Eye for an Eye

one?’
    ‘Not a soul.’
    ‘Where did your wife go?’
    ‘Last I heard she was in London.’ Thick fingers dabbed at his eyes again. ‘But by then the damage was done.’ He faced Gilchrist then. ‘I’m not a wealthy man, son. Taking care of Louise drained me of every penny I earned. I worked weekends, nights, every hour that bugger of a God gave me.’ He looked at the table, fingered the crumbs, and whispered, ‘So, when the chance came up to make a wee bittie money on the side ...’ He hung his head. ‘I took it.’
    ‘From Granton?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘And your midnight forays to the pier was Granton’s way of getting something in return.’
    ‘You could say that.’
    Gilchrist found his gaze eyeing the bird feeders. A starling fluttered onto one of the trays, its opened beak chasing smaller birds away.
    ‘Which brings us to why you’re here.’ MacMillan’s eyes glistened. ‘They say this’ll be her last Christmas. She’ll no see another one. I’ve done my bit. I cannae do anything more for her.’
    Her last Christmas. Hearing those words struck a chord with Gilchrist as if the old man’s troubles paralleled his own. Gail would see only one more Christmas. How many others would suffer the same? He understood MacMillan’s need to pay for his daughter’s care and could understand his helplessness over the imminent loss. But the twisted irony of it all did not go unnoticed.
    Bill Granton, a bank manager whose life was lost because he was an abuser of women. Sam MacMillan, a painter and decorator who thought his life was lost because he was not an abuser of woman. If Sam had clouted his wife, would she not have harmed their daughter? Could that be argued in any rational sense of the word? And if Louise had not suffered brain damage, would Sam have been involved in embezzlement? Gilchrist did not believe so.
    MacMillan stood, the move so sudden that Gilchrist started. ‘Let’s get it over with, son.’
    Gilchrist frowned.
    ‘I’ll no be defending the charge. I took the money. So I’m guilty. I’ve been found out.’
    ‘Sit down, Sam.’
    MacMillan stiffened, as if in defiance, and Gilchrist could almost read his mental turmoil. MacMillan had committed a crime. An accomplice in embezzling funds. He had known the money was stolen from a bank. And he took it. It did not matter that the money was used to care for his daughter. It mattered only that he had broken the law. And now he had been found out, he was going to pay the price. It was his way of making amends, making peace with his conscience, perhaps. Then MacMillan blinked, and his face softened, as the meaning of Gilchrist’s words sunk in.
    ‘Louise needs you, Sam.’ Gilchrist eyed the bird feeders, and smiled. ‘And they need you, too.’
    ‘Why, son?’
    The question seemed simple enough. The answer proved otherwise. Gilchrist felt as if his life was a collection of failures. He had failed Gail, failed Jack and Maureen, failed Beth, too. But MacMillan had not failed. He had been dealt a cruel hand, but succeeded in looking after his daughter despite everything life set against him. How could Gilchrist in all conscience arrest the man? MacMillan was no crook. Putting him on trial toward the end of his life would not serve the law. It might even be argued an injustice.
    Gilchrist shrugged. ‘What do I know, Sam?’ He pushed his chair back and stood, its legs making a screech that sent a signal to the birds. ‘You should visit your daughter,’ he added. ‘Enjoy what time you have left with her.’
    MacMillan’s lips tightened, and his nostrils flared. A tremor seemed to play with his chin. ‘Aye, son, I will. I’ll do that,’ he managed.
     
    ‘You asked me to call, sir.’
    ‘Yes, Andy. Thank you.’ McVicar paused, then said, ‘Could you face a press conference?’
    ‘Would you like the truth, sir?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, in that case, I’m ready and willing.’
    McVicar chuckled, a deep rumble like the lazy growl of a large cat. ‘It comes with the new territory, Andy.’
    Gilchrist gripped the phone. ‘Define new, sir.’
    ‘Promotion. I’m putting your name forward for detective chief inspector. Congratulations.’
    ‘Thank you, sir. I’m ... I’m—’
    ‘Pleased your efforts are being recognized at long last?’
    ‘Surprised, actually.’
    ‘Well, don’t be.’
    ‘What about Patterson?’
    ‘He’s moving on.’
    Gilchrist fiddled with the bandage where it had slackened by his ear. He could feel