
    ‘Please speak for the record,’ said Sa.
    ‘Aye,’ MacMillan said. ‘That’s correct.’
    ‘What would you like to tell me, Mr MacMillan?’
    MacMillan took a quick breath. ‘I seen the Stabber.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘At the harbour, like. Last night.’
    ‘Please speak into the recorder, Mr MacMillan.’
    ‘I seen the Stabber murder Bill.’ He raised his hand in a clenched fist and brought it forward in a hard stab. ‘Bill dropped to the ground like a sack of tatties.’
    ‘Did you get a chance to see the Stabber’s face?’
    ‘I did. He was just a boy.’
    ‘A boy?’
    ‘Well, a young man. Like he hadnae started shaving yet.’
    Gilchrist kept his eyes on MacMillan. His team had remained divided since the first body was found in Thistle Lane. Some argued that the Stabber was male because of the strength required to drive a stave through the brain. Others were convinced the Stabber had to be female because the victims were all men known to have been abusive to women. After the third victim was found staked to the ground behind Blackfriar’s Chapel, an FBI profiler was adamant that the Stabber must be two hundred pounds and six foot plus. Without a witness, no one really knew. Gilchrist felt a surge of excitement. MacMillan had just given his investigation the jolt it needed.
    ‘Where were you when this happened?’ It was Sa.
    ‘On the pier.’
    ‘Was it raining?’
    ‘Pelting it down.’
    ‘How close were you?’
    ‘Sixty, seventy yards away.’
    ‘And you saw the Stabber from there?’
    ‘Aye, lass. I did.’
    Given MacMillan’s age, Gilchrist wondered just how good his sight was. Good enough to identify a killer, at night, in a storm? He doubted it. Any defence lawyer would tear him apart in court. He noticed a faint mark on the bridge of MacMillan’s nose. ‘You wear glasses?’ he said.
    ‘Aye, I do. But only for reading.’ MacMillan picked up a pair of binoculars from the floor. ‘I seen the Stabber through these,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a bird-watcher all my life.’
    ‘May I?’ Gilchrist reached for the binoculars before MacMillan could respond and read the manufacturer’s printed label on the end of the lens swivel pin. Bushnell. 10×50. He put them to his eyes, confirming what he suspected, and handed them back.
    Silent, MacMillan took them.
    ‘How long have you had them?’ Gilchrist asked.
    ‘This pair? Eleven years.’
    ‘You like them?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘You carry them around with you?’
    ‘Never go outside without them.’
    ‘Even at night?’
    ‘Aye, son. Even at night.’
    ‘Not a lot of birds at night,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Watch bats, do you?’
    MacMillan shook