Eye for an Eye by T F Muir Page A

pushover, son.’
    ‘I used to have a job, Willie.’
    ‘Aye. I heard.’
    Gilchrist took a mouthful of beer, then said, ‘What else have you heard?’
    ‘A bit of this. A bit of that.’
    Gilchrist knew not to press. He pushed his chair back and stood. ‘Double is it?’
    Old Willie scowled. ‘And make sure there’s nae water in it.’
    Gilchrist had known Willie Morrison for over twenty years and had learned never to undervalue the snippets he served up at little more than the cost of a couple of drinks. Once, when he had helped trap the mastermind of an illicit video distribution scheme, Gilchrist sent a bottle of Grouse to his home. Old Willie had never thanked him, it being accepted that payment for information did not merit gratitude.
    But the last two years had seen Old Willie’s health decline. Gilchrist had been unable to get a straight answer from him on his medical condition and, abusing his constabulary powers, checked the hospital records to confirm the old man was dying and that last July, much to Gilchrist’s surprise, he had hit eighty-nine.
    At the bar, Fast Eddy was holding court over three young women. From the sparkle in his eyes, Gilchrist suspected that one, if not all, would fall victim to his infamous charm. ‘A double and a half-pint, when you’ve got a minute, Eddy.’
    ‘Here,’ said one of the women, ‘aren’t you that Detective Inspector Wotsit on the telly?’
    ‘That’s him, ladies,’ chirped Fast Eddy. ‘And let me tell you that a finer detective inspector has never set foot in these premises.’
    A shoulder nudged Gilchrist. ‘Well, love, you’re much better looking in the flesh.’
    ‘Yeah, but what’s he like in the buff?’
    The three of them burst into laughter and slapped their hands on their knees like a choreographed circus act.
    Gilchrist smiled in response as he picked up Old Willie’s order and, turning from the bar, almost bumped into Maggie Hendren, one of Fast Eddy’s bar staff.
    ‘Oops,’ he said, as he swayed the drinks to safety.
    ‘Always in a hurry,’ she snapped, with a flash from her eyes that Gilchrist had trouble interpreting. He followed her angry glance into the corner, where he noticed a dark-haired woman he had never seen before eyeing him through a fog of smoke. She tilted her head and exhaled with a twist of her mouth that he could have mistaken for a smile.
    Back in his seat, Old Willie placed two hands around his whisky glass as if to thwart any attempts to snatch it back.
    ‘So tell me, Willie. What about this and that?’
    Shoulders, too narrow to take the grasp of a comforting hand, shuffled with discomfort. Tight lips moved, as if to speak, and Gilchrist realized the old man was having trouble catching his breath.
    Silent, he waited.
    With a rush of breath, Old Willie tilted his head to the side. ‘Did you know that a certain manager of a certain bank was on the fiddle?’
    ‘Was? That’s past tense, Willie.’
    ‘You’re still as sharp as a razor.’
    ‘Past tense because he’s stopped fiddling? Or because he’s dead?’
    ‘If he’s deid he cannae be fiddling, now, can he?’
    ‘How much?’
    Old Willie tackled his Guinness, mouth twisted against the bitter taste, then said, ‘Rumour has it that this certain bank manager of a certain bank has fiddled about a quarter of a million.’ He offered Gilchrist a black smile. ‘That’s pounds.’
    ‘And where has all this money gone?’
    ‘Here and there.’
    When Old Willie offered nothing more, Gilchrist realized he had no idea where the money had gone, only that it had been fiddled. ‘Does the bank know about the missing money?’ he asked.
    ‘Not yet. But if I was you, I’d watch Sam MacMillan.’
    Gilchrist struggled to keep his surprise hidden. ‘Why do you say that?’
    Old Willie tapped his nose with a bony finger. The nail was long and cracked, the skin paper-thin, almost transparent. If Gilchrist looked hard enough, he could almost see the blood pulse its