Eye for an Eye by T F Muir Page B

weak way through the old man’s failing system. Old Willie wiped his lips with the back of his hand and from the way he then eyed his Guinness, Gilchrist knew he had said all he was going to say that day.
    Gilchrist leaned forward, close enough to smell the old man’s odour, a warm sourness that reminded him of milk gone off. ‘Can I give you a lift home, Willie?’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘To save you the walk.’
    ‘On you go, son. If you want to do anything for me, just put another one of these behind the bar.’
    Gilchrist smiled. Old Willie had his priorities right, he supposed. At eighty plus, he was as well sitting in the pub drinking himself into oblivion as sitting at home waiting to die. Gilchrist pushed at his seat. He still had half his Eighty Shilling to drink, and was on the verge of leaving it when Fast Eddy caught his eye.
    Back at the bar he handed over a tenner to cover the rest of Old Willie’s session.
    ‘What’s happening?’ Fast Eddy whispered. ‘You off the case?’
    On the television above the bar, Gilchrist recognized the lecture theatre at Headquarters in Glenrothes. He grimaced as the camera shifted and closed in on Patterson’s pockmarked face.
    ‘That guy’s a wanker,’ said Fast Eddy, and pointed a remote at the screen to turn the volume up.
    ‘... sure that, with the able assistance of Detective Chief Inspector Christian DeFiore of the Scottish Crime Squad, significant progress will be made. We will of course continue to provide full cooperation.’
    The camera shifted to DeFiore, dapper in a double-breasted suit, held for a second, then pulled back to capture the others in the group. At the far end ACC Archie McVicar looked calm and magisterial. The press conference must have gone well. DCS Billy Greaves sat next to McVicar, less relaxed. Shoulder to shoulder with Patterson, DeFiore sat clear-eyed and poker-faced.
    ‘One last question,’ Patterson announced.
    Bertie McKinnon’s voice rose discordant above the others. ‘Detective Chief Inspector DeFiore,’ he demanded, ‘how do you intend to guarantee Prince William’s safety and that of the citizens of St Andrews?’
    The camera zoomed in for a close-up of DeFiore’s white smile and polished skin. With his cropped black hair, red silk tie and crisp white collar, he looked more the City banker than detective chief inspector. His Edinburgh accent purred with unchallenged authority as he spoke of teamwork, commitment and results. Then he brought the press conference to an unambiguous end with ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, ladies and gentlemen,’ and switched off the microphone.
    The camera pulled back to capture a confounded Patterson before the screen switched to a woman with a microphone in her hand.
    And that was that.
    Gilchrist cleaned off his pint, tipped a finger to his forehead and said, ‘Catch you later, Eddy.’
    On his way out, he glanced at the corner table.
    Maggie huddled close to her dark-haired friend, their lips frozen for the moment of his passing. Then he was out the pub, his mind playing out the ramifications of Old Willie’s snippet.

CHAPTER 11
     
    Gilchrist cut up Logie’s Lane to Market Street and remembered he should return Jack’s call. He had not spoken to either of his children for almost two weeks, having managed to track Maureen to her mother’s home a week last Saturday. Gail had answered, but she still had nothing to say after the needless acrimony of their divorce. He had hung on for a full minute before Maureen picked up, breathless and full of apologies for not keeping in contact more often. She sounded pleased to hear from him but was rushing for a date, couldn’t talk, and promised to call back in a few days.
    ‘Why don’t you come up for a weekend?’ he had offered. ‘It’s only an hour’s drive. Bring Stephen with you.’
    ‘I’d love to, Dad. It’s just, you know ...’
    ‘Pressure of work?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    That was eleven days ago and Gilchrist had rationalized her