overlooking the harbour? That would mean he was backtracking, completing the circle around the Abbey ruins and heading back toward the scene of the murder where Granton’s body lay.
Gregory Lane, on the other hand, ran almost perpendicular to North Street, down to the cliff front, a six-foot-high stone wall on one side, a combination of gable ends, walls and gates on the other.
Had the Stabber escaped down this lane?
MacMillan’s natural instinct would have been to seek shelter in the lee of the stone wall. The storm had come in over the Eden Estuary, and with the rain in his face he would have been hard put to see the murderer slipping into the lane.
Enlivened by that possibility, Gilchrist entered Gregory Lane. Along the left wall, he noticed the indentation of two gates, one near North Street, the other close to the exit at the cliff pathway. On the right, the lane formed the short side of a triangular complex of terraced houses and open courtyards. Had the Stabber gone into one of these houses? Or through one of the gates? Or used the lane as a shortcut to the cliffs? Or was Gilchrist’s theory just a theory, and seriously flawed?
As he walked along the lane, Gilchrist felt hesitant, like a child creeping through a forbidden room. His sixth sense was telling him something. Beware, it whispered. You are close. When he emerged at the far end of the lane, he crossed the asphalt path and gripped the metal railing that ran the length of the cliff face.
Sixty feet beneath him, sea rocks glistened dark and wet. Gulls drifted by on invisible trails of wind, heads turning as if searching for their nests in the rocky face. The tuneless clamour of bagpipes came at him on the breeze. By the ancient ruins of Culdee Church, a lone piper paced back and forth. The sight of Scottish busking at its most ethnic brought a smile to Gilchrist’s lips.
He spent the next thirty minutes investigating the residential complex bounded by Gregory Lane, the Abbey wall and the cliff path. It seemed to him that the courtyards were too open, windows from one house backing onto another, providing no privacy or obscurity, even at night.
He approached the ruins of the Castle, focusing on the houses that overlooked the sea. He ambled like a tourist interested in local architecture. He took in the glistening paintwork, the washed steps, even ventured up to the windows and capped his hand to his brow as he peered inside. A thin face with hollowed cheeks reflected back at him, making him think that perhaps the pressure of work had indeed overtaken him. Maybe Patterson was right. Maybe someone with fresh input would solve the case in a matter of minutes. Maybe pigs would fly.
Most of the houses looked empty, but the shiver of a curtain in a downstairs window caught his eye. A ceramic nameplate announced the resident as McLaren. He gave a quick rap.
A woman in her fifties wearing an apron powdered flour-white opened the door.
‘Mrs McLaren?’
‘Yes?’ she asked, with more than a hint of impatience.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Andy Gilchrist of—’
‘I’m in the middle of baking.’
‘I won’t keep you long.’
She yielded with a sigh. ‘I suppose it’s that young one you’ll be wanting to talk to then.’
Inside, the warm smell of baking reminded Gilchrist of Saturday mornings at home as a boy. Mrs McLaren tilted her head to the ceiling and shouted, ‘Ian. Come down here.’ She glanced back at Gilchrist. ‘God knows what’ll become of that lad. Does nothing but sleep all day. Then when it’s time to go to bed, he goes out.’
‘Was he out last night?’
‘In all that thunder and lightning? Not a chance. He’s more scared of getting wet than that cat of hers next door.’ She stomped into the kitchen. ‘Ian,’ she shouted again. ‘Get yourself down here. Right this minute. It’s the police here to see you.’
Gilchrist heard a stampede of thuds down the stairs.
‘What is it, Mum?’
A teenager stood in the
Gregory Lane, on the other hand, ran almost perpendicular to North Street, down to the cliff front, a six-foot-high stone wall on one side, a combination of gable ends, walls and gates on the other.
Had the Stabber escaped down this lane?
MacMillan’s natural instinct would have been to seek shelter in the lee of the stone wall. The storm had come in over the Eden Estuary, and with the rain in his face he would have been hard put to see the murderer slipping into the lane.
Enlivened by that possibility, Gilchrist entered Gregory Lane. Along the left wall, he noticed the indentation of two gates, one near North Street, the other close to the exit at the cliff pathway. On the right, the lane formed the short side of a triangular complex of terraced houses and open courtyards. Had the Stabber gone into one of these houses? Or through one of the gates? Or used the lane as a shortcut to the cliffs? Or was Gilchrist’s theory just a theory, and seriously flawed?
As he walked along the lane, Gilchrist felt hesitant, like a child creeping through a forbidden room. His sixth sense was telling him something. Beware, it whispered. You are close. When he emerged at the far end of the lane, he crossed the asphalt path and gripped the metal railing that ran the length of the cliff face.
Sixty feet beneath him, sea rocks glistened dark and wet. Gulls drifted by on invisible trails of wind, heads turning as if searching for their nests in the rocky face. The tuneless clamour of bagpipes came at him on the breeze. By the ancient ruins of Culdee Church, a lone piper paced back and forth. The sight of Scottish busking at its most ethnic brought a smile to Gilchrist’s lips.
He spent the next thirty minutes investigating the residential complex bounded by Gregory Lane, the Abbey wall and the cliff path. It seemed to him that the courtyards were too open, windows from one house backing onto another, providing no privacy or obscurity, even at night.
He approached the ruins of the Castle, focusing on the houses that overlooked the sea. He ambled like a tourist interested in local architecture. He took in the glistening paintwork, the washed steps, even ventured up to the windows and capped his hand to his brow as he peered inside. A thin face with hollowed cheeks reflected back at him, making him think that perhaps the pressure of work had indeed overtaken him. Maybe Patterson was right. Maybe someone with fresh input would solve the case in a matter of minutes. Maybe pigs would fly.
Most of the houses looked empty, but the shiver of a curtain in a downstairs window caught his eye. A ceramic nameplate announced the resident as McLaren. He gave a quick rap.
A woman in her fifties wearing an apron powdered flour-white opened the door.
‘Mrs McLaren?’
‘Yes?’ she asked, with more than a hint of impatience.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Andy Gilchrist of—’
‘I’m in the middle of baking.’
‘I won’t keep you long.’
She yielded with a sigh. ‘I suppose it’s that young one you’ll be wanting to talk to then.’
Inside, the warm smell of baking reminded Gilchrist of Saturday mornings at home as a boy. Mrs McLaren tilted her head to the ceiling and shouted, ‘Ian. Come down here.’ She glanced back at Gilchrist. ‘God knows what’ll become of that lad. Does nothing but sleep all day. Then when it’s time to go to bed, he goes out.’
‘Was he out last night?’
‘In all that thunder and lightning? Not a chance. He’s more scared of getting wet than that cat of hers next door.’ She stomped into the kitchen. ‘Ian,’ she shouted again. ‘Get yourself down here. Right this minute. It’s the police here to see you.’
Gilchrist heard a stampede of thuds down the stairs.
‘What is it, Mum?’
A teenager stood in the
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