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  William Granton. But what did the middle initial stand for? Perhaps his family name?

  Gilchrist opened the wallet and counted ten crisp twenty-pound notes. ‘Two hundred pounds,’ he said. ‘That’s a lot to be carrying.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what you have to pay these days.’

  ‘For spending the night with another man?’

  ‘Who said anything about spending the night?’

  ‘Granton’s wife never called the Office to say he hadn’t come home.’ He looked at Sa. ‘So it might be reasonable to assume she never called because she didn’t expect him.’

  Gilchrist flipped through the wallet again. Other than the usual credit cards, all bearing the imprint of William B. Granton, the wallet contained nothing else.

  He stood. ‘No money taken.’

  ‘There never is.’

  ‘And no driver’s licence.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t drive.’

  Gilchrist frowned. Most people carried their licence with them. If Granton lived within walking distance of the bank, maybe he had no need of a car. Or maybe he did, but kept his licence at home. Or maybe he had been banned. Which did not seem likely, somehow. But it would not be the first time Gilchrist had been fooled by superficial innocence.

  He stared along the harbour wall that jutted into the sea like a giant’s stone limb. Spray drifted on the wind. During last night’s storm the sea must have thundered onto the pier. He stepped back over the tape.

  ‘What was Granton doing out here?’ he asked.

  ‘Meeting his shirt-lifter?’

  ‘Here?’

  Sa shrugged. ‘Why not?’ She looked away.

  Gilchrist found himself following her line of sight, along the path that ran up the slope to the ruins of Culdee Church and past the Abbey wall. By the light from a street lamp, he watched Stan walk toward them, mobile phone pressed to his ear.

  ‘But why here?’ Gilchrist asked Sa. ‘There must be a thousand places in St Andrews for two adults to meet in private without the risk of being seen.’

  ‘This is one of them.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Gilchrist found his gaze being drawn to the end of the harbour pier. Over the years he had come to trust this sixth sense of his. So, why the pier? It might be a discreet place for Granton to meet a partner, but surely they would never have sex out in the open. In the middle of a downpour.

  ‘Boss.’

  Gilchrist turned.

  Stan clipped his mobile shut. ‘Someone saw him.’

  ‘Saw Granton?’

  ‘Saw the Stabber.’ Stan’s breath clouded the air. ‘Sam MacMillan. Painter and decorator. Lives on South Street. Not far from Deans Court.’

  ‘Did he get a look at the Stabber’s face?’ Sa asked.

  Stan shook his head and ran the back of his hand under his nose. ‘Wouldn’t say. He called the Office about ten minutes ago and said he wanted to talk to someone about the Stabber. He asked for you, boss.’

  Gilchrist frowned. Over the past months his picture had been in the newspapers and he had often been quoted as Detective Inspector Andrew Gilchrist of the St Andrews Division of Fife Constabulary’s Crime Management Department, senior investigator in the Stabber case. By his side, the photogenic Detective Sergeant Sa Preston. He never liked to see himself in the newspapers, always thought he looked tense, as if he was not in control of his emotions.

  The way Stan looked at that moment.

  Beth Anderson wrapped a peach-coloured bath-towel around her naked body. In her bedroom she picked up a jar of Dior moisturizer and squeezed out a dollop. She rubbed it in, breathing in its light fragrance and loving the way it left her skin cool and moist.

  She let the bath-towel drop to the floor and studied her figure in the mirror. She had never fallen pregnant, although she’d had a few scares as a teenager, and she exercised often, which kept her stomach trim. Not quite washboard abs, but flat enough not to bulge over the top of her knickers.

  She stared at her breasts, cupped a hand under the right one, which she thought hung lower than the left, and pushed it up. Much better. She always thought her breasts were small for the rest of her body, as if they belonged to someone more slender. She slid her hands down over her waist, settled them onto her rump. She squeezed. Still firm, she thought, but too wide. Yes? No? Her mother had assured her that one day when she was in the throes of childbirth she would be pleased to have inherited wide hips. But having a family was not top of Beth’s list. In fact, now she was fast approaching the big four-O, it was pretty close to the bottom.

  She threw on a pair of white jeans, flat black shoes and matching leather belt. A peach cashmere twinset, purchased for a steal in the States last year, topped it off. She pulled on her light-tan suede jacket and left the house, umbrella in hand.

  She had breakfast in the Victoria Café, near the corner of St Mary’s Place and Bell Street. During the summer months the roof-top patio was one of her favourite places to eat. But in November the patio was closed and she took a table by the window. She knew the menu by heart, so when the waiter approached, his black-brown eyes glistening with pleasure, she said, ‘Fruit and a croissant, please. And a pot of Earl Grey.’

  ‘Certainly, Miss Anderson. Anything else?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘May I?’ He slipped a small glass vase onto the table, pulled a cut rose from his pocket as if by sleight of hand, and popped it in. ‘For you.’ He stood back, both hands over his heart. ‘With all my love.’

  Beth felt her lips pull back in an unrestrained smile. ‘Thank you, Brian. That’s lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘When I serve the most beautiful woman in the whole of the British Isles, the pleasure is all mine.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘Crazy with love.’

  Beth chuckled. ‘But the answer is still no.’

  ‘Ah, but one of these days,’ he said, ‘you’ll surprise yourself and say yes. No?’ Then he pirouetted and crossed the wooden floor toward the kitchen.

  Beth watched him go. Brian was young enough to be her son, but it felt lovely to be treated with such romance, and so revitalizing to live a romantic dream from time to time.

  She fingered the rose. Red. Which stood for lust. Not love. Brian was full of youthful hormones, but in the two years he had worked at the Victoria Café, not once had he been anything other than a gentleman. He had told her his romantic side came from his father, Baldomero, a hot-blooded Spaniard who had divorced Brian’s Scottish mother when Brian was ten, and now lived in Gibraltar with a Spanish beauty from a once wealthy family that had lost its land and property when Franco 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 rec
order.

  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 his head. ‘It’s a game we play.’

  Gilchrist frowned, puzzled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve known Bill since we was toddlers. We grew up together, went to school together, been friends all our lives. Close friends, like.’ Sad eyes shifted beneath bushy eyebrows.

  Gilchrist studied him. ‘Did you know Bill was homosexual?’ he tried.

  ‘Homosexual? Sounds better than poofter.’

  ‘So you knew?’

  A shadow settled behind MacMillan’s eyes. ‘Aye, son.’

  ‘Would it be right to assume that you and Bill were ...’

  MacMillan’s nostrils flared for a brief second. ‘Aye, son. It would.’

  ‘And that’s where you and he met? At the harbour?’

  ‘I go out for a walk every night. Been doing that for the last forty years. Never missed a day, come hail, rain or snow.’

  ‘Even in thunderstorms?’

  ‘Even in thunderstorms.’

  Sa leaned forward as if to ask a question and Gilchrist surprised himself by pressing the flat of his hand against her thigh. She sat back.

  ‘No one knows about me and Bill,’ MacMillan whispered, then dabbed a thick finger at the corner of his eye. ‘I dinnae think I could stand the looks.’

  ‘Tell me about the game you played,’ Gilchrist said.

  MacMillan took a deep breath.

  ‘Every night, I take my midnight walk. On Tuesdays I go to the harbour and wait for Bill. I never know if he’s going to come or not. That’s part of our game. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he disnae. He likes it that way.’ Teary eyes held Gilchrist’s. ‘I would walk out to the pier and watch through my binoculars. I would be out of sight. But Bill knew I was there. I was always there. He hadnae come by for nigh on three weeks, the longest time yet. Something told me he would come last night. You know what I mean?’

  Gilchrist nodded.

  ‘I seen someone walk down by the Abbey wall. I thought it was Bill. But I wasnae sure. I was too far away and it was bucketing. When I got closer I seen by the walk that it wasnae him. Then I seen him, up by the shorehead.’

  MacMillan picked up the binoculars and Gilchrist noticed the yellow taint of nicotine on thick fingertips. He would have given a hundred quid for a cigarette at that moment. He took another sip of coffee. It tasted even more bitter.

  ‘Bill would walk to the harbour wall,’ MacMillan went on. ‘All innocent like. As if he was staring out to sea. But he would be looking for me. Then when no one was around he would unbutton his coat and he’d ...’ MacMillan lowered his head.

  ‘But he didn’t get a chance to do that last night,’ Gilchrist whispered. ‘Did he, Sam?’

  MacMillan shook his head. ‘No, son. He didnae.’

  ‘What happened, Sam. Tell me.’

  MacMillan gripped the binoculars. ‘Bill heard something. He turned around. I didnae know what was going on at first. Then I seen someone walk toward him.’

  ‘The Stabber?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Was that when you got a good look at him?’

  ‘It was dark. But, aye. I could see fine well. The Stabber was young, like. Just a boy.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘I’m no altogether stupid.’

  ‘What was the Stabber wearing?’

  ‘An anorak. With the hood up.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Dark green. Or blue, maybe. It was dripping. And jeans. Tight jeans. Even though Bill was looking away from me, I knew he was talking by the way his head moved.’

  ‘You had a clear view?’ Sa again.

  ‘Not too clear, like. I kept having to wipe the lenses.’

  ‘Well enough to identify him?’

  MacMillan stared at Sa. ‘When Bill was stabbed, he fell flat on his back. Down like a sack of tatties he went. And just then, the skies lit up.’

  Gilchrist held his breath. He glanced at the recorder. It was still turning. He resisted the urge to look at Sa, could sense her tension. ‘Do you know who he is, Sam?’

  MacMillan grimaced. ‘I seen his face. Pure evil, it was. But I just seen it for a fraction of a second.’ Then he shook his head. ‘If I seen him again, I wouldnae be sure.’

  Gilchrist slumped back in his chair. Something stirred within him, flared to anger. ‘Why didn’t you call the police? You’d just witnessed a murder, for crying out loud.’

  ‘I couldnae think straight. Bill was dead. I couldnae do nothing for him. I had to walk past his body to get off the pier.’ He shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes. ‘I couldnae even look at him. I havenae slept all night for thinking about it.’ Then he buried his
face in his hands and his shoulders heaved with his sobbing.

  Gilchrist pushed his chair back and fought off the urge to shout to the skies. If MacMillan had called right away, they might have been able to trap the Stabber.

  He glanced at Sa. She was staring at MacMillan, her face pale and drawn, as drained as Gilchrist felt. The case was taking its toll on her. On both of them. They’d been at it seven days a week for the last two months. Eighteen hours a day. Minimum. They couldn’t keep that up for ever. No one could. And that bastard, Patterson, hadn’t called yet. But that would come. As surely as the sun would—

  ‘I followed him.’

  Gilchrist stared at MacMillan, his mind demanding to hear the words repeated. But Sa beat him to it.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I followed him. The Stabber. I was on my way home when I seen him ahead of me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Aye, lass. I recognized the anorak. And the tight jeans.’

  ‘Did he see you?’ asked Gilchrist.

  ‘No, son. He went through The Pends. It’s a wee bit bendy. And I kept well back, like. He walked past Deans Court.’ He shook his head. ‘Just like the Devil himself.’

  ‘Where did he go after that?’

  ‘Into North Street.’

  Gilchrist felt his gaze being pulled to the front of the building. The Office was in North Street and so was the university. Was the Stabber a student returning to St Salvator’s Halls of Residence? But they had these halls covered last night. Or had the Stabber slipped down one of the side streets, maybe headed back to the town centre? He would check the CCTV recordings.

  ‘And then what?’ he asked MacMillan.

  ‘He was walking fast. By the time he turned into North Street he was a good bit in front of me. I didnae want to get too close, like, in case he saw me. But when I turned into North Street he was gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Vanished.’

  ‘You never saw him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘I didnae.’

  ‘After he turned into North Street,’ said Gilchrist, ‘how long did it take you to reach the corner?’