Eye for an Eye

Reports about the murder. The body on the beach. All of the investigation, boss. In an album.’ A pause, then, ‘And photographs of you, boss. Old ones. New ones. You name it, you’re in it.’
    Gilchrist dipped his lights for an oncoming car. He could sense Stan was holding something back. ‘And?’ he tried.
    A cough, then, ‘There’s also several of you and Beth.’
    Gilchrist frowned. He and Beth had started dating about three months after the body was found on the beach. But he could not remember the pair of them ever being photographed by the press. ‘Paper clippings, you say? Of me and Beth?’
    ‘That’s just the problem, boss. The photos of you and Beth are originals. And there’s some of Beth by herself. We think Hamilton shot them.’
    Now it made sense. Now he knew why Beth had been attacked. To get at him. For failing in a murder investigation. ‘Didn’t Hamilton have a girlfriend?’ he snapped. ‘When his father was found? Remember? On the beach? Wasn’t she with him that morning?’
    ‘Yes, boss. But don’t ask me her name. It’s been a while.’
    Having spoken to Alyson reminded Gilchrist. Not Alyson ... ‘Alice,’ he hissed. ‘That’s it. Alice. Alice somebody or other.’
    ‘McLay, McKay, McKee ...’
    ‘Check it out, Stan. Find out where she lives.’
    ‘McGhee,’ shouted Stan. ‘Alice McGhee.’
    ‘That’s her. Track her down. Maybe she’ll know something. Maybe Hamilton’s still going out with her.’
    ‘You’re forgetting DeFiore, boss.’
    Gilchrist felt a flush of anger heat his face. Not that it was Stan’s fault. He was only doing as instructed. ‘Stan, listen, I know you’re working all hours, but I need someone to run with this for me. For Beth, too.’
    ‘I could have Alasdair Burns take it on, boss. He gets right up DeFiore’s nose.’
    Gilchrist grinned. Alasdair had been on the verge of retiring every year for the last five and had little interest in pursuing a case with the ardour of old. Which was probably why DeFiore was pissed off with him. But he was an experienced detective and could handle himself well.
    ‘Get him on it right away, Stan.’
    ‘Will do, boss.’
    Gilchrist tried to convince himself there was nothing he could do about Hamilton, that he had to focus on the problem at hand. But something in Stan’s tone reconfirmed the danger he was about to face, and made him wish Stan was with him.
    For, if his suspicions were correct, he was going to need all the help he could get.

CHAPTER 32
     
    I hear a car and know it is time.
    I slide my hand under my anorak. My fingers wrap around the bamboo stave. It feels comfortable, like a part of me, as if it is an extension of my being. I glance at the sky, but the stars and moon are hidden by cloud.
    Rain drums around me.
    I step from the hedgerow and move toward the gate. It always surprises me how calm I feel before a killing, as if the need to take someone’s life is as basic to my existence as breathing and eating.
    Headlights sweep the hedge by my head, twin beams that pierce the wet darkness, startling me with their brightness. Then they spin away, and the hedge returns to shadow.
    I approach the gate, my gaze grazing over the side of the bungalow, searching for movement. I am aware that Patterson’s wife might hear the car and peer through the curtains. I lie low and watch the car emerge from the forest road and enter the clearing in front of the house. The engine sounds as if it is idling, the driver in no hurry. Another flash of light as the car pulls in to face the house, then darkness again, like a stage curtain being lowered.
    The car door slams. Footsteps crunch the gravel. A cough, a wet spit of phlegm. Even from that most basic of functions I recognize Patterson.
    I steal forward, hidden from view by the hedgerow. I am less than three steps from the gate when I hear another car, the high whine of its engine above the rustling of the rain. Someone in a hurry. But Patterson seems not to have heard. He grasps the gate and pushes it open.
    A horn blares, long and drawn out.
    Patterson frowns and looks toward the forest. But the car has not crowned the hillside yet. Then he closes the gate and fiddles with the latch. I hear the car clearly now, much closer. Its engine revs and whines as the driver fights his way over the rutted road.
    Patterson hears it and faces the darkness.
    I can just make out his profile.
    My fingers tighten around the stave.
    I shift forward into his line of