kitchen doorway, barefoot and stripped to the waist. Ribs corrugated his sides. A tattoo of sorts stained his left biceps. Denim jeans that seemed to defy gravity covered stick legs.
‘This is the police, Ian. Tell him.’ Mrs McLaren, her back to Gilchrist, sprinkled flour over a wooden board and banged her rolling pin onto the work surface. ‘And don’t go telling lies, now. Do you hear me?’
Gilchrist tried to soften his manner. ‘What do you have to tell me, Ian?’
The boy rubbed his upper arms. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
The rolling pin thumped onto the wooden board.
‘It might be warmer in the living room,’ Gilchrist said, sure that the boy would not talk freely with his mother close by.
Gilchrist took a chair by a tiled square on the wall, all that remained of the original fireplace. An electric fire with a wood-stained top centred the hearth.
The boy stood by the chair opposite.
‘Would you like me to put the fire on, Ian?’ Gilchrist asked.
Ian shook his head.
‘You’re shivering.’
‘I didnae start it.’
Gilchrist almost frowned. ‘I didn’t say you did.’
‘He hit me first.’
‘Self-defence, was it?’
‘Aye.’
‘And where and when did this fight take place?’
The boy grimaced. ‘Outside the Whey Pat. Last Friday, like. I’ve already been up at the Police Station.’
Gilchrist saw no bruises. Probably a minor tussle. ‘Did you win?’ he asked.
The boy’s fists clenched, then relaxed. ‘Aye.’
‘I’m not here to talk about the fight, Ian. I want you to tell me where you were last night.’
‘Upstairs.’
‘All night?’
‘Aye.’
‘Not go out at all?’
Ian shook his head. ‘It was raining. I cannae stand the rain. I cannae stand this place.’
Gilchrist was not sure if he was talking about his home, the town, Scotland, or all of the above.
‘What did you do all night, Ian?’
‘Played my guitar until it got light. Then I went to sleep.’
Gilchrist nodded. As a boy he had taught himself a few chords, but felt embarrassed singing. He found more pleasure in writing songs, though he hadn’t tried to sell any, never even knew he could.
‘Have you asked her next door?’ the boy was saying.
‘Who’s
her
?’
‘Lex Garvie.’
‘Lex? She a friend of yours?’
‘No.’
Gilchrist leaned forward. ‘Why should I ask her?’
‘She keeps odd hours.’
‘Does she?’
‘Aye. And I know for a fact she was up late last night.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I seen her.’
‘Where?’
‘Out the back.’
‘In the storm?’
‘Aye. After midnight.’
‘Doing what?’
‘It looked like she was feeding that stupid cat of hers.’
Gilchrist frowned. ‘What’s stupid about the cat?’
Ian shrugged. ‘They say she’s a witch.’
‘The cat?’
‘No, Lex Garvie.’
‘Who says she’s a witch?’
‘Just some of my friends.’
‘Not the ones you fight with?’
‘No.’
‘They play the guitar, too?’
‘Not all of them. Tam plays the drums. He’s dead good, so he is.’
‘What makes them think she’s a witch?’
‘Just stuff.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
Another shrug.
‘I see,’ said Gilchrist.
‘You dinnae believe me. I can tell.’
‘I’m too old to believe everything I hear first time now, Ian. Growing older makes you cynical.’ Gilchrist waited, but the boy offered nothing more. ‘I’ll look into what you’ve told me, Ian. You’ve been extremely helpful.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘Back to bed?’
‘I was listening to music.’
‘Sure.’
Gilchrist returned to the kitchen.
Mrs McLaren told him she had watched television, to drown out
thon racket
from upstairs, then taken a sleeping pill and gone to bed. There was no Mr McLaren. He had died in a fishing accident seven years earlier. Gilchrist thanked her for her time and declined her invitation to try her Madeira cake.
‘Are you sure you cannae be tempted? It’s straight from the oven.’
‘Positive, Mrs McLaren.’
‘If that’s the
‘This is the police, Ian. Tell him.’ Mrs McLaren, her back to Gilchrist, sprinkled flour over a wooden board and banged her rolling pin onto the work surface. ‘And don’t go telling lies, now. Do you hear me?’
Gilchrist tried to soften his manner. ‘What do you have to tell me, Ian?’
The boy rubbed his upper arms. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
The rolling pin thumped onto the wooden board.
‘It might be warmer in the living room,’ Gilchrist said, sure that the boy would not talk freely with his mother close by.
Gilchrist took a chair by a tiled square on the wall, all that remained of the original fireplace. An electric fire with a wood-stained top centred the hearth.
The boy stood by the chair opposite.
‘Would you like me to put the fire on, Ian?’ Gilchrist asked.
Ian shook his head.
‘You’re shivering.’
‘I didnae start it.’
Gilchrist almost frowned. ‘I didn’t say you did.’
‘He hit me first.’
‘Self-defence, was it?’
‘Aye.’
‘And where and when did this fight take place?’
The boy grimaced. ‘Outside the Whey Pat. Last Friday, like. I’ve already been up at the Police Station.’
Gilchrist saw no bruises. Probably a minor tussle. ‘Did you win?’ he asked.
The boy’s fists clenched, then relaxed. ‘Aye.’
‘I’m not here to talk about the fight, Ian. I want you to tell me where you were last night.’
‘Upstairs.’
‘All night?’
‘Aye.’
‘Not go out at all?’
Ian shook his head. ‘It was raining. I cannae stand the rain. I cannae stand this place.’
Gilchrist was not sure if he was talking about his home, the town, Scotland, or all of the above.
‘What did you do all night, Ian?’
‘Played my guitar until it got light. Then I went to sleep.’
Gilchrist nodded. As a boy he had taught himself a few chords, but felt embarrassed singing. He found more pleasure in writing songs, though he hadn’t tried to sell any, never even knew he could.
‘Have you asked her next door?’ the boy was saying.
‘Who’s
her
?’
‘Lex Garvie.’
‘Lex? She a friend of yours?’
‘No.’
Gilchrist leaned forward. ‘Why should I ask her?’
‘She keeps odd hours.’
‘Does she?’
‘Aye. And I know for a fact she was up late last night.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I seen her.’
‘Where?’
‘Out the back.’
‘In the storm?’
‘Aye. After midnight.’
‘Doing what?’
‘It looked like she was feeding that stupid cat of hers.’
Gilchrist frowned. ‘What’s stupid about the cat?’
Ian shrugged. ‘They say she’s a witch.’
‘The cat?’
‘No, Lex Garvie.’
‘Who says she’s a witch?’
‘Just some of my friends.’
‘Not the ones you fight with?’
‘No.’
‘They play the guitar, too?’
‘Not all of them. Tam plays the drums. He’s dead good, so he is.’
‘What makes them think she’s a witch?’
‘Just stuff.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
Another shrug.
‘I see,’ said Gilchrist.
‘You dinnae believe me. I can tell.’
‘I’m too old to believe everything I hear first time now, Ian. Growing older makes you cynical.’ Gilchrist waited, but the boy offered nothing more. ‘I’ll look into what you’ve told me, Ian. You’ve been extremely helpful.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘Back to bed?’
‘I was listening to music.’
‘Sure.’
Gilchrist returned to the kitchen.
Mrs McLaren told him she had watched television, to drown out
thon racket
from upstairs, then taken a sleeping pill and gone to bed. There was no Mr McLaren. He had died in a fishing accident seven years earlier. Gilchrist thanked her for her time and declined her invitation to try her Madeira cake.
‘Are you sure you cannae be tempted? It’s straight from the oven.’
‘Positive, Mrs McLaren.’
‘If that’s the
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