Eye for an Eye

do with it, is what it tells me.’
    Gilchrist turned away, watched an old woman being helped from an ambulance and led into the hospital, her steps short, unsteady. Not like Garvie. He pictured her short-sleeved sweatshirt, her supple body tone. Sexual assault? If it wasn’t so serious, it would be funny. He turned back to Stan. ‘Where the hell does Maggie live?’
    Panic flashed across Stan’s eyes. ‘Don’t do this to me, Andy. Patterson’ll know it’s me. He’ll have me.’
    ‘Patterson doesn’t know a thing.’
    ‘He knows I’m with you.’
    ‘How the hell does he know that?’
    Stan lowered his gaze.
    ‘Well, you’re not with me any more,’ said Gilchrist. He opened the door, the move so sudden that a flock of starlings fluttered over the wall in iridescent panic. ‘You dropped me off at the hospital, Stan. I slipped out the back door. And that’s the last you’ve seen of me.’
    Stan shook his head. ‘I never should have told you.’
    ‘Stick to the story and it’ll be fine. Trust me.’
    From the dark shadows around Stan’s eyes, Gilchrist could see that he was near the edge of some mental precipice. Exhausted. The Stabber and Patterson and DeFiore and eighty-hour working weeks were finally taking their toll.
    ‘I can’t do it, boss. I’m going to have to call it in.’
    ‘Give me until this time tomorrow.’ Gilchrist slammed the door before Stan could tell him where to get off.

CHAPTER 27
     
    This town, these streets, these buildings have seen centuries of human creatures come and go, witnessed the worst of mankind’s inhumanity against man. The Reformation arrived here five hundred years ago. Heretics were burned at the stake, some famous enough to have cobbled stones built into thoroughfares to mark the spot of execution and monuments erected in their memory. Medieval cruelties were performed in Market Street in the square next to the fountain. Pillories, hangings, burnings, all for the supposed expurgation of human sins, but in reality depravities to satisfy sick individuals. Cruelties almost beyond imagination.
    I now know that the Stabber will have a place among the ranks of the most vile perpetrators of cruelty this town has ever seen. That is how I will be remembered.
    And that thought makes me smile.
     
    Gilchrist towelled himself down and examined the damage in the mirror. He looked a mess.
    Bruising on his thighs, his back, both upper arms, and an ugly purplish tinge on his left side about the size of a football. He pressed his ribs, felt them give, but no pain, so the painkillers must be working. Doctor Matthews had told him to keep his head wounds dry, which was difficult in the shower, but he had done his best. His left ear had swollen and the hair behind it looked as if it had been torn from his head, not trimmed. He touched the hypo-allergenic tape that covered the six stitches. It felt hard and tight to his skin.
    The other stitches seemed to be a different matter.
    He held up his shaving mirror behind his head, shoulder high. In the double reflection, he ran his fingers over an inch-wide strip shaved either side of the wound. The surgical tape covering the eighteen stitches was stained dark from seeping blood.
    Not good, but not too bad.
    He dressed carefully, choosing something loose, a black ribbed Ralph Lauren sweater over a starched Hugo Boss shirt. If he was going to visit Maggie Hendren with a head like a half-finished Frankenstein, at least he could look and smell clean.
    He pulled on his new black leather jacket and phoned Beth’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail. He disconnected, tried her home number. This time her answering machine kicked in, so he left a short message asking her to give him a call.
    Next, Archie McVicar.
    As he waited for the connection to be made, he stared out of his window. The rockery garden needed some work. On the bright side, if McVicar discharged him, that would be first on the list.
    ‘McVicar.’
    The booming voice almost threw him, then he heard himself say, ‘Detective Inspector Andrew Gilchrist, sir. Returning your call.’
    ‘You’re a hard man to track down, Andy.’
    ‘I was out of town, sir. Visiting family.’
    McVicar mulled over Gilchrist’s excuse for a few seconds before saying, ‘Gail?’
    Gilchrist was not sure whether McVicar was asking if he had visited Gail, or how her health was. He chose the former. ‘Yes, sir. Jack and Maureen, too.’
    ‘How’s Gail faring?’
    ‘Not good,