I think of the killing place. I think of his home.
I have studied the layout of his drive, the way the hedge overhangs the slabbed path to the front door, how the gate is hidden from the living-room window. I know where he will park his car. And I know where I will hide. He will be surprised when he sees me. But he will trust me as I walk up to him.
I know that from experience. They all do.
That is their fatal mistake. It will be his, too.
Heavy rain is forecast for tonight, worsening to sleet that may turn to snow, unusual for this time of year. Tomorrow it will be December. But tonight Mark Patterson will lose his life.
Tonight Mark Patterson will become number eight.
I have never killed in the snow. I smile.
Perhaps we will have a white Christmas after all.
Gilchrist came to seconds later. He knew it was only seconds because several ducks were still paddling away from him with that neck-forward action, as if undecided whether to fly or swim.
He looked up at the railings. The black bars fluttered like wings. Then steadied. The white face was gone.
He took a long blink, not sure if he felt disappointed or relieved. He tried to sit up. Fire scorched his ribcage. He slumped back, took a few shallow breaths and decided he felt relieved. He pushed to his feet, felt his legs buckle, and sank to his knees. He tried to stop from toppling by throwing both arms forward, but splashed face-first into the shallow waters.
He lay there, head twisted to the side. The water by his face felt refreshing. He swabbed the bloodied gunk from his hair, then thought of all the wildlife fornicating and crapping, and pushed himself upright.
This time, he managed not to fall, and slumped against the stone wall at the opposite side of the burn. The top of the wall lay at shoulder level and he wondered how he would pull himself out. But he reached up, tried a leap, slipped a leg onto the flat and heaved himself up.
He lay there, gasping for air, and realized with stunning clarity that the job was becoming too much for him. That is, if he still had a job. He remembered his phone and cursed for not calling earlier. He rolled onto his back and retrieved his mobile from his jacket. He pressed CONNECT, and the light came on. A small miracle. He dialled 999, requested police and ambulance, provided a brief description of what had happened, and gave Beth’s name and address. Then he eased himself to his feet and stumbled along Dempster Terrace.
It never failed to amaze him how quiet the side streets could be, despite the busy town centre no more than a couple of rows of houses distant. Back gardens spilled down the hill to congregate their bushes and shrubs behind low walls like dams that prevented them from pouring into the burn. Windows glittered in the sunlight. He thought he saw movement at an upper window on the house two along, but could not be sure. Maybe someone in one of those houses had seen his attack. But that was a job for others.
By the time he reached Beth’s, two police cars, with blue and yellow Battenberg checks, were parked on the pavement, lights flashing.
Gilchrist pushed toward the front door.
‘Excuse me, sir?’
Gilchrist watched the young constable’s face shift from surprise to concern then on to puzzled recognition as he pushed past him.
Entering the hall, Gilchrist was struck by how filthy he was. The rancid smell of the burn clung to him like sour body odour. He slipped off his shoes and dumped his jacket on the floor. His jeans were caked with mud, his shirt bloodied. But other than strip to the skin, he would have to live with it for the time being.
Beth was seated on the living-room sofa. A woman Gilchrist recognized as PC Jane Browning sat next to her, police jacket and cap off, starched blouse laundered white. Browning glanced at Gilchrist as he stepped into the room. She seemed unfazed by his appearance and the nod she gave him was one of recognition rather than permission to come closer. Then her legs turned in toward Beth, and her fingers twiddled with the patterned quilt that covered Beth’s shivering body.
Beth looked up at him then, her eyes seeking an answer to her unspoken question, and all of a sudden Gilchrist felt out of place, as if he was violating some private moment. He gave a tiny shake of his head, telling her he had failed, then watched in utter helplessness as she buried her face in her hands and her shoulders heaved in short silent sobs. Browning pulled Beth into her and gave Gilchrist a glance that told him she would take it from there.
Defeated, he left the room.
‘Boss.’
Stan emerged from Beth’s bedroom, Sa behind him.
‘Holy shit, boss.’ Something swept across Stan’s face, the beginnings of a joke, perhaps. ‘Want to step outside?’ he offered. ‘It’s less ...’
‘Smelly?’
‘You said it.’
Standing on the pavement, with no jacket or shoes, a shiver gripped Gilchrist’s body.
‘I’d invite you into my car, boss. But under the circumstances ...’ Stan’s gaze roamed over his face. ‘Jesus, boss. He’s made a real mess of you.’
‘He?’
Stan gave a twisted smile. ‘You called it in.’
Gilchrist nodded. He’d forgotten he’d mentioned Beth’s assailant was a man. Maybe the blow to his head was worse than he thought.
‘Let’s have a look,’ said Stan, and probed his fingers at the base of Gilchrist’s skull. ‘I wondered whose hair was on the cricket bat. Now I know.’
Gilchrist gasped, almost pulled away.
‘Sorry, boss. Just pressing.’
‘Well, press lighter, will you?’
‘You’re going to need stitches, I’m afraid. Best guess, ten or so. Quite a gash you’ve got back there.’
Stan came round to the front again, and Gilchrist had the oddest sensation that fingers were still pressing and prodding and fiddling with his wound, as if Stan were in two places at the one time.
Then Sa was facing him, her face pale. ‘She says she wasn’t raped, Andy. She says nothing happened.’ The words were spoken almost as if Sa was disappointed. ‘I don’t believe her. She’s hiding something. Can you give a description of the sick bastard?’
Gilchrist shook his head. ‘I saw his shoes.’
‘His shoes?’
‘Trainers. White.’
‘Is that it?’
Gilchrist nodded, ashamed by his failure to catch the man. ‘Have you asked Beth?’ he tried.
‘As I said, she’s hiding something.’
All of a sudden, Gilchrist felt leaden, as if his limbs had lost their power to support his body. He turned to Stan, but the pavement seemed to shift then tilt up at him. Stan’s hand slapped hard under his armpit. ‘Steady, boss.’
‘Stan ...’
‘Looks like I’m going to have to seat you in my car after all.’
‘I think ...’
‘Sa,’ Stan shouted. ‘Give me a hand.’
Together they manhandled Gilchrist into Stan’s car and strapped him in. Sa threw in Gilchrist’s jacket and shoes and slammed the door as Stan floored the pedal. Gilchrist fought off the almost irresistible urge to close his eyes and go to sleep. But halfway along South Street, he slapped the window.
‘Stop the car.’
‘Steady on, boss, you’ve had a right—’
‘Stop the car, Stan. Stop the car.’
Stan pulled his Ford Mondeo over and ratcheted the handbrake like a learner driver. ‘You going to throw up?’
Gilchrist fumbled for the door lock, but his fingers felt as if they belonged to someone else. He twisted around in his seat and stared behind him. He had caught something, some innocent action or movement, some thing that had flashed like a bolt of lightning deep into his mind. He looked back at the passers-by, struggling to see what had triggered his thoughts. But his mind was leaden now, conscious only of Stan’s hand on his shoulder, tugging, his peripheral vision tunnelling, darkness swelling. He heard humming in his ears, like a whistling wind.
Then Stan’s voice came back to him.
‘... to the hospital, boss.’
‘The man,’ said Gilchrist. ‘The old man.’
‘What old man?’
Stan was spinning before him, whirling out of focus, like one of Chloe’s paintings. ‘Beth,’ he tried.
‘Beth’s okay, boss. She’s had a fright.’
Gilchrist hung his head. Images of Beth swamped him, her eyes beseeching in silence. He had failed again. Failing seemed to be what he was best at. He had failed Gail. He had failed Jack. He had failed Maureen. It seemed as if he’d gone through life failing those who depended on him until it culminated in the Stabber investigation and his failure to bring that case to closure. Patterson was doing his damnedest to kick him out because he had failed him, too. He had failed his team, failed the men and women who worked with him on the case, failed the townspeople of St Andrews who looked to him to bring an end to the reign of terror.
And now Beth. He had failed her, let the sick pervert escape. Surely his life was not going to be measured by the tally of his failures. Surely to God no one person could be expected to go through life—
The car shuddered, snapping him back to the present. Then they were moving again, and a dizzying sensation hit him in thick waves that threatened to topple him.
‘Stan,’ he whispered. ‘I think, I’m—’
‘Hang on, boss.’
A grip as tight as a steel claw thudded onto Gilchrist’s arm, and he stared at the hand, wondered how it had landed there, who it belonged to.
‘Nearly there.’
The car took a swing to the right that had Gilchrist pawing the window. Then it surged upward, like a fishing vessel riding a breaking wave, and drew to a halt.
A door opened. Frigid air brushed his face.
Twin wooden rods slipped under his arms and pulled him out. He tried to stand, felt his legs sweep out from under him and a rush of breath by his ear.
‘Just as well you’re not twenty stone, boss.’
Darkening clouds spun as they negotiated the entrance, then changed to speckled tiles and silver lights in a white sky. Gilchrist felt his back thud against a hard mattress, heard rattling and a steady squeak that seemed to keep time with the wobbling of his head. Overhead lights drifted by like flotsam in a milky sea that turned to grey and darkened with every struggling beat of his heart until it sank into a cold blackness that whistled like a cruel wind.